Little Jimmy's Travel(b)logue

An unexpected ending

2009-09-11T09:24:00.005-06:00

SOMEWHERE NEAR BOULDER, Utah—The drive from Tropic north through the dramatic rock lands near the Escalante Grand Staircase area suddenly turned from beautiful to ugly as we rounded a curve in a narrow rock canyon just outside of Boulder, Utah.

Without warning we heard a muffled boom, similar to the report of a faraway .44 magnum, followed instantaneously by the sound of shattered glass from the back window falling into the cargo area of our vehicle. We were literally a minute away from the trailhead of Lower Calf Creek Fall, where we had planned to hike. But now the trailhead parking lot had become a place for us to assess the damage and figure out what had happened.

We initially feared that one of the CO2 cartridges from our pumps had exploded, until we realized that the heat was not intense. Inspection revealed that the CO2 cartridges were not the cause. In fact, we could not find any real cause for the damage at all. Instead, as we stood there bewildered by the side of the road listening to the freakish crackling of the shattered window, we carefully popped out the rest of the glass and covered the open hole with a kluged together tarp of plastic garbage bags and first-aid tape.

We scanned the nearby hillsides for a concealed shooter, thinking that perhaps some angry local was taking potshots at interlopers, but with miles of canyon and rock in every direction, we of course saw nothing.

Realizing that we would now have to contend with an open vehicle for the rest of our journey, we made the hard decision to cut the trip short and head home for repairs. Instead of Moab, our destination was now New Mexico. We spent a long day on the road, discovering a new route for us through remote southern Utah past flooded canyons north of Lake Powell.

We reached Cortez, Colo., at sundown and found room at an inn, where we were able to unload the car, sweep out as much of the microscopic spray of glass as possible, and purchase better cover materials for the rest of the drive home.

The silver lining to all of this was the ability to wake up at the crack of dawn for a fun two hours or so riding Phil's World, which continues to be one of our favorite mountain bike trails in the Four Corners Area. If you haven't ridden it yet, you should. But don't let misfortune drive your decision to do so. Or do. In our case, the ride certainly brightened our moods and got us back on the road in good style.

We enjoyed a patty melt and a chocolate-banana shake (worth writing about!) at the Malt Shoppe in Pagosa Springs. The rest of the drive was through intermittent rain, and we were glad that our plastic-and-tape handiwork was sufficiently strong to weather the storms.

What's nice about this County is that help is never too far away and even an unexpected turn of events can turn out okay.

See you on down the road.

When geology gets ugly

2009-09-10T08:57:00.011-06:00

BRYCE CANYON, Utah—We have been consistently captivated by the scenery in this area. A person could look at Bryce Canyon—a surreal landscape of red, white, orange and yellow rock spires resembling melted candle wax—for days and see it differently each time. Elsewhere, like at nearby Kodachrome basin, larger-than-life formations carved from ancient sandstone thrust up out of the Earth.

But, as we would discover, not everything here is beautiful.

Our stay at the Bullberry Inn bed and breakfast has been pleasant. We are not accustomed to staying in bed and breakfasts, so we didn't quite know what to expect. Fortunately, our stay has been low maintenance and there has not been a lot of forced contact with other guests, although that can be pleasant under the right circumstances. Our accommodations have augmented our enjoyment of this area.

Just a mile or so away from the inn's front porch—home to a 120-year-old stove that cooked legendary Bullberry jelly for none other than the outlaw Butch Cassidy—sits the entrance to Mossy Cave, an appendage of Bryce Canyon National Park. Guidebooks proclaimed Mossy Cave as a Do-Not-Miss attraction in the area, so Caroline and I were eager to hike the half mile to the cave.

The small canyon trail leading to Mossy cave follows a cold clear stream. A large waterfall with a shallow pool invites bathers to cool off after a day in the intense canyon heat. But this day did not feature the occasional European nudity below the waterfall that some guidebooks had mentioned. Instead, the late afternoon light gave us the opportunity to drink in the beauty of the strange formations and explore the canyon upstream of the waterfall, where we found other small waterfalls and the tranquility of a landscape electrified by a soundtrack of running water. The beauty of the landscaped prompted an interpretive dance in me, which I shared with the other tourists, most of whom averted their eyes and hustled smartly away, counseling their children not to giggle at the "wild man."

We headed toward Mossy Cave in great anticipation of what we might find. Various guidebooks had described the geologic feature as "stunning" and "captivating." Some descriptions said a waterfall ran over the entrance of the cave, adding to the experience. We climbed the steep trail like eager children on their way to the County Fair.

The end of the trail brought us to a dusty void beneath a shelf of rock. Inside a few dirty-looking patches of moss clung to the dusty sandstone. The waterfall had long disappeared with the end of the summer rainy season. The only remarkable feature of Mossy Cave was a grotesque looking moss-covered chancre that dripped fluid onto the floor of the cave. Groups of disappointed hikers arrived behind us, uttering a bewildered "this is it?"

We stopped to watch the terrible chancre discharge its drops of disappointment before heading off to the Bryce Canyon Inn for a stellar four-star meal after watching the sun set gloriously over this spectacular landscape that defines the majesty of the American West.

See you on down the road.

In a word, "Awesome!"

2009-09-08T22:36:00.009-06:00

TROPIC, Utah—We are staying a the Bullberry Inn, a nice, nondescript little bed and breakfast at the edge of tiny Tropic, Utah—the closest town to Bryce Canyon National Park. Here in the mountains with no streetlights, the skies are wonderfully dark and the night is quiet, save for the occasional spirited whinnying of a young mare in a pen at the residence next door. Each time the horse lets loose, it induces an involuntary reaction in Caroline and me to mutter, "Frau Blücher!" in our best German accents. Last night as I got up to pee at 2 a.m., the horse unleashed a soundtrack-worthy whinny that pierced the still night air.

"Frau Blücher!" Caroline uttered in a dreamy voice that she had conjured up from the depths of her slumber. She sighed and turned over in the bed while I doubled over with laughter.

Bullberry's innkeepers, Nettie and Wally, had breakfast waiting for us at precisely 7 a.m. the next morning as promised. In addition to the hearty country breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast, the inn features Bullberry jelly—an almost 100-year tradition unique to the area. The tiny red berries grow on the Bullberry bush in nearby Panguitch, Utah. Wally's family used to collect the berries from the spiny bushes to make jelly for the elderly residents of the area. Now Wally has taken over the task and continues the family tradition. Wally said he met Nettie because she was the only person he had ever met who offered to return for another Bullberry picking session after enduring a first one. The two apparently have been together ever since.

Bullberry jam has a subtle flavor and a pinkish hue. Eating some on a couple of pieces of dry white toast was just the thing to jump start a morning of riding on the Thunder Mountain Trail just outside of Bryce Canyon.

The outrageous psychedelic orange and pink terrain and fantastically fun singletrack trail make Thunder Mountain a must-ride for anyone in Southwestern Utah. Although the trail itself is relatively short—a mere 7 or eight miles—tacking it onto the climb up from the Red Canyon Visitor Center on a paved bike path that parallels the highway to Bryce Canyon, makes the entire ride about 15 miles or so and adds a good amount of extra climbing.

While the Cremesicle-shaded dirt and bizarre hoodoos give the ride a cartoonish appearance, Thunder Mountain is not for beginners. The first part of the ride provides some good up-and-down climbing as the trail winds through the regular brown and green forest that precedes the colorful landscape of Red Canyon. Once the orange track begins, riders must contend with some steep and slightly technical switchbacks that could easily toss a person over the handlebars should they panic and grab a handful of brake. Nevertheless, bike savvy intermediate riders can easily navigate the trail, perhaps choosing to dismount and walk some short sections should they get in over their heads.

The ride to the orange track on the up-and-downs features some nicely banked switchbacks that allow a rider to hammer into the base of the climb and steal some nice momentum to help lessen the severity of some of the incline. But beware. Thunder Mountain does include a couple of lung-busting grunts to the top of hills along the trail. However, the climbs are usually followed by some wickedly fun descents that make you forget what it was you were breathing hard about in the first place.

Because the trail is multi-user, be prepared to come face to face with mule riders and hikers. And because the equestrian transportation has been well fed, be doubly prepared to dodge seriously moist and stinky donkey doakies—buzz-kill landmines that force riders to choose between risking a full-face splatter from front-wheel kickback or possibly swerving over the edge of a switchback and tumbling down into the pain abyss.

Those were two choices I could live without, and fortunately for me, my bunny hopping and countersteering skills were spot on for the day, so I suffered neither fate.

We did happen upon a trio of imbeciles who were riding the singletrack from west to east (bottom to top). I suppose some masochists do enjoy going against the grain in some kind of twisted, self-abusive anaerobic training ritual, but the three guys we saw struggling up the marvelous trail as we raced down looked seriously bummed and angry. They had either read the wrong guide book or were following the wrong leader. Life's too short to be riding a cool trail the wrong way.

Take my word for it: Ride Thunder Mountain from top to bottom as a shuttle (as we saw a great foursome from Salt Lake City doing), or ride the paved path east to the top trail head and then rip back down to the Red Canyon campground on the singletrack and finish the last mile on the paved bike path with a moderate climb back up to the Red Canyon Visitor Center. Memorize these instructions and you will enjoyed the plastered-on perma-grin that Caroline and I enjoyed and are still enjoying a day later.

In addition to the colorful scenery and challenging fun that the trail has to offer, Thunder Mountain hangs onto perhaps its best asset until the very end—where riders can rip along a mile-and-a-half's worth of blazing singletrack that winds through piñon-juniper forest to the lower trailhead. With just enough straightaway to build a Fool's Confidence, and enough whoop de doos to have you jumping for joy, you might find yourself riding just beyond the ragged edge of good sense as you finish the ride.

"Awesome!" was all Caroline could manage to whisper when we reached the paved path back to the car. She said nothing more for the better part of an hour, her face paralyzed by a wide smile and her shins covered with fine trail dust.

See you on down the road.

Mementos of the Road

2009-09-07T08:06:00.015-06:00

TROPIC, Utah—The last thing we saw as we headed out of Fredonia, Ariz., and into Kanab, Utah, was a large package liquor store—the last chance to buy full-strength beer before entering the Mormon Kingdom of 3.2 percent alcohol content by weight. We were entering a new world on the third day of our vacation, which was spent primarily on the road.

As we coasted into Kanab early Sunday afternoon, we noticed that most of the stores were closed and that the parking lot in front of the Church of Jesus Christ Latter Day Saints was filled to capacity. Apparently most of the community was keeping the Sabbath Holy, which made us wonder whether the five-mile stretch between Kanab and Fredonia was well used for celebratory beer runs each time the local high school football team prevailed on the turf or whether the Kanabites preferred instead to cloister themselves in the church auditorium for fudge brownies, lemonade and, later, forbidden love.

Conjuring some 'Old Magic'

I don't know about all that, but the mind does get to thinking about what is seen and unseen in all the little towns you travel through during a road trip.

I had developed a fascination for Datura during my formative years, after reading Carlos Casteneda's books about the Yaqui Indian sorcerer Don Juan. Datura, more commonly known as Jimson Weed, is a peculiar plant rumored to have spiritual powers. Friends who ingested the plant back in those experimental days would have visions for several days at a time. Some of them painstakingly prepared a fatty paste using the branched root of the plant and then rubbed the concoction on their temples; there are those who say the people who participated in that strange ritual never really returned to reality because the grip of the plant was just too strong.

I used to poo-poo that kind of talk until I watched a giant Datura blossom unfurl once right before my eyes as the sun set in the west and a full moon rose in the east. The pale flower seemed to glow in the obscure light of dusk, tempting me to partake in arcane knowledge by ingesting the plant. But I digress.

As we traveled through Navajo lands in the middle of nowhere in Arizona early in the morning, the pale white blossoms of several huge Datura plants flashed along the side of the road in the rising sun. As if called by a siren song, I stopped to photograph one of the beautiful blossoms amid the sparkling bits of broken glass, miscellaneous car parts, Styrofoam nuggets from 7-11 coolers and other ejecta that had collected along the banks of the blue highway. Just looking at the plant through the viewfinder seemed to alter my reality and heighten my awareness of the subtleties of the road as we drove on.

The road veered west through a rugged landscape scarred by years of erosion and the incursion of the mighty Colorado River. In this desolate country, a few small homes and accompanying hogans dotted the landscape, along with an occasional small herd of sheep and struggling plots of dwarf corn that had grown only about two feet above the desert floor, but were tassling nevertheless.

In plywood shelters set up along the lonesome highway, aging Native Americans sold jewelry and other wares spread out on top of colorful blankets. Their faces were etched with the deep lines of years, much like the arroyos and washes that had been carved out in the desert beyond.

At Lee's Ferry, travelers could find the only crossing of the Colorado River upstream of the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. From 1873 to 1927, the ability to cross the emerald-green waters enabled settlers to lay claim to parts of the state that were formerly off limits, thanks to the hard work and perseverance of frontiersman John Doyle Lee, who erected the crossing on a whim. Beyond the crossing, the Vermillion Cliffs, a wall of striated purple, red and yellowish rock, force travelers through the desert valley and toward the Kaibab Plateau, which rises thousands of feet above the river valley.

The heat from the road filled our vehicle and we were grateful once the road began winding quickly up out of the desert scrub and into lush, cool Ponderosa pine forest. A few miles later we were at a crossroads. Jacob Lake, a nondescript little outpost tucked among the pines, marked the choice between the dead-end road to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon or the drive into Fedonia and the predictable world of Mormon civilization on the other side of the Kaibab Plateau.

Bully, bully!

We stopped in the little lodge at Jacob Lake for a bite to eat and a milkshake. The parking lot was bustling with camouflage-clad men atop "Texas Wheelchairs," the four-wheel all-terrain vehicles that would shuttle them out to the slaughtering grounds now that bow season was underway. The olive drab patterns they clothed themselves in did not conceal their ample waistlines or cheeks rendered in splotchy hues of crimson from too many years spent in pursuit of recreational drinking.

One such boor of a man sidled up to the counter next to us and plopped his big bucket of a butt into one of the swivel chairs. With his safari hat cocked sideways and his pig eyes darting quickly to and fro as he peered over the top of his Teddy Roosevelt eyeglasses, the hunter proceeded to regale anyone within earshot of his so-far-unsuccessful hunting adventures.

Our attentive server was a tired looking young man with a pleasant countenance and exquisite manners who confided to us that he was working at Jacob Lake through January to earn enough money to go on his Mission and then begin studies at Brigham Young University. The Big Game Boor thrust the folded leather booklet containing his guest check across the counter at the young server. The young man scooped up the booklet and with a wide smile asked the hunter whether he would be needing any change.

"On a twenty dollar bill for an eight-seventy-five meal?!?" the hunter barked with mock incredulity. "What do you think!"

"I'll be right back with your change," the young server said pleasantly.

Another camouflage man at the counter remarked that the young man should have looked at what was in the leather booklet before asking.

"That's exactly the point I was trying to get across!" the unpleasant Teddy Roosevelt pompously crowed.

"He wasn't trying to make any point at all," I said a little too loudly to Caroline. "He was simply trying to make that young man look foolish."

I stared at the Boorish Hunter, letting the full heat of my gaze bore into the fabric of his hat and so far into his temples that he undoubtedly could hear an audible buzz.

"I guess someone's daddy didn't give him enough hugs as a child," I said loudly to Caroline. Over at the other side of the counter, the camouflage contingent fell silent, gathered their belongings and hustled out into the parking lot—at home again astride their ATVs, next to their weapons and their own posse.

We generously tipped the young server and urged him to remain true to himself in the coming years.

Outside of Kanab on the way to Bryce Canyon, we nicknamed the road the Fawn Slaughter Highway. The valley next to the highway apparently was a calving ground for deer, many of which lay dead by the side of the road after being destroyed in collisions with speeding motorized vehicles. The tiny deer corpses lay in unnaturally twisted poses every tenth of a mile or so, and the swath of death continued for dozens of miles.

My driving pace at the speed limit was met with disdain by other motorists, who pulled out to the left for risky passing maneuvers at every opportunity all the way until the entrance of Bryce Canyon.

Rock the cradle of love

Past the entrance, the traffic mercifully subsided—a combination of it being the tail end of the Labor Day weekend and the fact that few people go beyond Bryce this time of year.

As the day waned, we found ourselves at Kodachrome Basin State Park, so we took the liberty of photographing some geologic pornography and taking a hike into the colorful foothills above the park. The last rays of the sun electrified the landscape and I felt the last surge of my earlier brush with the damned white blossom that had set the tone for the day. Caroline melted away into a modern-day Kokopelli and etched her essence into the slickrock.

Sometimes it's great to let the day dictate your destination.

See you on down the road.

La pluie en Espagne

2009-09-06T06:56:00.007-06:00

SEDONA, Ariz.—Even more unsettling than the dark wall of rain clouds swirling in the northern skies the morning of our second day of vacation was the unease with which our short, squat native American waitress attempted to ask me what I wanted for breakfast in what appeared to be strained French. Mixing the Diné language with French is a little like mixing Pig Latin and German. The result is poisonous-sounding and discordant. It is something that should not be attempted unless under extreme duress.

I was puzzling over why the waitress would piece together such an odd mixture of phonemes so early on a Saturday, particularly to me—a man with no hint of French or Navajo in my genetic makeup—when I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a mirror across the restaurant. I was overwhelmed by horror. Hotel shampoo and conditioner had deeply accentuated the peculiarity of my new haircut, and, as I had fearfully suspected the previous day, I indeed now bore a striking resemblance to a French tourist!

I waved my hand and told the waitress I spoke English and she appeared relieved. When I asked her for a recommendation off the menu, she remarked that I spoke the language "pretty good."

"I think you mean pretty well," I corrected.

She ignored my remark and listed a few items that I might be interested in.

"We've got French toast and French fries!" the waitress exclaimed cheerfully. "You might find those to your liking."

"Yes, perfect!" I said, glancing beyond the waitress and into the mirror that reflected the shame of a wasted $15 dollars at a barber shop that was now hundreds of miles beyond my present reach. "I would like to order a la carte! Please bring me French toast, French fries, and a side of French dressing, si'l vous plaît."

The waitress giggled as Caroline pursed her lips with disdain. Our stocky little food server fanned her faced and then mustered the courage to say, "French always sounds so sexy, even at eight in the morning."

"Oh stop it!" I barked. "I don't speak French! I'm not French! I don't want French toast or French fries or any stupid French dressing! I'd like chicken fried steak and eggs! Si'l vous plaît."

The waitress wrote the order and stomped away from the table.

"Told you he was crazy," she said to the hostess.

The Fat Shower

Staying in hotels these days, I've noticed that most modern lodging establishments now have what I call Fat Showers. The shower or tub itself isn't any larger. Instead, most modern-day hotel showers have curtain rods that curve out well beyond the confines of the sidewalls of the bathtub—ensuring a pleasant bathing experience for humans packing the girth of an adult hippopotamus or unfortunate souls with hips as wide as the rack on a cape buffalo.

While it's true that I'm no midget when it comes to the midriff, Fat Showers are cavernous relative to my size. I can only wonder just how big the average American is these days? On the other hand, thinking of a really big person getting all soapy and then sticking to the shower curtain and then having the shower curtain stick to me is enough to make me skip bathing altogether. I'm thankful for the Fat Shower, but revolted by it just the same.

Here comes the rain again

With the certainty of rain ruining our riding plans in Flagstaff, we headed down south to Sedona, Ariz., in an attempt to perhaps hit the trails and check in with our old friends at the Bike and Bean—one of Arizona's friendliest bike shops. But alas the skies had opened up there as well, and by the time we arrived, everything was soaked. The rain didn't scare away the throngs of traffic, though, and we found the customary Sedona traffic jam waiting for us as we crept along main street at a stop-and-start snails pace.

Nevertheless we popped into the Bike and Bean for a hot cup of coffee and some trail advice. When I started acting familiar with the staff, they were put off for a moment, until I introduced myself.

"Oh!" exclaimed the mechanic. "We didn't recognize you with your new haircut."

With that, it was apparent the day was going to remain a total washout.

The saving grace was a couple of rolls of good Sushi at a strange little restaurant called Hiro's Sushi, located in an obscure and crumbling strip mall on the western edge of town. The sushi was good and no one made any presumptions about what language I was going to order in. The miso soup counteracted the chill of the rain. And the Rosetta Stone company had one more "Learn French" lesson canceled.

See you on down the road.

Galluping Away from Workaday

2009-09-05T09:02:00.018-06:00

The only thing that worried me was the Fruit Loops. There is nothing in the world more helpless, irresponsible, and depraved than a man in the depths of a sugar binge, and I knew we'd get into that rotten stuff pretty soon.

--Little Jimmy

FLAGSTAFF, Ariz.—There are times when life and the workaday world pinch down so hard upon the soul and the psyche that it feels as though you are on the brink of existential rupture—that unfortunate condition in which ordinary men suffer a shattered spirit and are transformed into bereft, muttering wastrels adrift in a purposeless sea of monotonous existence. When faced with the pressures of conformity, fools arch their backs in morbid curiosity, wondering where their breaking point lies. Wise men go on vacation.

We found ourselves on the road in the late afternoon after hastily bugging out of our square-walled confines at work. As is usually the case with all of our vacations, a dark gloom congealed in the skies and unleashed a cold, watery, lightning-laced vengeance upon us just as we were securing the bikes to the back of the vehicle. Hurricane force winds drowned out our voices as we called out our traveling checklist to one another for one last time before we hit the road. Satisfied that we had not forgotten anything, we made a beeline south—hoping to outflank the wraparound moisture that had been liberated from Hurricane Jimena as she raged through Baja California.

We hoped to drive nonstop to Gallup for the evening. Our plan was to get some miles under our belt and also avoid running into other human beings. I had just received a monumentally tragic haircut from David's Barbershop in the Atomic City to coincide with our journey. Since Old Dave was out, I had entrusted my shaggy noggin to young Dave—Old Dave's son—who halfheartedly set upon butchering my pate like an inexperienced gardener hacking away at a privet hedge with dull instruments at five minutes before five o'clock on a payday weekend. The resulting haircut gave me the look of a pinhead, an escaped mental patient perhaps, or, worse yet, a French tourist. Caroline's clear-headed counsel urged us to keep a low profile until the barber's work could be concealed with several days' growth or by a festive tourist hat purchased at an exotic location.

Of course, nothing goes according to plan and before the day's driving was completed, I had suffered the non-verbal insubordination of several teenage gas-station cashiers and convenience store cashiers, one of whom backed far away from the cash register with her hands in the air and invited me to take whatever I wanted from the till as long as I wouldn't hurt her. Fortunately, I did not oblige the frightened woman by taking her up on her offer.

Gallup, N.M., is a fixture of Old West fascination, the location of many old Westerns and a retreat for movie icons like John Wayne, Errol Flynn and others. The town is also known for its Indian jewelry, and during its darker years, drunks on the streets. These days, Gallup is home to a fantastic collection of bike trails. It's signature selection, the High Desert Trails, are located right off the western end of the old Route 66.

The High Desert Trails offer up to 22 miles of riding on various connected loops. Caroline and I opted for a 17-mile ride, which began at sunrise the day after we had fled the Atomic City. We chose an early start time in an attempt to beat the rains. Out here, you don't want to get caught in the middle of nowhere on two wheels. A good deluge will turn the trails into an unrideale, unwalkable slog through soupy mud.

The trails were in good shape—fast and smooth. They are a real treat to ride. While much of the journey is on smooth, buff singletrack, the High Desert Trails throw in enough technical features to keep you on your toes. The surrounding area is loose and raw, and a momentary lapse of concentration will lead to an endo if you're stupid enough to let your front wheel wander off the hard pack and into the loose stuff at the edges.

While the first half of our trail starting from the western Mentmore trailhead meant a steady climb to the top, the second half (not quite) mostly meant fast descending on serpentine dirt through odd rock formations. Nevertheless, even the back half of the trails can keep you out of breath, and at one point we took a breather next to the bleached skull of some large-toothed desert rodent, and were reminded that no matter who you are, when all is said and done you must return to Mother Earth.

We made the ride in record time and felt pretty good, but later we would find that hours on the road make the legs stiffen up. That thought occurred to us as we walked the rim trail at Meteor Crater National Historic Landmark with our guide, Kim. The Meteor Crater is the result of a big damned asteroid smacking the Earth some 50,000 years ago. It left a hole in the ground deeper than the Washington Monument is tall and several miles in diameter. Because of the lack of moisture around these parts, the hole looks pretty much the same as it did after the impact—well, except for the char marks and shrieks of terror that are the earmarks of an Armageddon event.

Even with fried legs, we were more ambulatory than the handful of other people who took the tour with us. One guy from deep in the heart of Texas had purchased new Merrill boots for his journey, but was staggering unsteadily like a zombie over the rocky terrain. Clearly a man who had walked on little else besides asphalt and concrete, he seemed pleased by his newly acquired footwear and his adventuresome spirit. I couldn't help but pat him on the back and congratulate him, which was fine at first. Then he began glancing uneasily toward the top of my head at my new haircut, and you could see the questions and dark thoughts begin to formulate in the reptilian portion of his brain.

Realizing that his birdlike legs and unsteady gait would not serve him well on this alien terrain should things turn ugly, he began sizing me up for fist-a-cuffs. He nervously clenched and unclenched his fists, rehearsing choreographed moves in his mind that he had seen used recently in Hollywood action movies. He frowned when he realized that he would probably get crushed like a bug in all out confrontation with me, and likely tossed over the side and into the bowels of the crater, so he retreated behind our tour guide, out of my reach, for the rest of the journey.

Here in Flagstaff a day later, Hurricane Jimena continues to dog us, and our plans for a big ride in the mountains north of here have been quashed. Perhaps we will try our luck in the red hills of nearby Sedona, or maybe we'll act like tourists on a downtown tour of Old Route 66. Whatever we choose to do, I will try to find a suitable hat so as not to unnerve the hordes of people who have opted to run far, far away from the spine-crushing pressures of Corporate America as we have. There's plenty of room out here in the American West for us wise ones who have opted to maintain our sanity with a little road time and a taste of Americana.

In the meantime, we have staggered out to the breakfast bar, where I made a beeline for the Fruit Loops like a methamphetamine addict drawn to the acrid smell of toxic chemicals. Caroline has secured a rolled up newspaper and is trying to fend me away from the clear acrylic tank of brightly colored frosted rings. But with a night of hard sleep bolstering the horror of my new haircut, the others in the breakfast area are paralyzed with fear, and poor Caroline is on her own trying to corral the savage sugar monster that I have become. Things obviously will go from bad to worse once a little caffeine gets thrown into the mix.

See you on down the road.

The road home

2008-07-13T08:39:00.007-06:00

CORTEZ,Colo.—After a couple weeks on the road, you start to miss your home and you long to get back. Maybe that's why all those ancient Indian cultures have stories about an eventual return to our place of origin.

It's great to look upon an unfamiliar landscape with wonderment and think about what it must have been like for the first inhabitants to view such things for the first time. Were they awestruck? Terrified? Inspired? Did they move on, or did they feel like they had found a place to put down roots and begin a new life?

At Mesa Verde National Monument, the ancient people migrated away from their pit houses on the mesa tops and built marvelous civilizations in the sides of cliffs. These ancient people were masterful weavers, but as time went on, as their civilization aged and matured, the things they were once good at suffered in quality. Like many of the ancient people—like their contemporaries, the Fremont, to the north—their civilizations mysteriously disappeared around 1300 A.D.

When we started our journey a couple weeks back, I was sick and weak, and my creativity was suffering badly at the hands of the same old routine. Despite the difficulties of getting on the road at the tail end of the Crippling Mystery Illness, we decided to forge ahead, because, we reckoned, we'd be better off in the long run for having abandoned our familiar place for a while and heading out to parts unknown.

As much as mankind has changed and "evolved" over the years, we have retained our faiths and superstitions. The ancients had their Kivas and boogeymen; we have our churches and demons. Here in the White West, our modern-day shaman are telling us of a time when some mysterious occurrence will come and pluck the righteous from this world and transport us to a new one where we will never know tears or shame.

Perhaps the Ancient Ones already went through such an experience 700 years ago. And perhaps they will return with wisdom to teach us, or to simply look around their old homes and realize that what they left behind was inimitable.

It only takes a little while away before we begin to realize that our homes contain the most valuable of human possessions. In these places, no matter how humble or ornate, we store our hearts, hopes and dreams. And these are things that are always worth coming back to. Dreams are always best in your own bed, and food always tastes best when eaten with your own spoon.

For the time being I'm content to stick around the hearth, but just as sure as the sun rises, we'll see you on down the road again sometime soon.

Delayed gratification

2008-07-12T07:01:00.013-06:00

PANGUITCH, Utah—Sometimes you wish for something so hard that you wonder whether it's ever going to happen. The problem with that, though, is usually by the time you get to actually live out your fantasy, you've built up such high expectations that the reality of the whole experience can't possibly match what you've built up in your mind and the whole thing ends up being a letdown.

That happened to me one Halloween when I was a kid. I had been dreaming about eating a whole bag of candy corn—not just the regular candy corn, but the kind with the brown chocolatey layer on the bottom. Being the candy-corn-deprived little monster that I was, I schemed for weeks about how to acquire some black-market confections. Through a little subterfuge, a lot of heavy bartering and calling in a few markers I was owed, I eventually got my chubby little fingers on a bag and feasted like a crazed rodent who had come across a store of ergot-tainted wheat in a Pilgrim grain cellar.

Of course, my vomit was brown and felt like boiling acid on the wrong way back up my gut pipe, and I sure did have a lot of explaining and penance to do after my misadventure. Needless to say the whole experience was a let down, and even today I eschew candy corn on All's Hallowed Eve.

But that happened a long time ago and far, far away from Panguitch, so I'll get to the point now before I start weeping again and require some more sessions with a therapist.

Just around the time I started riding a mountain bike, I had stumbled across a description of a marvelous Utah trail that wound its way through an orange-and pink-landscaped dotted with dramatic hoodoos. To me, the ride was like the Seven Cities of Cibola and I was a modern-day Francisco Vásquez de Coronado waiting to discover the mythical land.

A couple years later I learned that the trail had a name through a chance meeting with a stranger. The trail was called "Thunder Mountain," and the stranger explained to me that Disneyland's Thunder Mountain Railroad roller coaster had been inspired by the landscape through which the trail meandered. The trail itself starts just miles outside of the entrance to Bryce Canyon National Park, and the terrain was rumored to be similar. While on vacation walking through Bryce, I couldn't help but think to myself more than once, "wouldn't it be cool to bike here?"

I became more obsessed with the trail and started researching it. I came across a few washed out photos that indeed confirmed its existence. Later I discovered where the trailhead was. Finally, on our first real out-of-state biking trip several years after I had first heard whispers and rumors of the trail, we made plans to stop and ride it along with several other epic "must-rides" out there. But a bizarre twist of fate prevented us from following through.

A few years later another mishap made us miss out on conquering Thunder Mountain. These near misses made my desire to ride the trail even greater than they originally had been, when the story of Thunder Mountain first stirred in me the excitement of a well-told campfire tale.

So when we planned this trip, we built in an iron-clad guarantee that we would ride Thunder Mountain at long last. The night before our ride, I tossed and turned in my sleep, realizing that I had built up expectations for Thunder Mountain that were so high that reality couldn't possibly match them. Would the ride be a giant letdown, I wondered? What if its "most-difficult" designation made it entirely too hard for me to ride and I ended up bashed and bleeding at the end?

The alarm rang too early and soon Caroline and I found ourselves at the crack of dawn riding up the dim canyon into a frigid morning down-canyon headwind on a relentless climb toward the trailhead. Caroline had eaten two big bowls of cereal before we left and I had eaten my fill as well, using milk that had been traveling with us for days in a cooler. Near the trailhead, Caroline hurridly made a dash for one of the porta potties along the way. A bad case of dairy gurgle-belly had turned her weak and greenish looking in the face.

Would this be another curse to stop us from reaching my personal Seven Cities of Gold? Not today. A herd of pronghorns skipping across the sagebrush in the colorful morning light inspired us to go on. We laughed in the face of the mad cow who was snorting and pawing the ground in front of us in an attempt to keep herself between us and her calf; she was like a horrible gatekeeper bent on turning us back from a journey into a mystical land visited only by Gods and Heroes. She failed in her mission.

As we turned onto the singletrack, we suddenly knew that no amount of mental preparation or anticipation could compare to the ride we were about to have. The trail was manicured like Paris Hilton's toenails. Amazing pink hoodoos rose here and there around every corner and provided more bling to the ride than an entire store full of gold chains, diamond rings or ruby tooth implants. Around each corner I kept thinking that I was looking at a movie set. The surreal landscape was so unusual, I kept thinking that if I crashed into one of the hoodoos, it would bust open to reveal paper maché and chicken wire.

And, of course, it wasn't just a ride up and a coast down through some nice scenery kind of ride, either. We earned our views with ups and downs, and by picking our way through a few hairy technical sections and cheek-puckering switchbacks. It doesn't get much better than that.

Thunder Mountain was everything we had hoped it would be and more! It certainly ranks up there among those "must-ride-before-you-die" rides. And as if riding through a land that inspired Walt Disney wasn't enough, the final mile back to the trailhead is a ripping downhill that gives every bit as much of a perma-grin as a ride on one of Walt's old roller coasters. Best of all: it's free and there are no lines!

Everything in this area seemed to have some pink in it. My ass cheeks were pretty pink from the saddle sores I have acquired during days and days of riding, while over in Bryce Canyon—again thick with German tourists as the Euro continues to wallop the dollar in its exchange rate—we saw ruddy faces wet with sweat climbing up out of the broiling canyons at midday. Obscene utterances sound even dirtier in German.

One unfortunate woman had hiked down to the bottom of one canyon wearing flip-flops and managed to badly turn her ankle. She sat under a ledge in the shade waiting for help to arrive. On our way up the steep switchbacks, we watched a Park Service crew maneuvering a Stokes Litter on a single big wheel down to the bottom so she could be carted back up to the rim. That ride would have been like a recumbent bike ride through Thunder Mountain, only probably a lot scarier!

Poor woman. I bet she'll wear sensible shoes the next time she visits a National Park from now on.

Our day ended with a vist to the Coral Pink Sand Dunes state park in southern Utah. Although it was about a million degrees outside, we were desperate for a shower after driving for several hours in our smelly Thunder Mountain bike clothes. Every commerical campground, RV Park and flop house along the way turned us away when we showed up begging or showers. Well, can you blame them?

I mean, Caroline looks normal and everything, but in my biking jersey and shorts I looked like some smelly, dirt-stained blueberry hybrid that had escaped from a genetic experimentation facility operated by the Latter Day Saints somewhere in the foothills of rural Utah. God only knows what would happen to me if you added water.

Thankfully, anyone can walk into a state park or national monument, so our entrance fee got us a long-anticipated shower and a visit to superheated peach-colored dunes as an added bonus.

Yep. Anticipation sometimes leads to letdown, but we've not seen that happen these past couple weeks. Thank goodness for dreams and aspirations, because they become the stuff that paves the elusive road to fullfillment.

See you on down that road!

Mysteries of the road

2008-07-11T07:01:00.002-06:00

SEVIER, Utah—Native Americans shaped the character of this landscape, with the early Fremont Indians carving a mysterious swath of history through the region.

Contemporaries of the Anasazi to the South, the Fremont people settled in Clear Creek Canyon near Sevier, Utah, from about 400 to 1300 A.D. Like many ancient Indian cultures, the Fremont mysteriously disappeared, probably migrating from Earth with extraterrestrials once astrological signs indicated that Native Americans would be subjected to a never-ending string of raw deals at the hands of the White Man who would later despoil and poison the landscape on which they depended.

At Fremont Indian State Park located in present-day Clear Creek Canyon, there is little talk of extraterrestrials in official exhibits, but visitors can learn about the extraordinary story the Fremont believe led to the emergence of the their people from the underworld to the Earth. In fact, if you're hardy enough, you can see the emergence story for yourself etched in stone for posterity. On an unauspicious boulder just east of the Visitor Center and Museum, the Fremont creation story sits largely unchanged by time as a petroglyph hidden from direct view.

The Fremont believed that their ancestors shared the underworld with throngs of The Wicked. But they knew another world existed because they could hear walking on the roof above. The Fremont dispatched a hawk, an eagle, a swallow and a shrike to find a way to the Fourth World. The first three birds returned exhausted and without good news. However, the shrike was able to fly higher and higher, resting on branches and cliffs as it climbed. The shrike returned after a very long time and told the Fremont people about a hole in the sky through which they could pass to the Fourth world.

They planted a river reed, which was completely hollow on the inside. They climbed up inside the reed to the Earth. Unfortunately, The Wicked People also began to climb up through the reed as well. The Creator jointed the reed to stop The Wicked People from moving upward inside it, but soon The Wicked started climbing up the outside of the reed. The Fremont knocked down the reed and assigned the eagle to watch the hole to ensure that The Wicked would not reassemble the reed and climb out.

Unfortunately, they didn't knock down the reed fast enough, and a substantial number of The Wicked had a chance to settle in what is now Park City, Utah.

The Fremont emergence myth petroglyph is carved on a rock that represents one of the joints of the reed that was toppled back during the old times. The wavy line on top represents the crack between the Third and Fourth Worlds, and the thick vertical line represents the reed.

Elsewhere throughout Clear Creek Canyon the rocks are filled with petroglyphs (rock etchings), pictographs (pigments painted on rocks), and in seven instances, pictoglyphs (a combination of etching and painting).

The modern-day Hopi have claimed ancestry with the Fremont and share a similar emergence tale with the ancient people. The White Man claims an ancestry with The Wicked People and has forsaken gifts endowed by the creator like clear running streams, endless herd of buffalo and a sense of shared fate and mutual obligation toward preserving the Earth in exchange for Pepsi Cola machines, Hello Kitty lunch boxes, and the dog-eat-dog selfishness that has established itself as the downside of Capitalism.

According to legend, the Fremont and their extraterrestrial brethren will return one day to enlighten the people of the Earth after the great cataclysm foretold by the Aztecs and scheduled for 2012. Hopefully when the Fremont return, we will know enough about their culture to blend in so we don't get scorched by their Laser Cannons of Salvation.

A few miles down the road on the way to Panguitch, our next stop, we came across the original Big Rock Candy Mountain, celebrated in song and story:

"In the Big Rock Candy Mountains, you never change your socks
and the little streams of alcohol come trickling down the rocks
The brakemen have to tip their hats and the railroad bulls are blind
There's a lake of stew and of whiskey too
You can paddle all around in a big canoe
in the Big Rock Candy Mountains"

As could be expected, The Big Rock Candy Mountains are not a pleasant place for tourists to ponder and enjoy. Rather, a huge trading post has been plopped at the base, and a short walk to the bottom of the mountains must be braved through a cloud of foul garbage stench so thick that you need a machete to cut through it. It's like that lake of stew had started trickling out of the outhouses.

Next door, groups of larger-than-average people hopped aboard smoke-belching OHVs and traveled hither and yon across the expansive off-road network that the proprietors of the Big Rock Candy Mountains Resort had created.

Just down the road, the 'dozers were cutting shelves into the landscape for new developments of trophy homes in this river-kissed valley. Billboards urged passersby to get in on Phase 1 of honest-to-goodness country livin'.

As we drove away, we felt compelled to come up with our own lyrics to the optimistic hobo song that had been commercialized so effectively:

"In the Big Rock Candy Mountains, you'll drive your ATV
then stay at some foul gyp-joint where nothing's ever free
The gas prices are all higher and the garbage stinks like sin
The erosion churns and the forest burns
people wriggle all around like a farm full of worms
in the Big Rock Candy Mountains."

See you on down the road!

Testing our mettle in Park City

2008-07-10T07:01:00.008-06:00

PARK CITY, Utah—Park City is like a carnival for the rich, but with much worse traffic. That didn't matter to us, though: we aren't rich and we didn't come to drive.

Instead we found ourselves in a charming basement condo owned by a wonderful young couple who had lived in Park City during the salad days—when every square inch of land in the region wasn't being scraped clean to build super-sized condominium establishments or 22,000-square-foot rustic log McMansions to be occupied by out-of-town owners for a couple weeks a year.

Thank goodness we met Tom and his wife first before running into the snooty hoards who have come home to roost in Park City, lest we would have packed up our belongings and fled far, far away. Well, that is, if we had been able to get through the traffic.

Each morning the streets of Park City jam up like the colon of someone who eats only Wisconsin cheese curds and maintains a constant state of dehydration. Cars idle on roads for miles and miles, waiting for a chance to crawl into the city so their out-of-town occupants can serve the ritzy residents and see to their every extravagant whim.

We spent our first morning in the Old Main Street district, recoiling in horror at the weekly crafts fair that sets up shop there. We watched throngs of people hovering around crafts booths looking for something to spend the spare cash on that was burning a hole in their pockets. Children in Izod or Abercrombie were encouraged by their parents to throw dollar bills on the ground at the street fair and then use their boat shoes to stomp on the hands of any of the service-sector denizens who reached for the green mannah. One woman with a sweater wrapped around her neck (it was 85 degrees for God's sake) harangued her child for leaning on a downtown railing.

"Don't touch that, Spalding! It's been touched by poooor people!"

Okay, so maybe that's an exaggeration, but the downtown scene was gross.

Our thoughts immediately turned to the wonderful biking trails we had heard so much about. Tom was generous with his time and patient with us newcomers. He invited us to accompany him on his evening ride—a marathon climb and singletrack tour around the myriad ski areas that tower above the town.

Some 2,000 feet or so above the Main Street area, we rode past the very hip copper roofed compound that ABC News anchor Charlie Gibson uses for a winter retreat. From this cool-aired vantage point, it was easy to see the future development plan for Park City: Develop every single square inch, high and low, anywhere you might be able to offer ski-in-ski-out condos for any resort.

It was a plan enviable for its simplicity, and the assorted Greed Heads calling the shots seem to be following it to the letter. One development we rode past had added a 50-foot gondola to provide its tenants with true walk-less access to the slopes, even though the housing complex was about as slope-side as it gets. I guess it's difficult to walk in ski boots when you're only in them three days a year.

During the peak season, these high-end temporary homes fetch $400 to $2,000 a night. But interestingly enough, at this altitude, the roads have little traffic. Here in the heights of Snootyville, the roads are private, and signs alongside them warn cyclists or unwitting interlopers that they will be arrested for trespassing. Up here at least 60 percent of the residences are second homes, so there are few people at home during the summer. The roads in this exclusive area of the forest were a strange contrast to morning rush hour down below.

I had no idea where we were as we zipped around with Tom. A positive aspect of all the development is that property owners are putting in new trails like crazy, apparently to fulfill code obligations. Spiraling down a long stretch of singletrack we stopped to look at a mega-resort that was being carved into the landscape. Our guide said construction had started surprisingly recently, given the state of completion the resort was already in.

Our high-altitude tour with Tom ended with a raucous downhill through thick fields of tea roses and other wildflowers—hillsides of lush plants that soon would be nothing more than a memory once the bulldozers had made way for a new set of condos. The concrete cancers that were spreading across the landscape were not much more than a blur as we raced back down toward Park City. Because of the climbing we had endured earlier, the ride was an excellent warm-up for the next day.

Every town has its "signature ride" and word of Park City's Mid-Mountain Loop Trail has spread through every corner of North America. Of course we had to try it. Not just a little taste, but the whole buffet. Unfortunately for us, Tom had to work the next day, so we would be on our own. Thankfully he gave us some hints about the ride that would come in handy later on.

Here's a little word of advice for everyone. If you happen to find yourself in a new town and you're planning to ride trails that you've never ridden before, be sure to take a look—a good look—at the trail map and carefully add up the mileage. Caroline and I neglected to do this and we underestimated the Mid-Mountain Trail. Oh, our ride would probably be only 14 miles or so we reckoned after a cursory glance at the map, and since the guide says it generally follows the 8,000 foot contour line of the peaks, it had to be relatively flat, right? Oh, and all those trails Tom treated us to were so flat and smooth. They must all be that way, right? We'd be back at our comfy condo in just a couple hours, we figured. Right?

Wrong!

We quickly found out that "roughly following the 8,000 foot contour line" meant a lot of pedaling up and a lot of riding down on narrow exposed trail, much of it peppered with sections of sharp triangular rocks. A false move here could mean a long plunge over the side.

Oh, and one other thing: When selecting a trail in a new town that you've never ridden before, it's probably not a good idea to choose the route that has no possible bail-out points. Like it or not, we were committed to the whole ride once we reached the point of no return.

Some seven miles into our ride, Park City was a speck off in the distance below. We realized that our 14 miles was probably going to be more like 17, possibly more, and that our easy coast on smooth singletrack was not going to be all that easy.

One other thing: If you're riding unfamiliar trails in a new town, be sure to bring enough food to last much longer than you might think you'll need.

Once the realization that our ride was going to be an epic marathon that would also require a nice long ride on pavement back to town, we decided to take a little snack break. My Clif Bar looked like the pile of bear poop we had narrowly avoided about a half mile earlier, and it certainly didn't taste much better than what I would expect bear poop to taste like.

Fortunately, I had a lot of water, or so I thought. Somewhere around the 10-mile mark, my Camelbak started to run dry. Thank God for Tom! He had told us about a nondescript concrete restroom that had been erected by a private development called The Colony (I'm not making that up). Although the road through the development would have gotten us arrested had we decided to bail out there, and although signs in the woods warned us that vicious sheep hounds would rip us to shreds if we ventured off the trail into the private livestock areas, the restroom had a long-necked faucet that was just perfect for filling a Camelbak bladder, and the water coming out of it was cold and tasty! We were thankful that The Colony had spared no expense on anything.

With a new full supply of water and a renewed sense of hope, I was ready to finish out the ride. Of course, I never counted on the steady uphill section for the next four miles or so that would put the final trail tally near the 20-mile mark. Even though I wanted to hop off my bike, throw it over the edge of the cliff and stamp my feet like an angry little baby, the Good Lord blessed me with a hallucination that helped me get several more miles behind me.

In this dream state, I saw friendly German women in long skirts and braided hair, wearing those white hats that look like those ones you used to fold up with newspaper when you were a kid. These friendly German women would come zigzagging out of the woods with huge steaming platters of tasty pancakes held high above their heads.

"Pannakuchen! Pannakuchen! Pannakuchen!" they would cry on their serpentine quest to deliver their delicious ration of expertly prepared quick breads.

I'll tell you one thing, brothers and sisters, there just ain't enough German maidens delivering pancakes out there in America these days, and certainly not out here in the West. Rides like this one made me miss Minnesota.

Our epic ended back at town five-and-a-half hours later with 27 miles on the old odometer and a quarter-inch coating of dust on my legs and cranks.

We had a friggen blast!

We celebrated that night with some of the best sushi I've ever eaten at an incognito little place in a delapadated old strip mall away from Main Street called Sushi Maru. We ate like champions!

Park City's trails live up to their reputation, even though the town does not. We made fine friends there and we will be back again for more rides, even if we forego the ambience of the rest of the place.

See you on down the road.

Little Jimmy's notes from the road, Part 1

2008-07-09T08:01:00.005-06:00

SOUTHWEST IDAHO—Sometimes life can get difficult after days and weeks on the road, but not nearly as difficult as life must have been for the crazy bastards who started the westward expansion some 165 years ago.

After a later-than-planned departure from Boise, we found ourselves struggling slowly down US 84 toward Utah. It's surprising to find out new things about another person after living with them for quite sometime, but the road seems to pull new and exciting experiences out of even the most mundane interactions. And sometimes these new revelations aren't always so welcome.

For instance, how was I to know that Caroline had never before in her life encountered "Easy Cheese"—Kraft's ingenious method of aerosolizing processed American cheese into a can that has a handy applicator tip? And how could I have known that such a small can of road-snack pleasure could lead to such discord?

The late start had left me hungry for lunch, but with a schedule to keep, we had no time for a sit-down meal. Instead we nibbled on nuts and berries in the car along the way like Romulus and Remus long separated from their she-wolf's teat. Although sustaining, such natural comestibles are not nearly as satisfying as a large glob of aerosol cheese on a Triscuit cracker. So of course I began demanding that Caroline uncork the Easy Cheese and start it flowing like the mighty Snake River.

After fumbling with the "easy-open" cap, she managed to squeeze about a half a pound of the tangy yellow ambrosia into her lap. The mishap also snapped one of the tongs off the applicator tip, meaning that any attempt to draw a sunny smiley face of cheese onto a cracker would end up making the Triscuit look like it had suffered a mild stroke. Everything on one side of the face was drooping.

Not only that, but our supply of "natural" sodas ended up tasting like water in the bottom of a can dredged up from a cattail-chocked slough near the banks of the Snake River that had been previously spat into by someone chewing stale Copenhagen. So much for road snacks this day.

Just as I was bitching about our misfortune, a sign for Glenns Ferry and the historic Three Islands Crossing for the Oregon Trail distracted me from what was sure to be a 10-minute treatise on rotten luck and gypsy curses bestowed upon my family several generations earlier.

The excellent Three Islands Crossing State Park told the terrible tale of pioneers risking it all trying to cross the expansive Snake River with their families and Prairie Schooners weighted with everything they owned, including, in some cases, children or elderly persons stricken with the Cholera. The fortunate found passage to the other side; others lost everything. Some of the relatives of the unlucky apparently still live in the community of Glenns Ferry, like the little waitress who served us a delicious patty melt after we gave up all hope of sticking to our schedule and resigned ourselves to the fact that we would be reaching Park City well after dark.

After learning that Oregon Trail emigrants spent most of a year eating biscuits and old bacon, our road snacks of nuts and berries and bacon-flavored processed American cheese spread on a festively woven cracker—all washed down with a cold funky-tasting soda—didn't sound so bad after all. It's staggering to think that thousands ventured west in creaky old wagons without cell phones, iPods or Igloo coolers. It amazing that no emigrant dined on Doritos or Lean Cuisine microwave dinners, or called Sunday a success after filling a crock pot full of Little Smokies and a bottle of K.C. Masterpiece just before Nascar on television. Compared to our ancestors, we are a nation of pathetic weaklings.

The museum at Three Islands Crossing also told the terrible tale of how the U.S. Government cheated the Shoshone-Bannock Indians out of their lands and forced their members to march for 500 miles to reservation land. A similar thing happens on a smaller scale today that the Government likes to call "extraordinary Rendition," a euphemism for injustice just like "relocations to reservation land" or the "Indian Child Welfare Act." Like the historic sanctioned mistreatment of Native Americans, people don't like to talk much these days about the sanctioned mistreatment of new "inferior people" under the auspices of the War on Terror. But I digress.

Although I tried my best at the Three Islands Crossing museum, I could offer no consolation to these unwitting players in American history.

The Three Islands Crossing is a testament to True Grit, and each year during the second week of August, the community of Glenns Ferry turns out to re-enact the treacherous river crossings. According to the woman at the museum, some years the players are successful, other years they aren't. And like the emigrants of old, sometimes oxen or mules drown when wagons overturn. We were sorry that our timing for our trip did not coincide with the annual spectacle.

The patty melt and tater tots in the small bar and grill near Glenns Ferry's main street worked their magic, and soon we found ourselves 50 miles to the southeast and off the interstate traveling through rural Idaho. Here farmland dominates the landscape, and homes and farms have changed little since they were first built 100 years ago. Massive fountains of water spew from the craggy volcanic cliffs high above the Snake River valley, cloaking the landscape with lacy liquid doilies of fertility. Ski boats zig and zag up and down the river while registered Herefords graze lazily on emerald fields of grass.

This is Mennonite Country out here on Highway 30, home to robust-looking peaceful folk. In Buhl, Idaho, we stopped in at a local dairy for a late-afternoon milkshake. It was rich and creamy. Perhaps a little too rich and creamy. Soon we found ourselves driving into Utah with queasy bellies awash in butter fat, wishing for a strong cup of coffee or a two-hour nap.

Somewhere along the way we came across a scene that seemed to echo our sentiments for the day. A rusting old car and several submerged pieces of farm equipment lay abandoned in a sea of what could very well have been natural soda pop. There was no explanation for the mysterious watery graveyard, just the steady twittering of red-winged blackbirds in the bright, hot sunlight.

As we made our way to Park City, we thought seriously about getting a milkshake at every milkshake establishment we passed. And in this region of the country, they were as common as 3.2 beer. I bet Caroline that I could down two more shakes before I erupted with an dishonorable discharge. She bet I could only muster one. We wondered what fraction of one we could down if we asked the shake vendor to add a half a cup of chopped onions? Unfortunately we'll never know.

The darkness concealed the snootiness and rampant, out-of-control development of Park City, but we would soon discover those things along with miles and miles of fabulous biking trails later on.

For now we were content to sleep the sleep of weary emigrants after a very, very long day.

See you on down the road.

Bye bye, Boise

2008-07-08T08:24:00.015-06:00

Part III: In which we learn saying goodbye is difficult

BOISE, Idaho—Our final day in Boise began at the crack of dawn at a trailhead near town to meet Al and his two remarkable Hungarian Vizsla dogs for a quick morning ride.

The foothill-area trails in Boise are buff and fast, with just enough climbing to let you know that you've taken a ride, but enough downhill sections to give you a thrill ride that you won't soon forget. Without the buildings in the distance, you might think you were out riding in Fruita if you were blindfolded—a style of bike riding that I can't recommend.

Smoke from the California forest fires had cloaked the Boise valley in a thick pale haze, and the EPA had issued an air quality yellow-alert for the day, making it perfect for riding. At this early hour, the temperature was hovering a pleasant 30 degrees lower than the 100-degree temperatures we had been experiencing since our arrival. The humidity was low, as was the angle of the sun, so we were in for a fabulous morning on two wheels.

Many others had taken advantage of the cool morning temperatures, so the area was pretty well-used that day. Al told us that undercover police officers had been hanging out near the trail heads for the past few days, issuing citations to anyone who failed to pick up poop left behind by their dogs. Unfortunately for Al, the two Vizslas hadn't been run for a few days, so they were extremely excited to be out on the trails; he used more than one of the plastic bags he had brought in the first couple of miles. The dogs didn't seem to mind.

You meet some really cool people biking, and Al was no exception. He rode easy and carefree on his custom rigid 29er (with an internal hub, not a singlespeed). The eager red Vizslas were obviously used to riding, so they hung close to the bikes, but not too close, giving us plenty of room to maneuver. We haven't seen our own dog in more than a week, so it was really nice to have some doggie energy present for the day.

After a good climb to the top of the ridges east of downtown, we zoomed back toward Boise on the hard-packed singletrack that makes these trails so much fun. We weaved through golden grasslands that were alive with the crazy morning light that had been created from the forest fire haze.

Near the perigee of the trail system, our ride ducked into thick trees and lush green grass that hung near the edge of a creek. The dark cold woods were a stark contrast to the brightly lit trails above and provided a perfect way to end the ride. Our short romp had ended too soon, and it was tough to say goodbye to Al and his hounds. It would have been great to have had more time for more rides. Boise hospitality is second to none.

People in Boise love their bikes! This town of 200,000 seems to have a higher-than-average number of people out riding from what we could tell. In addition to hundreds of miles of trails in the immediate vicinity, Boise's heart also includes a greenbelt that runs along the river and offers wide paved trails from one end of the city to the other. Because the greenbelt lets riders and hikers avoid roads, lots of people use their bikes and feet for transportation and the downtown was thick with people on two wheels at all times of day.

Not only do people love to ride bikes, they love to ride really cool vintage bikes. On any given day you can find bike classics locked to racks in the downtown area. It's not unusual to catch a glimpse of a beautifully restored Schwinn Ace, DX or Excelsior or any other manner of classic bike. My personal favorite was finding an old J.C. Higgins (stripped of the ornamental tank, but not the old chain guard) locked to lamp post near a downtown deli. Who'd have thought I'd one day be coveting a Sears and Roebuck bicycle?

After our ride with Al, we had to get ready in a hurry. Kristi had scheduled us for yet another adventure. And for me it was another first. I had never been rafting before, so I was jazzed to hear that Kristi had set us all up for a ride down the Payette river.

We raced to Cascade Raft and Kayak, located about a half hour north of Horseshoe Bend. We arrived just in the nick of time, and we ran to board the bus that would carry us to the put-in point on the Payette.

I looked around the bus and made mental notes about who I would not like to be trapped on a raft with. Others were doing the same thing and I saw a couple of scowls and head shakes when certain eyes rested on me.

Luckily for us, we were a group of six, so we got our own raft. We also lucked out and got the best guide of the bunch, a competent and friendly character named Jeff B.

The river was calm for the most part, but the rapids were noisy enough to conceal the fart of surprise I unleashed while spinning through one of the more exciting rapids. Of course, Caroline and I got the front of the raft. That meant the two novices were leading our expedition. But I provided a big enough human shield to help keep Max, Kristi's youngest son, pretty dry throughout the trip.

We enjoyed a picnic lunch at the end of the raft ride and I felt at least five years younger.

Back in downtown Boise, we enjoyed some great nightlife. On the first Thursday of each month, businesses—including The Chocolat Bar, Boise's premier chocolatier—stay open late and the entire downtown area gets swept up in a festival-like atmosphere of drinking, dining and dancing. I was treated to a personal belly dance outside of one establishment. On the other hand, maybe she was treated to a personal audience from me because she started giggling immediately. Maybe it was the smear of chocolate on my face.

We had no idea going into Boise, but the town is pretty hip. The community has dedicated substantial funding toward bike trails and other non-automobile transportation improvements, and, by and large, it's a safe and clean community. Better still, it's one of two islands of liberal thought inside a traditionally Conservative state. No wonder it was fun!

If you can, be sure to attend Boise's downtown Farmer's Market each Saturday. At this garden of delights, you can find locally and regionally grown produce, cheeses, baked goods and other treats. We enjoyed several pints of fresh berries of all kinds, which were a nice change from traditional road treats like beef jerky and pretzels. Not only are they healthier, but berries produce much less wind than traditional snacks. That's a positive when you're spending hours inside an enclosed air-conditioned vehicle. I'd attribute my condition as a side effect of the recent Crippling Mystery Illness, but those of you who know me know better.

Of course, after spending several days with good friends having great times, it's difficult to say goodbye. As has been a theme with this journey, you never know when you'll have the chance to do things again, so you have to enjoy your surroundings when you can. The same seems to be true with people.

Life tends to scatter our loved ones to the Four Winds as time goes by. If we are blessed, we find ourselves traveling the currents of fate toward the areas where our loved ones have settled and we're able to see them again. Only a fool fails to relish such reunions with unbridled gusto. I'm pleased to say we were not fools this time around.

And with luck, we won't be next time, either.

See you on down the road.

Action-packed Boise

2008-07-07T08:48:00.007-06:00

Part II: In which we grab life by the horns

BOISE, Idaho—We stayed with our wonderful friends Kristi and Chris while in Boise. They are proprietors of a most excellent chocolate shop, the Chocolat Bar, which specializes in some of the tastiest confections in North America. Each confection is made by hand with love and laughter in their downtown Boise shop.

The Chocolat Bar's signature lemon-lavendar almond bark is sinfully delicious, although I found myself with an extreme weakness for the cherry and dark-chocolate caramels. They might be much better than a power bar on a long bike ride through the mountains, although it would be much better to eat them in a civilized locale.

We had seen Kristi and Chris for mere moments before we headed out on our ride at Bogus Basin, so we had not had time to catch up on things before we left. We did not return until just before 11 p.m. My arm was still raw and dirt covered and weeping buckets of an unsettling clearish ooze.

I crawled into the shower and began the hideous task of cleaning out my wound. An unholy poultice of dirt, pebbles and plant matter was smashed into the flesh on the lower part of my forearm just above the elbow. I used plenty of soap and friction to debride my arm. The evening quiet inside the home was interrupted by a mournful low-pitched howl emanating from the bathroom.

Thankfully we had remembered to pack the first aid kit. Two extra-large swatches of sterile gauze spared me from sticking to the nice clean sheets that evening. The next morning we awoke early. Kristi had signed us up for a morning of adventure!

These days I'm starting to appreciate that life must be lived when you can. My recent bout with the Crippling Mystery Illness reminded me of how fragile life can be, and that fortunes can change without warning as quick as a wink. Without such an epiphany, I might have balked at Kristi's suggestion for a day of fun, but now we jumped at the opportunity without hesitation.

A little while later we found ourselves in Horseshoe Bend, Idaho, at Zip Idaho, a new business offering zip line tours to the masses. A zip line is a long expanse of cable that you clip onto with a tiny pulley mechanism and harness system. A big guy like me can reach speeds of up to 50 miles per hour on the 1,800 foot line that spans a small canyon northeast of Horseshoe Bend.

After a short briefing, we found ourselves practicing our zip line skills in a series of short spans up in the trees. It was fantastic! Call it crazy, but I found it inherently easy to step off the platform high above the ground and go zipping over to the next tree.

I found it even easier running like a crazy person and launching myself over the edge of the canyon on the long zip line. The only sad part is 1,800 feet goes by surprisingly quickly at 50 mph.

Zip lining is something you can do with a big wad of gauze on your arm or with a bruised or cracked rib, assuming you can use the arm on the good side of your body to hold onto the harness. While it's probably not an appropriate activity for everyone, it's appropriate for any able-bodied soul to try at least once.

Afterward we felt like astronauts or elite explorers; we had experienced something totally new and exciting that not everyone gets a chance to try. What a rare privilege.

Life must be lived while you can. Fortunes can change as quick as a wink. Carpe diem as they say.

See you on down the road.

Bloody, bloody Boise

2008-07-06T08:01:00.011-06:00

Part 1: In which I become the turd in the punch bowl

BOISE, Idaho—It was a long drive from Stanley to Boise. We were hoping for a quick drive over the mountains. Instead, the breathtaking scenery of the backside of the Sawtooth Mountains and the Payette River rushing in the canyon bottom below compelled us to ease up on the gas pedal and meander our way toward our next destination.

An inviting back road lured us to a tiny lodge tucked on the banks of the Payette in the middle of nowhere, and we took mental notes that this rustic collection of ramshackle cabins would be a fabulous place to stay when we were old and grey. We made it back to the main road again after watching the Payette zoom beneath us on a rickety bridge. Birds chirped pleasently in the trees and Caroline provided color commentary on the region's history from one of our many guidebooks.

Despite being cramped again in the car, we were still feeling the after glow of Fisher Creek. The ride the day before had made us groggy and our legs were pleasantly tired, but we were both still blissed out after our experience. Moreover, with temperatures in Boise expected to rise above 100 degrees, we were in no hurry to exit the pleasant coolness of the mountains. So we slowly snaked our way back to civilization.

Despite being on vacation, we did have an appointment to keep. We were meeting two riders in Boise for a preview of some of the town's better trails. At just after 5 p.m. we met Dave and Al as promised in a parking lot at the base of Bogus Basin ski area. The blast-furnace heat got me to staggering when I exited the vehicle to shake the hands of our new guides. A two-pump handshake caused a torrent to pour from my brow.

We decided that in this heat, the higher the ride, the better off we'd be. So we saddled up and drove to the top of Bogus Basin.

Dave and Al are extremely affable fellows, and we were very chatty at the trail head in anticipation of the ride ahead. Dave looked like one of those cycling fanatics who finishes near the top during weekly club rides out in the park.

Al's legs were like mighty tree trunks. I recalled reading some bike magazine a while back that listed the Top 10 greatest myths about biking (the magazine was not Mountain Flyer, as we would never stoop so low as to waste paper on such inane drivel). One of those "myths" was that you could never use the size of a person's leg to judge their riding ability. See? Inane drivel! Clearly Al's legs were able to carry him places most people would fear.

Looking at Dave and Al and knowing that I still had not entirely shaken the Crippling Mystery Illness, I had no doubt in my mind I was going to get my ass handed to me on this ride. It didn't help my confidence much when I immediately had to change my tire tube after it had gone flat apparently without cause. The tire had ridden fine the day before, and Fisher Creek was free of pricklies for the most part.

As I changed the tire, Dave and Al explained that the Bogus Basin area holds some of Boise's best riding. On this day we chose the Eastside area to ride—a place that offered classic wilderness singletrack with just enough technical bits thrown in to keep you on your toes. Al would be riding it on a rigid singlespeed 29er.

We gleefully rode the narrow singletrack. The deep woods and late hour made things much cooler than downtown Boise had been. Dave an Al graciously put up with every request I threw out for photos, even if it happened to mess up the flow of ride. I was hoping to get the photos out of the way early on so we could concentrate on the trail. For the most part we did, and pretty soon I was feeling warmed up and looking forward to much more singletrack ahead.

Because both of our guides had played a heavy role in establishment and construction of the trails up at Bogus Basin and elsewhere in Boise, they were eager to show off the area, although both were extremely modest when it came to taking credit for their hard work.

I was starting to feel at my best as we made our way through a newly rerouted section of trail. The singletrack was steady, but extremely narrow. Nevertheless, I rode confidently, even managing to keep Caroline in sight for the most part.

Suddenly, my pedal caught the remnants of a sawed off stick on the downstroke—the only time it could have done anyone any harm. Fate had lined my crank arm up with a one-in-a-million chance of disaster, and I felt my back wheel start sliding out toward the outside of the heavily exposed section of trail. My brain went about making corrections for the skid just as my front wheel slammed against another small-diameter stump nubbin on the outside of the trail. Being the unwitting dweller in the middle of a perfect storm, I felt myself being viciously slammed to the ground. It happened so quickly that I had no time to land gracefuly. I was hurled to the ground like a sack of rotten potatoes. By happenstance I managed to get a finger on my bike as it began its descent over the edge, saving it from a long fall.

A firey pain gripped my forearm and leg. I ventured a peek at my arm and saw the crimson reminder that mountain biking is an inherently dangerous sport.

I tried to be good natured as I picked myself up and continued the ride, but, truth be told, the crash hurt like a bitch, so it didn't take long before my normally good-natured side retreated away from the forefront of my consciousness. I rode in silence at the back of the pack. I felt terrible for Al and Dave, who undoubtedly felt terrible for me.

About the time the adrenaline from the crash started to wear off—when the pain really starts to set in—we began the long climb out of the canyon. Rides in this area are bowl-like, and most begin and end with climbs. The firey burn of plants rubbing the raw area of my scraped and bloody leg gave way to a new pain: the annoying stitch of a cracked or bruised rib. The dire new pain hit just as we passed the carcass of an elk that reportedly had been eaten by a wolf that haunts the area.

"Great, I'm wounded and bleeding and at the back of the pack," I thought to myself. I started to go over my wolf defense strategies in my mind as I made the long ascent.

Needless to say, the excitement back at the trail head was missing when I finally grunted my way up and over the final push to the car. Here I was, the ride casualty for the day, the turd in the punchbowl, if you will. It is an uncomfortable position to be in—even with people you know well. I weakly apologized to my gracious hosts. The warm looks on their faces let me know that no apologies were necessary.

Half an hour later, at the bottom of Bogus Basin, a delicious glass of stout and a hearty helping of spicy chicken wings helped me feel almost normal again, and we enjoyed talking to Dave for much longer than he probably expected.

Not only are Boise's trails awesome, but so are its people. It is a friendly, friendly town. I'm hoping my scabs dry out soon so I can do some more riding around here. Only time will tell.

See you on down the road, and if I happen to meet you on the trail, I'll be sure to give you a wide berth. Hasta la Vista, babies.

Diggin' Stanley

2008-07-05T07:21:00.013-06:00

STANLEY, Idaho—We wound our way north out of Sun Valley up a narrow mountain road toward the mountains. Above us, gathering gray rain clouds made the ascent seem a little foreboding as we headed toward Stanley, Idaho, a less civilized destination compared to the comfortable opulence of Sun Valley. The skies sagged with a thick measure of moisture and we braced for the coming onslaught, regretting that we hadn't brought anything to cover the saddles of our bikes.

About halfway up Galena pass, we hit the first rain—a steady drizzle that made it seem like the monsoon season had started early here in Idaho. But just minutes later the shower ended and the clouds began to thin. Soon enough the air was dry again. The rain we had experienced seemed like nothing more than a brief mirage in the oppressive heat that had settled over the region.

We stopped briefly at the Galena Lodge for a cup of coffee and to drop off a few copies of Mountain Flyer to the little bike shop/sporting goods niche that had been created at one end of the establishment. Lodge owners have carved an impressive array of trails into the thick woods up here. On July 26th, mountain bike racers from all over the region will compete in the sixth-annual Galena Grinder, part of the region's Knobby Tire Series. The Grinder includes a cross country race and a marathon on the gnarly trails near the top of the pass. Some $2,000 in prize money is at stake for the race, which seems to get bigger each year.

Unfortunately for us, our schedule didn't permit us to sample Galena's singletrack.

Over the top of the pass we could see Stanley in the valley below. The tiny community sits quietly in the shadow of the Sawtooth Mountains along the cold, churning waters of the Salmon River. While it would be easy to brand the area as an outdoors paradise this time of year, one look at the Sawtooth peaks to the west—with their still-generous packing of winter snow—betrays the area's arduous winters.

Only about 90 people call the area home year 'round. Winters in Stanley are some of the coldest in the nation, and mountains of snow paralyze the community in a state of suspended animation all winter long. The worst winters close the passes in and out of Stanley, leaving residents to fend for themselves in the biting cold sometimes for weeks at a time.

But on this day Stanley was dressed as a fetching summer maiden. Colorful wildflowers punctuated her lush green meadows with shocks of purple, yellow, red and blue. These florets flooded the valley with an inescapable aroma so sweet and pure that you could almost hear it as a high-pitched buzz—as odd and unlikely as that may seem.

We settled into the wonderfully comfortable Valley Creek Motel and RV park, a strange little paradise in a town so tiny. We thought because of its size, Stanley would be home to rundown "rustic" cabins or unsettling little murder motels, but the Valley Creek was a clean, spacious sanctuary that offered a quaint kitchenette and stunning views of the Sawtooth mountains.

After a restful night of sleep in the cold mountain air (morning temperatures were in the high 30s), we were saddened to watch the morning skies darken as dense rains moved in from every direction. Soon the entire valley was drenched. We wrote off the possibilities of riding for the day and dejectedly searched through the tiny general store for a deck of cards after eating an outstanding breakfast at the Sawtooth Bakery.

A while later we happened upon a pair of young mountain bikers in one of the local stores. We gave them a couple of copies of Mountain Flyer and asked them about rides in the area. Because of the rains, we thought we'd have to ride Fisher Creek—Stanley's signature trail—the next morning, which would have created a time pinch for us, particularly since my riding skills are still pathetically weak as I continue to slowly recover from the Crippling Mystery Illness

The bike dudes looked at the drying skies and encouraged us to ride the trail that day. As dry as it had been, the rains would not create any mud and actually would firm up the trails nicely, they said. Not only that, but the cool air would make the nine-mile climb almost palatable.

We changed our plans on the spot and soon we found ourselves at the trailhead and ready to ride.

If you've never ridden Fisher Creek, I believe it really is one of those epic rides that everyone should do at least once in their lives. Although everyone says it's a downhill ride, you shouldn't go into it half cocked. The first part of the trail is a nine-mile climb up a fire road. Your efforts are instantly rewarded with a swooping plunge down some tight singletrack through an area that was severely burned in 2005. Brightly colored flowers are a stark contrast to the blackened sticks that remain in the burned area. It's a strange juxtoposition of life and death that is inspiring and humbling.

Most people don't talk about it, but after the first descent you have to climb again for quite a while until you reach the epic ride down that makes the trail famous. There are not many places to ride that offer an uninterrupted three miles of swooping downhill through nice dark forest (this part wasn't burned). The ride just keeps going and going and going, and pretty soon it almost seems as if you're asleep and dreaming of ripping down an amazing singletrack fantasy land. Simply amazing is all I can say.

The descent spits you out in a meadow, where you have to make a short climb before the last mile of super-fun downhill back to the trailhead. This is the type of singletrack that God dreamed of when he was creating humans who would ride bikes. Or something like that.

Because the sun doesn't set up here until outrageously late in the day, we had plenty of daylight left to goof off in around the area before dark.

Once twilight arrived, slumber was easy and fast, particularly after our ride at Fisher Creek.

One good thing about Idaho's undercurrent of geologic turmoil is that there are plenty of hot springs. There are several in the Stanley area alone. The next morning, with the valley socked in under a cold fog, we decided to give our legs a treat by visiting one of the more convenient ones at the crack of dawn.

Just off the highway in lower Stanley, someone has taken an old oak barrel and plopped it at the edge of the Salmon River. A pipe out of the rocks pumps scalding water into the tub, and here you can soak away your troubles with little effort.

We found the waters luxurious, if not a little too hot. But with the air temperature outside hovering just below 40 degrees, the tub was an incredible treat. Partway through our soak, a mink ventured toward us, only to be driven away by the sight of my man-boobies. Thanks to them we've found a lot of solitude this trip, although I am hesitant to brandish them unless absolutely necessary.

See you on down the road.

Where gas prices don't matter

2008-07-03T08:01:00.006-06:00

SUN VALLEY, Idaho—The feel of the road changed from blue collar to blue nosed as we made our way closer to Sun Valley, the nation's first destination ski resort. This land is not populated by potato farmers or nuclear scientists and technicians, but by movie stars and jet setters and America's richest one percent.

Raw real estate costs a half million dollars an acre, while fishing cabins can be had for a cool $1 million. Modest homes range $2.5 million, and luxury lots on multiple acres with river access capture $10 million. Unlike the rest of the nation, the real estate market seemed unaffected by the current housing bust. This is a place where shop items have no price tags; if you have to ask how much it costs, you probably can't afford it.

Understandably, the price of gas rose proportionately the closer we got to Sun Valley. To the affluent visitors here, petrol is simply another necessity, like milk or bread. And like everything else here, the Sun Valley Sinclair station did not advertise its prices from the road.

Like most people in town, we were here for leisure. But instead of spending our days in the $250-a-night comfort of the Sun Valley Lodge, we holed up in more modest accommodations down the road in Ketchum. From our base camp we had access to the excellent mountain biking trails that are as ubiquitous in Sun Valley as American Express gold cards.

We enjoyed two good days of riding on swooping singletrack. The terrible illness that had kept me bed ridden for nearly two weeks had taken its toll, and I found myself anemic and weak, foundering on every climb. Of course, Caroline skipped lightly up the trails like a two-wheeled pixie, cheerfully goading me ahead.

I kept reminding myself with each painful revolution of the cranks that I would be rewarded with some sweet fast downhill later on. On this day everything I needed to know I really had learned in kindergarten: "I think I can, I think I can" was my mental mantra.

These climbs would have been trivial undertakings for me under normal circumstances. But now, with the toxins of a million malevolent microorganisms coursing through my veins, my heart rate had reached the red line and my legs were quivering like a puppy in the throes of distemper. A black haze circled my vision as I reached the summit and for a moment I felt like I had fallen from the saddle.

Seconds later we found ourselves zipping through an ocean of flowers on sticky singletrack that had been tuned up by afternoon rains the previous day. I had died and my toil had been rewarded by the Gods, and now I was maneuvering through the Elysian Fields on pure quicksilver.

Back at the trailhead I realized that my journey was not as heroic as it had seemed. The dust on my shins and sweat on my brow confirmed that I was a mere mortal. There are worse things than that, I realized, and I drank in one last view of where we had been. I can't wait to see where we'll go.

We enjoyed a swell shake with a shot of espresso at Tully's coffee house in the heart of Sun Valley. I felt as rich as the others in the street, larger than life, so I indulged myself by sitting in the biggest chair I could find—a gigantic wooden affair festooned with red cowboy boots. I rode that bull like a Western pro despite the wrinkled noses and askance looks I received from the well-bred passersby.

See you on down the road.

The Devil's playground

2008-07-02T08:01:00.008-06:00

CRATERS OF THE MOON, Idaho—Imagine heading out in a Conestoga wagon along the Oregon Trail, moving painfully across the wilds of Idaho, and suddenly encountering an impassable stretch of jagged blackened rock stretching out across the prairie as far as the eye could see.

If you were a God-fearing soul, you'd probably say your prayers and tuck tail and backtrack to greener pastures. But here in Godless America, we've turned the area into a national monument.

Craters of the Moon National Monument and Preserve is an unexpected treat bridging Idaho's formidable Nuclear Corridor with the wild lands to the north. If you've never visited, it's certainly worth a short detour from your travels. A seven-mile loop road through the monument puts you up close and personal with what must have been an impressive volcanic display dating back to just before the birth of Christ.

At Craters of the Moon you'll experience a little glimpse into Hell. Most people who visited were hesitant to leave their vehicles to romp among the grotesque spatter cones and shards of ancient lava and volcanic ash. But not us!

And on this 90-degree day, while the sun was high and bright, we chose to hike several trails in the monument, including an arduous trek straight up the top of two huge mounds of cinders, gaining hundreds of feet of elevation and providing us with a front row seat to a spectacular 360-degree view of the expansive valleys beyond the edge of the flow.

Our trek up the cinder cone was not without its price, however. The heat that bores into a human skull while trudging up a coal black mountain of sharp cinders wearing only sandals and no sunscreen can drive a man to madness.

Halfway up the hill I watched rivulets of sweat pouring off my body like the summer rains off a shiny tin roof. I stuck my tongue out in vain, trying desperately to catch a few precious drops of moisture. An extra sharp cinder lodged under the ball of my foot and I crumpled to the ground in agony.

"Leave me here and go get help!" I shouted at Caroline. I don't know why, but shouting seemed appropriate under such duress. "I'll stay here! I can drink my own urine if necessary!"

I watched Caroline continue to trudge her way toward the vast black summit above, so I stood up and brushed myself off and followed her.

But of course, once at the top, with the heat boring down into her brain and the blast furnace heat reflecting off of the hellish black earth, even strong Caroline cracked like an egg. In her madness she dove from a rock and started swimming across the broiling surface like a crippled salamander.

Hah-hah! We were both doomed!

Somehow we survived and returned to the (recently repaired) air-conditioned comfort of our vehicle. We drank deeply from the jugs of strange-tasting water we had acquired back in potato country.

A while later, after the water had seeped back into our cells and restored our sanity, we trudged through another area of the park. There we marveled at the tenacity of life. Patches of wildflowers had sprung up among the blackness, and at one point, in the shadow of a hillside, we watched a giant mouse-looking creature dart from rock to rock, foraging for tender plant chutes. It was the first time either of us had seen a pika—a strange creature known for its high-pitched squeak and ability to forage on its own feces for nutrition.

Yep. Hell comes in all kinds of manifestations and we're enjoying them all.

See you on down the road!

Meeting our long-lost radioactive cousin

2008-07-01T08:01:00.013-06:00

ATOMIC CITY, Idaho—Our illusion that Idaho was nothing more than an inviting pastoral womb responsible for a never-ending supply of huge, tasty potatoes was shattered some 20 miles northwest of Blackfoot, home of the Idaho Potato Museum.

Out on this god-forsaken stretch of Highway 26, a high-desert climate and formidable stretches of ancient lava flows have turned the landscape into a portrait of hardscrabble despair. Sage brush and wisps of struggling native grasses poke out of the jagged landscape, which, understandably, is largely devoid of human population. In some areas the remnants of former civilization sit windblown and abandoned. Weathered shotgun shacks and crumbling stone hovels stand as trophies marking a victory for a landscape that has handily defeated the encroachment of humanity. For the most part.

During the industrious zeal of post-World-War-II America, when the nation was at the height of the Atomic Age, bureaucrats and scientists found the area suitable for a noble purpose: harnessing the atom. In this geologically unstable area, the United States Government established what is now the Idaho National Laboratory, one of several national laboratories operated for the U.S. Department of Energy.

Some 50 nuclear reactors have been built on the barren plains west of Idaho Falls during the last 50 years as scientists raced to prove that the awesome power of the Atom was good for something besides bombs. As part of the bargain, INL also became a dumping ground for spent nuclear reactor cores. But since the laboratory has been responsible for the relative prosperity in some areas, most folks around here don't say much about what goes on behind the security fences of INL.

Not every place profited from the atom, however. Some communities fell by the wayside as the veneer of World-War-II victory gave way to a general suspicion of all things atomic.

Witness tiny Atomic City, Idaho. Once a bustling little burg halfway between INL and Blackfoot, the town is mostly shuttered now. A couple of occupied houses and a row of squatters in mobile homes stand among the ruins of what was once a home to many residents. The community's only functioning business is the Atomic City Bar, located in the hollowed out ruins of an old Texaco station.

According to the barkeep, the establishment does a pretty brisk business as INL workers stop in to snag what she said is the coldest beer in the region. And in the oppressive heat of southwest Idaho, a cold beer is definitely worth a short jaunt off the main road. Interestingly enough, the barkeep did not know the origin of the community's name. Why it became "Atomic City" was a mystery to her.

The rest of Atomic City has been converted into a car racing track, and here on a late weekend afternoon, there was nary a left-over space for trailers hauling in the souped up vehicles that race for cash and bragging rights on the dirt track.

A few miles north, just out of earshot of the buzz of the Atomic City Raceway, the goings on at INL are protected by a row of ominous yellow signs warning that trespassers can be arrested and prosecuted under the Atomic Energy Act.

But not every part of INL is off limits. The world's first power-producing nuclear reactor, known as Experimental Breeder Reactor 1 (EBR-1), is now a national historic site. Though parts of the building are too radioactive for tours, much of the original reactor building is open to the public.

Despite the signs beckoning travelers in for a visit, the government employees in charge of the place do not share the same zest for visitors as the signs might suggest. We found them itching to close up shop and get on the road, perhaps for a cold one at the Atomic City Bar, some 15 minutes before the last tour time. I kept reminding myself that this was the government, not a small-town Chamber of Commerce, so the lack of customer service was not surprising, though it was still disappointing nevertheless.

Oh well, the road heals all wounds, and a short hop away we found our final destination in our ad-hoc Atomic Tour of Idaho.

The town of Arco got its claim to fame on July 15, 1955, when the Boiling Water Reactor 3 at INL delivered atomic power to the community for a few hours on that monumentous summer day. A strange little cafe at the edge of town offers "Atomic Burgers," but strangely enough, the rest of the community doesn't seem to call much attention to the town's auspicious atomic roots.

Instead, more conspicuous than the little sign on a city building announcing Arco's nuclear past, the hillside north of town is peppered with whitewash graffiti commemorating each high school graduating year since the 1930s. Even the older numbers look fresh, and the 2008 label had been lovingly written on craggy stone above town, despite the otherwise abandoned look of the community.

We breathed a sigh of relief as we sped north and away from Idaho's nuclear corridor, not because of a fear of the atom, but because the area seemed tired and worn out. The whiz-bang excitement of the Atomic Age—with its ray guns and robots and giant Hollywood tarantulas—is a bizarre anachronism in an age where people aren't curious about how technology works, but rather that it simply does work.

An appreciation for science left this nation a long time ago, giving way to instant text messages and tiny televisions that show Disney DVDs in the back of family minivans and SUVs. Americans apparently are too busy to learn about what makes us tick.

But that is too heavy to contemplate out here on the road, where long stretches of empty highway and wayward hours between destinations cause us to sing the songs of our past. A fifth chorus of "Brick House," only done in the guise of Porky Pig, causes the laughter to flow like the lava once did across this breathtaking landscape.

See you on down the road.

Big dreams, big taters

2008-06-30T08:01:00.010-06:00

BLACKFOOT, Idaho—We hit the road with a well-stocked vehicle and high hopes. Vacation offered a chance for renewal and we were anxious to jump at that chance.

After spending the previous 10 days at home sidelined with some mysterious (and still undiagnosed) malady that had left me crippled with an alarming fever for more than a week, I found myself behind the wheel in a precariously weakened condition and suffering from frustrating hearing loss—an unfortunate and hopefully temporary side effect of whatever virus or bacteria had ravaged my health.

Some 500 miles north of Los Alamos, we found ourselves in uncharted territory. We had managed to sequester ourselves in the car nonstop for the better part of 14 hours, save for infrequent gas stops and bathroom breaks, thanks to Caroline's fine prior planning and packing. Fresh fruits, ample fluids and a smorgasbord of meats, cheeses and crackers spared us from burning up valuable time and avoiding the gastrointestinal roulette that can result from frequenting roadside eateries in strange locales.

Clever Caroline had also located a special on Pringle's potato chips, a "treat" we never splurge on. But the canisters of the potato crisps (that's Procter & Gamble's official trademarked description) kept us occupied through those long stretches of road where conversation slowly evaporates like the beads of sweat that were glistening on my forehead on the hot interstates of Utah.

The sun goes down late in the summer in the far north, and we found ourselves with good light at nearly 10 p.m. as we pressed on past Salt Lake City, Utah, toward the Idaho border. A brief but satisfying slumber in a comfy bed of a newer Hampton Inn left us refreshed and ready for the day.

But into each life a little rain must fall. Apparently.

Somewhere between the Middle of Nowhere and Bumfuck, Idaho, the air conditioning began blowing out a hot dry air reminiscent of the Devil's breath. Thinking that the compressor had frozen over due to some freak combination of high humidity and elfin magic, I switched off the air, hoping to give the contraption a rest.

At the precise moment that I turned the knob, a small explosion from under the hood jostled the tranquility of the road and made my hair stand on end. Before The Fear could overtake my entire body, however, we heard the terrible clatter of metal bouncing beneath the undercarriage, and Caroline watched out of the corner of her eye as some dark object went skittering off the road and onto the shoulder behind us.

I zipped across the slow lane and onto the shoulder. We inspected the vehicle and could find no real damage, other than an air conditioner that wouldn't work. I looked around hopelessly, trying to find the air conditioner to assess the damage, but I couldn't find it in the jumble of wires and parts beneath the cramped hood of the vehicle. We decided to press on, hoping to reach the Honda dealership in Pocatello before noon.

The verdant valleys of Idaho soon took our minds off the impending doom of total engine failure. The land seemed fertile and countless acres of happy farmland spread out in every direction.

"What do you suppose they grow here?" I asked.

"Beats me," said Caroline.

After a four-hour and costly delay in Pocatello—where we learned that our air conditioning unit had experienced a catastrophic failure and exploded into pieces, requiring replacement—we finally snapped as to what was in those farmlands.

Just off the interstate north of Pocatello, the tiny town of Blackfoot, Idaho, pays homage to Idaho's claim to fame and number one cash crop: the humble potato.

Here in this dwindling, forgotten little town, the Idaho Potato Museum provides travelers with all the ins and outs of the potato industry for a $3 admission fee, which also gives you access to the drinking fountain and restrooms and, as you leave, a free box of freeze-dried hash browns, or as they call it, "taters for out of staters." You don't find deals like that anymore these days, as every business we've encountered so far has put up hastily worded signs announcing various surcharges attributable to the rising cost of fuel.

But it's funny how things work out sometimes. We had puzzled for hundreds of miles over Caroline's uncharacteristic choice of adding Pringle's potato crisps to our road provisions. But here in Blackfoot, Idaho, in the back of the Idaho Potato Museum, we found on display the Mother of All Potato Crisps—a three foot diameter chip preserved under plexiglass. According to museum literature, the Pringle is reportedly the largest member of its kind in the world! We silently thanked Jesus for our good fortune, just as a godless pair of vacationing college students irreverently mocked the potato and all the good that had been wrought from it.

On our way out of Blackfoot, we witnessed one last tribute to the tasty potato. In front of Martha's Diner at the edge of town, a giant statue of Martha holding a big plate of French Fries like some glorious deep-fried bastardization of the Statue of Liberty stood tall and proud—a beacon of freedom and a fitting tribute to the glorious legacy of the Idaho potato. I had to pull over for a moment to let the tears dry in my eyes after witnessing the awesome beauty of monstrous Martha.

The road is full of discoveries and I can't wait to see what's cooking around the next corner.

See you on down the road!

Timing is everything!

2008-06-29T08:43:00.005-06:00

LOS ALAMOS, NM—There is great woe and gnashing of teeth these days about the rising costs of energy. People are making big changes to their lives. Up to a point.

Some people refuse to give up driving a block away to get groceries or snag a pack of cigarettes. Some people are reluctant to downsize their Megapickups into smaller, more fuel-efficient vehicles. We have refused to deprive ourselves of our annual road trip.

Silly us.

We hit the road the day crude oil—the backbone of the traditional American Road Trip—hit another historic high, topping $140 a barrel and guaranteeing that our budget for our asphalt odyssey would be busted right off the bat.

Though I have always been a fan of President Ulysses S. Grant, it's difficult to keep seeing his stern green-tinted mug every time I fill up. For those of you who have no idea what the hell I'm talking about, think two Jacksons and a Hamilton and a single salty tear running down your face as you withdraw the pump nozzle from the side of your car.

"Thank you, Sir, may I have another!" you squeal as the stark plank of reality blisters your buttocks again and again and again each time you view the familiar red, white and blue Exxon logo through a well of tears.

It's getting expensive to drive, yet the highways still seem choked with vehicles, mostly big ones. America must be filled with calloused asses these days, which is probably why Road Rage is at an all time high.

Unless you take the proper Counter Measures, that is.

After our first fill up, three hundred miles north of tiny Los Alamos, we began formulating a cost-containment plan to help recoup some of the stunning losses we would suffer while on the road this time around.

Just south of Dove Creek, Colo., we found ourselves in the heart of Pinto Bean Country. Here in this pastoral land, where traffic is light and the sun is high and bright, a person can walk right into a warehouse and walk out with a huge sack of beans, which is exactly what we did, further reducing the gas mileage of our vehicle, but ensuring that our next six months of meals would be thrifty and wholesome.

When we return from our travels, we will be as gassy as Saudi Arabia. But, alas, those are tales for another time. Right now we are focusing on getting some distance between us and the Land of Enchantment, so we are spending long hours on the road, listening to the monotonous rumble of rubber on asphalt.

As long as we can find WiFi and scrape together enough resources to bed down for the night in civilized locations, we will update you on our progress. The North holds much promise, and we intend to fully explore what it has to offer. So stay tuned and travel vicariously with us as we travel the highways and biways of a land where dusk doesn't end until 10 p.m. and the hillsides still have snow. That way you can travel without having to fill up!

See you on down the road.

The worst travel site ever

2008-02-04T21:35:00.000-07:00

BOMB TOWN, USA—So one day I get this email message from some site called TouristClick and the person on the other end says if I link to their site, they'll put a link to mine in their USA travel blog section.

"Sure, great!" I think.

So I put up the link. I even put it up with their stupid link logo. Then I wait and wait and wait and hear nothing back. Meantime, I notice the amount of SPAM I'm getting in my email picks up, so I'm starting to get that gnawing feeling that something's wrong—like those times when you were a kid and you gave some guy 40 bucks for a lid and he tells you he has to go around the corner to meet the guy to get it, so off he goes with your money and you wait, and wait and wait, and finally it dawns on you that he's never coming back and you're out 40 bucks.

Oh how we think we aren't that pathetically stupid anymore. But we are.

Turns out I go back and check this TouristClick site and sure enough, the blog isn't up on their list. In fact, their list of blogs has stayed the same since the last time I checked. Pretty strange for an up-and-coming travel site.

And then I notice in their "Travel Forum" section is an ad for travel porn—you know, people doing things in other countries that would be illegal here, yet freaks set up tours to go to these places so you can witness this stuff. Freaks! For my money, I'd rather be in Disneyland. If I want to see some kind of sick version of the flesh trade, Juarez is just a few hours drive away. (Don't forget your passport!)

Irritated that my site still isn't up, I get in touch with the TouristClick people and tell them they haven't put up my site. Pretty soon I get this email message back from some guy who goes by only a first name telling me that my site will be up as soon as I add their link to my site. Nevermind that I already have a link to their site—replete with the friggen stupid logo and everything. So I double check the link and it's fine. I wait a few more days.

Still nothing.

I go back to the site, and this time the "Travel Forum" is advertising unlocked iPhones for sale. Yeah, right. I'll buy two!

So, ladies and gentlemen, it looks like TouristClick is one of those click-mill outfits that thrives on some kind of advertising-by-the-click set up and classified ads from God knows what kind of shady characters.

I now avoid their site, but the amount of Russian SPAM I'm getting after corresponding with them to add my link is certainly impressive.

Still, the whole story doesn't have a dark ending. If you want some fun, click the link from this page and prepare yourself for a laugh.

Traveling can be fun!

The Wheel of Samsara

2007-09-27T06:38:00.000-06:00

LAS VEGAS, Nev.—Like ingredients in an unholy Mulligan Stew, where dissonant flavors are purposely dumped into a cauldron and set atop a smokey fire to simmer, an odd collection of humanity mingles in this strange town.

Along the railroad tracks to the North, ramshackle tents and piles of filth betray the wherabouts of squatters existing below the government radar of Income Tax and Social Security Withholdings; sugar babies with their nubile twenty-something bodies and come-hither smiles adorn the arms of upper-middle-aged high-rollers who have come to town to spend an off-the-record weekend away from their wives; corpulent couples in caftans and baggy Christian Dior shirts emerge from their mobile homes to ponder buffet offerings, taking notes and making comparisons as if each entree were artwork vying for a spot in a juried exhibit; and the Tony Soprano wannabes—with their Hawaiian shirts, cultivated sneers and overly eager disdain for anyone who doesn't look like them—are ubiquitous.

So how do you make Las Vegas even weirder than it already is?

Import a couple thousand bike geeks from all points of the compass for the bike industry's largest annual tradeshow and set them loose in a big convention hall just off The Strip.

Interbike 2007 is a gear-head's dream! All the biggies are here: Fox Racing Shox, Sram components, Shimano, Clif Bar, WTB, Campagnolo. If it can fit on a bike or a bike rider, or something having to do with bikes, you'll find it stuffed in the overwhelming maze of booths crammed inside the Sands Convention Center.

Thousands of bike fanatics will wander these floors for three days. Shop owners looking for the latest and greatest product to help them get an edge on the competition, industry insiders looking to keep up with the competition, bike journalists not wanting to get scooped by the competition are all here. The Bike Industry is in a state of Perfect Compeition, said bike industry analyst Jay Townley, a statistics guru who spoke to a packed house of retailers on Wednesday.

For the past eight years, the bike industry has not kept pace with the U.S. economy. Profits are not growing appreciably, and in the past 14 years, the number of bike riders has declined by 23 million participants, shrinking to an all-time low of 36 million people.

Nevertheless, enthusiasm for the sport seems high. At least inside the Sands. In addition to all the staple products—frames, derailleurs, wheels, brakes, suspended forks and rear shock absorbers—entire lines of periphery products are on display as if bicycling were some kind of growth industry.

At the Incredibell booth, the company displayed a huge and colorful line of products that can be mounted on the handlebars to announce the arrival of a bike. Some of these contraptions let out a pleasing tinkle when twisted or struck with a thumb, but for the more organic person, a wooden variety let loose with tone similar to a woodpecker drumming on the shingles outside of your house.

Like the patent medicine shows of old, one booth offered a product guaranteed to clear up road rash in seven to 10 days. The proprietor offered his arm as proof, pointing to a fading patch of barely reddened, hairless flesh.

People have come from all over the world to this affair. When I tried photograph some fine looking components spread out on a table, a harried Asian booth attendant scrambled over and pushed my camera aside.

“Please, no photograph,” she said.

I pointed to my press pass.

“Please, no photograph,” she said cheerily.

“You don’t want any publicity?” I asked.

“Please, no photograph,” she smiled.

Here I was at the biggest bicycle product demo in the nation and apparently I had stumbled upon the Forbidden Fruit.

"What the hey?" I muttered to myself, scratching my temple.

She positioned herself between me and the gear like a guard dog. Her smile was more disarming than a growl. I was tempted to find one of the Sopranos hanging out in the BMX section of the show and dispatch him with a camera just to see what would happen. The thought passed quickly when a new bike caught my eye.

The big buzz of the day was at the Pivot booth. The bike is Chris Cocalis’ newest offering, a four- or five-inch travel machine with a manufacturer’s suggested price tag ranging from $3,600 to $5,700. This ain’t your grandpappy’s Schwinn.

The Sands is awash in other offerings, but I’m not sure how much more I can take. The best thing about bikes is riding them, and I’ve got a serious two-day bike jones going on after being cooped up here in Sin City for the past couple of days.

Yeah, Interbike is full of really cool stuff to drool over, but in the end, when it all comes down to it, it ain’t about the bike anyway.

Unless you happen to look like Tony Soprano.

Oddly displaced

2007-09-25T11:31:00.000-06:00

LAS VEGAS, NV—Vegas, baby!

What a weird place. And, ironically, I feel strangely out of place. There are no real clowns here, not even in the Circus-Circus casino, nor is there any actual clown college—just an abandoned Post Office box belonging to some kind of Clown-College diploma mill. My dream of becoming a Ph.D'd Wizard of Wit has disappeared like white face-paint in the path of a cold-cream dipped cotton ball. Who is there to pick up the pieces when a clown cries, I wonder?

I hear only silence from an empty theater.

I guess there's always alcohol. And there seems to be plenty in this town. All you have to do is pretend to be feeding a slot machine, and women with boobs heaving out over the tops of their blouses thrust a drink in your hand. This is the American Dream, I suppose.

A few days ago we were driving monotonously through the backroads of Utah under gray watery skies on our way to Kanab, the gateway to Zion National Park. The day was dim, but despite the bad lighting, the colorful rocks and sands lit the way along Highway 89 like flourescent paint on a blacklight poster in downtown Haight-Ashbury during the height of the Summer of Love. Okay, so maybe that's a little bit of hyperbole, but after spending 24 hours in Vegas, everything seems a little large than life.

Out on the road to Kanab we passed a literal hole in the rock known as Moqui Cave. Sadly, this classic tourist trap was closed when we passed by (nowadays the "New Morality" of our nation apparently has kept even hardened Gyp-Joint owners from fleecing travelers out of 12 bucks on a Sunday).

Disappointed by our luck, we got back on the highway toward Kanab when something caught our eye across the road. An abandoned Tourist Trap cave dating back to the Golden Days of Travel in the 1950s sat overgrown and unused in the pouring rain. At the now-closed entrance stood an authentic looking Aztec rock-carved totem. A grown-over sign at the top of the cliff said something about Moctezuma, as if the place had been called Moctezuma's Cave or something like that.

In fact, here in Johnson Canyon, some people apparently believe Montezuma's treasure lies buried. Had I known that this might have been the resting place of the fiersome warrior-King's golden booty, I might have gone diving in the pond next to the carving; I certainly wouldn't have gotten any wetter than I did just standing outside in the rain snapping a photo.

The stone carving seemed strangely incongrous to the rest of the Anglo landscape nearby, and here in Las Vegas, I am that statue—big, ungainly and out-of-place. Yesterday we wandered around the Venetian for about an hour looking for a place to eat, getting pecked at by tuxedo-clad sales geese urging us to purchase nights of free entertainment from them at kiosks that had been erected around every bend.

I grabbed one such sweet old woman by the cheeks, pulled her close to me, planted a kiss on her kindly wrinkled face and said, "can't you just help me find a place to eat? I'm about to collapse into a diabetic low!"

We found ourselves at Wolfgang Puck's restaurant nearly immediately. Three thoughts about this place: Good food, tiny portions, huge prices. That's Vegas, baby!

Later that evening we watched the fountains at the Bellagio and prowled around. I watched the dumpiest looking man I had ever seen win $60,000 with the single roll of the dice.

Where did this man get the stakes to wager money for that kind of payoff in the first place, I wondered? But I didn't pursue that answer very far; its logic can only take a person down the kind of unsavory road of possibilities that even I'm hesitant to travel. That's Vegas, baby!

They have nice plants and things at the Bellagio, and I hate to admit that I was actually somewhat taken by this modern-day Tourist Trap. I guess in a town dominated by facades and fakery, actual vegetation held a strange calming appeal for me. They had even planted real pine trees on the walkway next to Las Vegas Boulevard at the fountain-viewing area. The trees all looked healthy, except for one, which seemed to be showing signs of drought stress, despite its location next to an artificial oasis of dancing water.

I read this morning that President George W. Bush didn't attend a United Nations Conference on Global Warming, and that only The Govinator, California's Arnold Schwartzenegger, was left to show the world that maybe someone in the United States is concerned about the future of the planet's climate.

Here in Las Vegas people seem unconcerned about such things, and you can bet there won't be any clamor to do anything about Global Warming until places like the Bellagio or the Venetian start to see its effects on their bottom lines. Then you can place a chip on the Pass Line that someone will start lobbying our national leaders to do something.

As the old saying goes, "What's good for business" ...

Send in the clowns.

Goofin' on Gooseberry

2007-09-24T05:57:00.000-06:00

ST. GEORGE, UT—A long, long time ago I had a philosophy professor who gave us a simple phrase to chant for a spiritual awakening:

AWA TEGO SIAM

The good doctor told us that if we carefully spoke the phrase, over and over, faster and faster, we would get in touch with our true self. It worked.

The skies were cold and gray over St. George, Utah, and the nasty cold I thought I was starting to shake had crept over me during the night with a vengeance. It's terrible to wake up sick in a strange bed far from home. But it's even worse to go exploring a strange town while bound up in the grip of infirmity. So after tasting the hotel's "Deluxe" continental breakfast—with its lack of protein or any warm entree—I crawled back in bed, burrowing under the covers, hoping that things would be different next time I emerged.

It worked.

A few hours later the sun was up and warm and breakfast at the Bearpaw Coffee restaurant in western St. George, one of few non-chain eateries open here on Sunday, provided us with fine Belgian Waffles, perfectly poached eggs and a rasher of bacon. The resulting hit of cholesterol bound up many of the viruses coursing through my body and killed them with toxic efficiency.

In no time we were on the road and backtracking toward Hurricane, Utah. This sleepy little town is undergoing the ravages of tract development. Once-vacant fields located in the shadows of the striped red hills nearby are choked with cookie cutter residences; trophy homes have sprung up on the hillsides like mushrooms after a week of rains. In a few years the old Hurricane will hardly be recognizable if things keep going at this rate.

For those not in the know, Hurricane (pronounced Hurr-ah-can by the locals) is the gateway to Gooseberry Mesa, one of those still-mostly "undiscovered" mountain biking destinations sprinkled throughout this great nation of ours. Undiscovered isn't really the right word. Gooseberry has been fawned over and hyped up in nearly every bicycling publication on the planet. Everyone who's anyone on a bike has ridden Gooseberry Mesa. Nevertheless, because of its remote location away from established civilization, the trails are uncrowded and have not yet witnessed the horrible mob scenes of Moab and Fruita—the Disneylands of Dirt.

But that's all about to change. Troy Rarick, hailed by many as "the driving force" behind Fruita and proprietor of that community's famous bike shop, Over the Edge Sports, has set up his newest shop in Hurricane, Utah. Tucked in a prime location just off of Main Street on the winding road out of town toward Gooseberry, Rarick's new shop hasn't opened yet, but already Rarick is courtin' the crowds with social gatherings and group rides offered to sojourners on their way to Las Vegas for Interbike—the bike industry's annual trade show.

Rarick's people had already made it to the trailhead by the time we arrived at Gooseberry, during the late afternoon on the Autumnal Equinox, where the lighting was spectacular and the temperature perfect. Up here at this vantage point, you could actually feel North America slipping into a new season.

In the Old Days, that kind of Earthy talk could get you burned for Witchery. But feeling the perfect frequency of the spectrum piercing my flesh and rejuvinating my Common-Cold-ravaged body, I understand now why the Earth Worshipers and Wiccans perform their ceremonies at key times of the years like this one.

The day certainly worked magic on my bike handling skills and I found myself defying gravity and floating around the dirt and slickrock like I actually knew what the hell I was doing. Riding Gooseberry Mesa on this perfect day, I found myself chanting my professor's famous phrase over and over, undulating over the rocks with a big, stupid grin on my face. Out here, with no ski lifts to shuttle people to the top of the mountain for a rippin' ride back down, it's pure cross-country pleasure. At the end of the Mesa, the whole world opens right up in front of you in crimson splendor, and the valley below is mercifully free of the carbon-copy tile roofs that seem to dominate much of the urban landscape elsewhere.

Years from now, assuming cross-country mountain biking maintains its appeal, these trails probably won't be as silent and solitary as they are now. They will probably become a Theme Park attraction like their older cousins to the east. Let's hope they retain their magic.

A tricky situation

2007-09-22T22:09:00.000-06:00

PAGE, AZ—As Friday evening waned in Page, AZ, a change in the weather brought a change of plans. For years we had talked about riding the fabled Thunder Mountain Trail, and this trip to Las Vegas would give us the chance.

We had planned to awaken at the Crack Of Dawn, the most fearsome of all of the major orifices, where squinty, crusty-eyed crabbiness, bad breath and no breakfasts are sure to dwell in the sleepy pre-dawn half-light. We were to drive 150 miles through this unsatisfying realm between light and darkness to hit the trail just after Sunrise.

Instead, the Weather Channel informed us that some kind of freak low pressure system was roaring out of California with 50 million gallons of moisture in tow. It was making a beeline toward Thunder Mountain and drowning everything in its path. The thought of becoming stranded in a thick soup of red earth far away from civilization in itself was not enough to make us think twice about possibly abandoning our dream. We've ridden wet and cold and unprepared before, and when it comes to being fools, we excel when we need to.

No, the coup de grace for our little plan actually was the increasingly miserable onset of a terrible cold I had acquired from a co-worker—one of those people who would not take the day off if he were dying of the bubonic plague. It's people like him who will turn the Bird Flu into a pandemic when the time comes. He will show up to work to open doors and rummage through community files with boogery fingers that constantly wipe a nose set firmly against the grindstone.

As a compulsive handwasher and germophobe, I'm usually the one who misses whatever office malady happens to be sweeping through. But I must have slipped up somewhere. In a big way. Whatever I had contracted was making up for two illness-free years just when I finally had some time off, and now it was tormenting me in a hotel room far away from home.

To say I felt like crap was an understatement. My nose had turned into a leaky faucet, my ears were plugged to the point where it sounded as if everyone were talking to me underwater. It felt like someone had taken an S.O.S Pad to my throat and tonsils. The thought of slogging around in the pouring rain in infirmity seemed not only stupid, but just no fun. We aborted our Thunder Mountain game plan and opted instead to linger here in the midst of Navajo Country for a couple extra hours of sleep and a test of the Rim Trail in the city of Page the next morning.

The hotel clock-radio blared 80's Hair Metal at 7 a.m. Ratt, Quiet Riot and Poison are not your friends at this tender hour of the morning, so they were hastily banished with the snooze bar. Alice Cooper would not suffer the same indignity, so I rolled out of bed and pushed the brew button on the thimble-sized coffee maker that had been placed in our room for our convenience.

In the hotel lobby, the entire country of Germany had converged to eat Free Continental Breakfast before enjoying what was to be a big day at Lake Powell. We carbo-loaded with German precision, eliciting nods of approval from our new-found friends.

A few minutes later we were at the Rim trailhead and riding just above the McDonald's, where a stream of cars were stalled in the Drive-Thru waiting for portions of Supersized Death. Some of the occupants in cars below pointed and stabbed at us with eyes full of scorn. The trail was not well marked, so we nervously wondered which way to go, not keen on standing around to suffer more indignities from the Fast Food crowd.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a Native American woman appeared on a Wal-Mart bike with a shiny kickstand. She rode unsteadily up to us, dismounted and panted.

"Hurry! Hurry! This way!" she stammered breathlessly.

"Is this the way to the rim trail," I asked?

"Follow me!" she said.

And off she went, maneuvering her peculiarly shiny bike off the path and toward the road. She crossed the street, barely missing a speeding pickup truck.

"This way! This way!" she beckoned.

We followed. On the other side of the road a plastic sign post indicated the trail route. Just around a corner, an ancient Native American man sat in the dirt by the side of the trail with a beer, grinning with two front teeth.

"This way!" called the siren.

The old man's eyes twinkled as he looked up at us on our bikes, with our helmets and Spandex. He pointed at the woman and urged us to go. I heard him laughing as we went, but he didn't use the laugh of a drunk. It was the laugh of a wise man.

Unsettled, I hesitated and looked ahead on the trail at our scrambling guide, who was straddling the top tube and walking her bike at a blistering pace. She made a hard left off a small sidewalk and I followed. I was on the ground before I knew what had happened. The turn dropped off into a ditch lined with soft sand. I picked up my bike and brushed myself off and the strange woman was gone.

Seconds later another pair of cyclists appeared. They told us we were going the wrong way and that we should follow them to the Rim Trail.

"We were following that lady the other way," I said.

"What lady?" they asked with sincere puzzlement.

When we tried to follow our new guides, my bike wouldn't shift. A terrible clatter issued from the rear of the machine and the pedals would not turn easily. Close inspection revealed that my derailleur hanger was bent from the ridiculously slow tumble I had taken moments earlier. Luckily I had a spare.

As we changed it, I heard the old man on the trail nearby softly singing native songs to himself. Each time I looked up at him, he pointed at me and laughed.

We finally rode the Rim Trail and enjoyed spectacular views of Lake Powell, but I couldn't shake the thought that the mysterious woman from earlier in the morning was not of this Earth, but rather was a being who dwelled in the Crack Between the Worlds, a Trickster who had come to complicate our day.

"Naw," I finally said to myself, settling the question in my mind once and for all.

Then I heard a small hiss and felt a shudder rising up through the frame of the bicycle as we made it back to the McDonalds to complete our seven-mile, out-and-back ride. Both of my tires were flatter than the light dominating the reddish landscape. Close inspection revealed a fistfull of goat head stickers in the tread.

"That's really weird," said Caroline. "I don't have a single sticker in my tires. Where did you pick those up?"

Somewhere in the Crack Between the Worlds, I reckon.

Natural gas and gray aliens

2007-09-21T22:04:00.000-06:00

AZTEC, NM—The approach of the Vernal Equinox brings a sense of urgency to go out and finish up all the unfinished summer business floating around out there. And this is precisely why we jumped into the car and hauled ass north for one more week of riding and fun before the onset of the pre-winter clampdown—with its early darkness and cooler-than-comfortable temperatures that force unrealized summer aspirations to be mothballed for another year.

This week we find ourselves on the road meandering toward Las Vegas, where I am endeavoring to spend a week in Clown College as a hedge against potential unemployment. The world needs more clowns. It is a lost art, and most of today's painted-faced gypsies are using their makeup to hide from law enforcement officials or leg-breakers looking to recover lost debt.

As such, I will make sure my chosen Clown Name—a moniker bestowed upon initiates by their mentors during the the sacred right of passage into Clowndom—has never been used by any former Clown felon or idler. I intend to make clowning an honest profession again. Like George W. Bush said, I will restore dignity to the Big Top.

It seemed natural that our first stop along the way would be an alleged UFO crash site. We haphazardly threw an enormous load of crap into the vehicle as we beat a hasty retreat from the Atomic City as darkness fell. It was on Highway 550 that we first noticed the headlight malfunction. An attempt to switch on the lowbeams plunged the vehicle into total darkness, never a good thing when you're out on unfamiliar, rain-slicked roads. So we endured the rest of the trip with every on-coming semi truck blasting us with high-beams that slashed their way through the veil of night and smashed into our retinas like lasers.

We arrived at the Back Off Inn in Aztec, NM, just before midnight. The victorian lace and wallpaper gave the place the feel of a haunted house and we slept fitfully between the slightly yellowed sheets. Mercifully we were not visited by silent apparitions or unexplained raps or knocks on the walls, other than an ominous torrent that chattered its way down a pipe behind the walls from the upstairs occupant's chamber pot.

The next morning we feasted on the Inn's signature hot, fresh cinnamon rolls. Our guidebook had crowed about homemade sugar-n-spice, but our breakfast consisted of microwaved Enteman's and strong Farmer Brother's coffee served on metal outdoor patio furniture that had been crammed inside the establishment's parlor (or "parlour" in the Victorian parlance that permeated the inn like an omnipresent potpourri).

Aztec, NM, is oil and gas country. You can smell it in the air, though not as obviously as in Bloomfield down the road. The air is rank with the sulphurous odor of money. Pumps are sprinkled liberally throughout the sage, bobbing up and down like giant grasshoppers, slurping valuable petrochemicals from the soft, gray Earth.

On a bluff above Hart Canyon a few miles from the edge of town, the drone of the pumps is drown out by whispers of conspiracy. Legend speaks of a flying saucer crash on this unlikely patch of ground back in 1948. The huge UFO reportedly carried more than a dozen little gray aliens in shiny silver suits. The lifeless bodies of these extraterrestrials were strewn across the crash site.

Locals say the government clandestinely cleaned up the mess using trucks disguised as oil and gas vehicles. It is rumored that the craft, among the largest ever recovered, was spirited away to Los Alamos National Laboratory for study, the alien corpses moved to Wright-Patterson in Ohio. Local folklore says the background radiation at the site is slightly higher than surrounding areas.

I don't know about all that, but what I do know, is the Alien Crash Site sure is a good place to ride a bike!

Several years ago a couple of locals, Al and Deral Saiz, scraped a trail into the forbidding landscape that heaves its way over long ledges of slickrock, twists its way through tight stands of piñon and juniper trees, and winds its way around the very site of the crash. A simple marker with a home-made plaque describes the mysterious events of 1948.

As I rode through the area, ducking low-hanging limbs and dodging around tight corners with branches that grabbed at me like alien fingers, I tried to imagine the implications of an alien crash. Well, not actually. I was concentrating really hard on the excellent trail. Round smooth rocks made navigation and control a constant challenge, and the plethora of low-hanging limbs along the route made decapitation an ever-looming possibility for a big guy like me. I have to suppose that the Saiz brothers are of short stature, else they would have trimmed these branches after getting bonked in the head for the umpteenth time along the route.

I expect that if the Aliens were chasing me in this landscape, I'd end up sporting the rectal probe. On this tight track through trees, a giant like me can only manuever so quickly. Three-foot-tall aliens could ramble through the brambles like Munchkins hopped up on methamphetamine if human prey were nearby, although the preponderance of branches might pose a hazard for their huge, staring almond-shaped eyes if the gauntlet were thrown down. Maybe I'd escape after all and the little bugggers would be left staggering around with dripping eye sockets and tender feet accustomed only to soft Martian soil bristling with cactus prickles.

After the ride we enjoyed a fine sandwich at the Main Street Bistro in downtown Aztec. The area is enjoying a resurgance. A local group is carving in a set of new trails and Main Street has been redone with period lamps to entice tourists for a weekend or an afternoon or even a short alien visit.

Hours later, after driving through some of the prettiest, lonliest country out here in the West, we ended up in Page, AZ, stepping off place for all procurers of houseboats for a week's vacation at Lake Powell. The Glen Canyon Dam made recreation possible for herds of drunks, and I celebrated this achievement with an interpretive dance on the red rocks high above the water at sunset.

Clown College grows nearer and I can already sense its energy—like flying saucer residue pulsing softly in the desert.

The Sushi Barge

2007-09-01T10:46:00.000-06:00

Yeah, I love raw fish.

I gave up trout fishing a long time ago because my friends were always horrified to watch me snatch up a freshly caught rainbow, bash its little head on a rock and then bite off a huge hunk right there at stream side—chewing with my mouth open while fish juice ran down my chin. It was such a disturbing display that one buddy even took to calling me Smeagol, and this was long before Peter Jackson ever made The Lord of the Rings popular.

Just to be clear, I didn't do backflips on the rocks and sing fish songs after gnawing on some fresh catch or anything like that. But in these modern days, people get turned off by such atavistic displays. Here in robust America, with its ample waistlines and fingertip conveniences, there is no need to gnaw on raw fish, unless such is purchased at a reputable restaurant in the heart of civilized country.

Having said that, I have a very loose definition of what passes for civilization, and if I had to swear, I'd say I am on the fence of assigning that label to Pinetop-Lakeside, a community in Arizona's White Mountains that hosts a strange mix of the ultra-rich and total down-and-outers. This is a community of no middle class. This is a playground for Phoenix power brokers with second homes or a place where a largely industrial class of people hang their thread-bare hats on pegs hammered into the prefabricated walls of trailers tucked here and there in the woods.

But away from these trophy homes and shotgun shacks, we stumbled upon an excellent sushi restaurant here, far away from salt water and skilled commercial fisherman.

At the Kabuki restaurant—established by the same entrepreneur who reportedly brought the Goodwill Games to America—you can order the sushi "boat," described as being a meal for two. If you're in the White Mountains riding bikes with the same fervor as mosquitos have for feasting on the flesh of the warm-blooded, and you happen to stumble into the Kabuki, who are you to argue with the suggestion of ordering the signature entreé, particularly after downing a couple of Japanese beers?

The meal arrived in an actual boat—a three-foot galleon swamped to the yard arm in all manner of fresh fish and seafood. An entire Aji lay posed at the bow, expertly cut and ready for eatin'. One look at the little buggger's glassy eyes and fishy face, and I was ready for some backflips and head bashing. I let out a little screech and the other diners looked up with alarm.

The waiter assured me the delicious fish was already dead, so no tabletop whacking was necessary, and the entire restaurant breathed a sigh of relief.

In all, our schooner held about 10 pounds of sushi and sashimi, and the only offering that was a little too hardcore for our sensibilities was an entire tempura-ed shrimp head, whiskers and all, that laughed at us from atop his cushion of sticky rice.

Still, this far inland, in such a strange backward locale, a small hint of doubt lingered in the back of my mind that our feast would mutiny the next morning and we'd find ourselves doubled over the chamber pots instead of out on the trails. However, a quick taste of the banquet and the total absence of fishy flavor made me instantly realize that this food had been prepared by professionals and was fantastically fresh.

Indeed, our order was accompanied by the owner, who seemed interested in finding out who had ordered the house special. One look at our ruffled appearance and empty beer glasses, and he was instantly satisfied that we weren't millionaires or real-estate developers worth knowing beyond a warm smile and a genuine "Bon Appetit."

The next day on our ride, we rocked along the trails with sushi legs that allowed us to squirm though the technical sections like engergized salmon through a rocky stream bottom at the height of spawning season. We had boundless energy and we beat the rains. A beautiful rainbow descended from the clouds and we were glad to be alive.

Our tour through dusty ranching country on two wheels was a stark contrast to the fancy Kabuki restaurant the day before. But here in these mountains, we've grown accustomed to contrasts, and we look forward to them like bites of fine cold sashimi in a realm of stocktanks roiling with warm brackish waters.

At the edge of civilization

2007-08-29T21:53:00.000-06:00

Our days in the White Mountains so far have been a blur of bike trails and restaurant meals; the trails are far better than the food!

There are miles of singletrack trails crisscrossing the thick forests up here. And while Phoenix swelters away at about 110-degress for the past few days, temperatures up here have hovered in the low 80s at their hottest. We've even had a little bit of rain to keep the trails nice and sticky.

So far we've logged nearly 70 miles of rides, the best one so far this afternoon. It was touch and go for a minute. We got a late start and needed to secure some supplies to fix a mechanical issue with one of the bikes, so by the time we got to the trailhead, big cumulonimbus thunder boomers were roiling up over the hills a short distance away. The roll of distant thunder pounded steady in the distance, like a drum beat keeping time for weary oarsman on a slave ship tossing in uncertain seas.

We hammered as best we could in an attempt to outflank the approaching storm, but the trail—an 18-inch wide ribbbon of dirt winding pleasantly through meadow and aspen stand—suddenly began to climb. Its smooth and friendly character transformed itself into a jarring journey up a ladder of sharp chickenheads (an annoying scatter of rocks that are smaller than "babyheads" for those unfamiliar with the peculiar parlance of the mountain biker). The trek might not have been as daunting had we had fresh legs, but the 30-mile epic ride the day before had taken its toll, and our legs felt like al dente pasta with each stroke of the pedal.

We watched the skies warily, wondering whether we would hit the bail-out point halfway through the trail before the lightning bolts began.

Luckily, we stayed one step ahead of the storm, skirting by it and then heading away from it as the trail mellowed and later provided us with some of the most rippin' downhill sections of the week. All this after meandering through fields of fern and oak that had been woven into the rich forest tapestry of Ponderosa Pine, aspen and fir.

This is fine country up here. It seems that some sections of the forest were ravaged by fire years ago and have been reborn into the kind of roomy forest that allows a generous amount of sunlight to pass through the tree canopies and energize the forest floor into a lush living carpet of brilliant color and texture.

All of this is cast upon a landscape of ancient volcanic rock. In some areas, trails and forest roads are covered with pea sized rust-colored cinder that crunches under the tires and makes a rider wonder whether the wheels will wash out around the next switchback.

In other areas, sections of cruel pock-marked babyheads force you to uncouple from your bicycle and dance above the seat with hands and feet light on the bars and pedals as the machine below bucks and heaves its way toward the next brief smooth section. With the slightly red cast of the soil and the abundance of rock, I imagined how it must be to mountain bike on Mars if such a thing were possible.

Up here the skies are a brilliant blue, rivalling the vistas of New Mexico, and it seems like these mountains are blessed with life-giving moisture. The mosquitos certainly have flourished, and our rides only commence after we have slathered ourselves in an unsavory chemical bath of SPF 30 sunscreen and 100 percent DEET.

We have tested this mixture for the past several days under the harshest conditions of sweat and dirt, and we can attest that neither chemical affects the performance of the other when used simultaneously. Were it not for sunscreen, we would fry like bacon during the long daily rides we have endured, and if we had not packed the DEET, our flesh would be as raw and bumpy as some of the sections of trail we have mastered. Any breather out here brings clouds of mosquitos that hover just out of range of the DEET molecules we exude.

This is life as we have discovered it out here on the Mogollon Rim—where the Colorado Plateau abdicates its majesty to the Basin and Range below. It is a marvelous place at the edge of civilization, but it seems as though people are trying as hard as they can to "civilize" the area with asphalt and tract developments. Wherever possible, realtors and developers are cramming houses together in every nook and cranny, whether that be on the site of a former wetland or within the migratory routes of great herds of elk.

As odd and ridiculous as it seems, developers are making big bucks carving gated communities into the middle of the wilderness here. Perhaps the city folk from Phoenix find comfort in the knowledge that their vacation home is walled off from surrounding acres of open space by a six-foot-high iron fence. This to us is pointless and weird. But apparently it sells; these gated communities have very few vacancies even with their abundance of smallish half-million-dollar pricetag homes that are used but a few weeks each year.

Fences may keep prowlers out, but they don't segregate humanity from things like the species of tiny toad we came across today on our ride, or from the thimble-sized vole that peeped up at us from just beyond the edge of the trail as we rode by. But people who hide behind fences in the middle of the woods don't keep their eye out for things like that anyway. At night in those sections of forest, pockets of trees are illuminated by the light of plasma-screen televisions blaring out through barred window panes.

Meanwhile, far away and too tired to care, we sleep like exhausted kittens after a wild day of nonstop play.

The Elephant Burial Ground

2007-08-27T10:03:00.000-06:00

We are staying in a tomb.

This was not intentional. A brush with good fortune some time back allowed us to secure accommodations in an RCI time-share "resort" anyplace in the world for next to nothing. However, the lateness of the season narrowed our potential world view significantly, and by the time it was all said and done, we ended up choosing a location in what probably could be characterized as the most undesirable time-share vacation location in the world.

We are staying in the farthest corner of the time-share universe—a purgatory for penalizing all the late planners and procrastinators, or the suckers who don't really understand the nuances of wheeling and dealing for trade-ups to better locations.

There was plenty of space here in the White Mountains by the time our time-share opportunity arose. We are where nobody wants to be.

It seems time-share vacationers opt for places with access to beaches and casinos and parasailing and shopping. These jetsetters—with their one precious week a year to spend in pursuit of leisure—opt for locales where beautiful people don't mind showing off their tanned and ripped torsos during the hottest part of the day, where friendly bartenders have perfected the craft of whipping up good strong drinks garnished with fine sweet fruit and paper umbrellas.

Here in the White Mountains, there are big stands of Ponderosa Pine forests for as far as the eye can see. The sky is quiet and dark at night and the nearest shopping is a Family Dollar store five miles down the road. In their resort brochure, the RCI marketing folks admonished that a "car is necessary to enjoy the region's amenities," many of which are located "less than a six-hour drive away." We are in the middle of the forest in the middle of nowhere.

There are no casinos, no beaches. People walk around fully clothed at all times, and the median age of resort dwellers here must be about 75 years old. The tap water is impeccably good tasting, pumped up from an ancient aquifer that is untainted by the ravages of civilization and industrial processes.

For us, this place is perfect. We are enjoying ourselves immensely and we have no plans to drive anywhere. The White Mountains are rich with biking trails and we have spent the past two days enjoying singletrack trails that range from smooth cruisers to shockingly technical grinds over tire-ravaging lava rock. Our legs are already tired but we are still looking forward to riding a 30-plus-mile epic later this week.

In some respects, vacationing here is a lot like vacationing in The Atomic City—with "nothing to do" and "no place to shop"—so we feel close to home. The nearby Apache tribe has even erected a fine cheesey casino just twenty minutes away by car, as if a Pojoaque Pueblo Déja Vù had been placed here just for us.

But what of the others who have come here? We have little information, other than that they seem to be very old. The resort's common area is uncrowded by people and the place has very little buzz. There are puzzles out on the tables in the atrium that seem to get assembled a little more each day by the gray ghosts who have come here this week to populate this old tomb of a resort.

People of this age demographic eat dinner early, and the restaurants in town are standing room only from 5 until 6:30 p.m. Then the town empties out like one of those spooky Midwestern hamlets where the locals engage in unspeakable rituals to guarantee a favorable harvest next year.

Last night we awoke to the sound of thumping as we tried to sleep off the stupor of a days' worth of riding. A new set of Blue Hairs had arrived. Night creatures. A different breed from what has been here so far.

We will be watching them—like Fort Lauderdale residents wary of Spring Break interlopers.

Spirit of the Trail!

2007-08-25T15:03:00.000-06:00

Ahh, the road!

Getting away has been an obsession of this nation, particularly in the West—where scoundrels and pioneers alike found solace on the trails. These days asphalt replaces the bumpy wagon ruts that guided our forefathers and their familes to Manifest Destiny. But some of the same routes remain despite the ravages of time and progress.

Here in Springerville, Ariz., they've erected a monument to all those hardy souls who've journeyed one place or another in search of fortune and glory. Next to the main drag through town, one of a handful of "Madonnas of the Trail" commemorates the pioneering spirit. The statue—a woman with a baby on her breast and a young boy clinging to her skirt—stands next to another modern marvel: the Home of the Big Mac!

Here, food pioneer Ray Kroc perfected a process in which Americans could eat the same-tasting food no matter where they were on the road. Unfortunately, the road that Ray paved was an express route to heart disease, diabetes and obesity—hardships for an affulent nation. These plagues came at a time when Marketing Geniuses were successful in convincing a fun-starved nation that food was entertainment.

Broken axles, diptheria and starvation hobbled the progress of a growing nation after throngs of people were urged to "Go West, Young Man" by Horace Greeley in 1865. But these travails pale in comparison to the ravages of modern convenience suffered by a Fast Food Nation. More time at work, less time in the kitchen: the benefits of a highly modern society. We work to put food on the table, no matter what form. More is better. We are a Super-Sized, Super-Charged society on the move. Except nobody's walking anymore.

The McDonna of the Trail stands as a mute reminder of a time when self-reliance was the key to prosperity, not warmed-over meat patties served to the microwaved masses.

And so, fellow travelers, once again I have fled the cities for a taste of the the wild and a cloak of solitude. Here in the White Mountains of Arizona we will smell the vanilla essence of ponderosa pine forest and savor the sticky darkness of the night sky, which coats the world like molasses after the sun has bid the day adieu.

We have secured a housesitter and pinch-workers to take care of matters in our absence and we will be reporting on our progress here as providence and whimsy allow. Perhaps we will learn a thing or two—even in this age when everyone seems to know everything about everything.

The trail ahead beckons. See you on down the road.

Try out this Swell New Blog!

2006-02-05T22:08:00.000-07:00

You can check out my swell new blog here!

It's guaranteed to STINK! Peeeeee Eeeewwww....

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity-Jig!

2005-10-09T14:26:00.000-06:00

Our good fortune in skirting bad weather ran out when we returned home to the Atomic City. After spending the past two weeks in balmy temperatures—upper 90s in Las Vegas and Scottsdale, high 80s through Utah and even upper 70s at home when we left—we found upon our return that the Polar Express had moved into town and rolled out a chilly welcome mat for us. We found the interior of the house cooler than the outside air.

We also found a very happy little dog waiting for us. Our faithful companion has reached 109 in Dog Years, so every good day is a cause for celebration. Though Caroline and I did not talk about it on the road, I think each of us privately worried a little bit in the back of our minds about the possibility of returning to an empty house. But not this time. When we walked inside, the elderly cur gave us a good scolding after giving us a good sniffing just to reconfirm that we were indeed her masters and not merely a doggie hallucination or cleverly disguised intruders. In truth, I think we missed her more than she missed us. But she was starved for a walk and we wasted no time in getting her out on the trails. As we walked, her nose catalogued a whole host of new smells that had appeared on the trail during the past two weeks and she made the walk as if everything was new and this was her first time in a foreign land.

Returning home is always bittersweet. Returning home means mowing the lawn and loading the washer with piles and piles of laundry. A homecoming also means that work is just a day or so away and there obviously will be plenty to do. But homecomings also remind you that you have a place in the world, some stability, a home base. When we stick around home too much, we tend to take this fact for granted, forgetting what life could be like if we didn't have anywhere to go or any connection to any community anywhere. Without connections, we would be apparitions—like the ones we try to ignore, the ones haunting boxes and heating grates in the inner cities or holding up cardboard signs at intersections and parking lots in Everytown, USA.

We were pleased to find a bounty of produce waiting for us in our garden upon our return, and we feasted with gusto, thankful that for the first time in a fortnight the evening dinner was not road food.

Some people have asked why we prefer road trips to other means of travel. There are many reasons, but I like to think that a journey on the road is preferable because of the connection you get with the land and its people. You can't have the chance to check out a roadside marker or stop for a slice of pie when you're humming along at 35,000 feet; you can't roll down the window and smell what's outside when your traveling in a pressurized cabin; you can't stretch your legs or make the decision to take the scenic route to an out-of-the-way town when your points of departure and arrival are booked and locked in two weeks beforehand and include only major airline hubs. For me, the destination isn't what a trip is all about; it's how we got there and what we found along the way that matters. I believe we lose a little bit of our humanity with each Frequent Flyer mile we log. But that's just one man's opinon. Feel free to disagree as you breath your recirculated air and gnaw on your thimbleful of peanuts. Me? I'll take the scenic route and a piece of Pie-Town pie every time.

See you on down the road.

Last Chance for Pie!

2005-10-08T07:25:00.000-06:00

Scottsdale is always warm. At least it's been warm every time we've been there. While the weather in the Atomic City hovered in the 60s, Caroline and I basked in the warmth of mid-90 degree temperatures. An early morning round of golf at Legend Trail Golf Club on the outskirts of northern Scottsdale was just the ticket. We had chosen the course because it had advertised itself as one of the top "lady friendly" courses in the West. Caroline, who had managed to perfect her drives, chips and putts during the vacation, particularly liked the lady-friendly concept, though I argued that every course we had played—with women's tee boxes a full 100 yards ahead of the men's—were indeed "lady friendly." But at legend trail the tee boxes were still challenging, though they did offer a distinct advantage for "the weaker sex"—a term I laugh at each time I watch Caroline scramble straight up a difficult section of bike trail or when she hauls off and belts me for actually using the term "the weaker sex"...

The greatest thing about Legend Trail Golf Club is that it was the place where Caroline was able to shoot the best nine holes of her life, a respectable 45 that included two pars. She was on fire, and she proved it by besting me by three strokes. I redeemed myself on the back nine. Luckily. In the future, I'll have to take the advice of my mentor, Gonzo (not the same one from the Bike and Bean), and twist the shafts of her clubs thirty degrees to the right. Or I'll have to play a lot more golf. Either sounds like fun.

We enjoyed the resort-like accommodations offered to us by our friends Nancy and Keven, who rolled out the welcome mat in grand style. Our stay with them was too short, but in these days of what Our President likes to call "an ownership socieity," workers are owned by the corporations and it's really hard to get time off unless you happen to be the CEO, one of his cronies or hangers-on, or a major shareholder. If you wonder why I spit at this ideal with contempt, go back and re-read what I wrote earlier about the Germans.

It was a smart move on our part to break up the journey back to New Mexico with a quick nine holes at the bizarre, but really nice, Silver Creek golf club in grimy Show Low, AZ. Show Low is one of those towns that screams, "get out of here as fast as you can!" We at first were hesitant about stopping. But Silver Creek was located in the middle of nowhere at the outskirts of town. When we arrived, we found a very nice, very scenic course that was trying hard to be upscale in its blue-collar surroundings. Mostly they were successful. The course was challenging and very scenic. But the best part was that there were no houses whatsoever around Silver Creek. It was the first course we had played during our two weeks on the road that wasn't a housing development. We had forgotten how nice that is.

As the sun set, we found ourselves in the middle of nowhere in New Mexico. It felt like home! The lights of the Daily Pie Cafe winked by the side of the road in Pie Town, NM. If you've never been there, it's worth a trip. The food was good, the pie was excellent (the best we'd had on the entire trip) and the staff was friendly and down-to-Earth. The place was filled with honest-to-goodness cowboys, one of whom was actually wearing spurs, unlike the pink-shirted dandy hanging out at Ruby's the week before.

We spent the night in Socorro, thinking about how nice it would be to return home at last and see the dog, who by now, I'm sure, has figured that the rest of its pack has gone for good. The best part of vacation is coming home at last.

See you on down the road.

The Vortex of Material Fulfillment

2005-10-07T08:09:00.000-06:00

Sedona, AZ, reportedly sits smack dab atop some sort of energy vortex, which is a good thing I’m told—but how can you be sure that this vortex, if it exists, isn’t some kind of invisible death ray that was placed here during the 1400s by aliens who came here to capture and enslave the Indians who populated the nearby cliff pueblos? People have been flocking to this red-rock Mecca called Sedona for years, particularly during the height of the New Age movements of the 70s and 80s. New Age practitioners say that Sedona is one of four or five global “energy centers” that hold the potential for mankind’s final enlightenment. Or something like that. Other such centers include Ayers Rock in Australia and Sunrise Springs Resort in Santa Fe, NM. Had I known where the others were, and if they were conveniently located, we probably would have tried to go biking in those places as well.

We seemed to be in the minority with that thinking, however. It really didn’t seem like a lot of the people wandering Sedona’s single, traffic choked main drag had come for biking, or really for any physical activity. The Sedona we saw included a Parade of the Affluent—middle-aged well-to-doers clothed in hip and oh-so-sassy action-fashion wear. Quick-dry Khakis and the modern-day equivalent of Sansabelt stretch fabrics sewn into slimming polo shirts were the order of the day, along with fashion-conscious wide-brim hats to round out the day’s wardrobe with a Western flair! The streets were jammed with people who could afford to have good teeth and spare Metamucil, and everybody was flashing their feel-good smiles.

Like the New Age pilgrims who had come to Sedona to “feel the energy” two decades earlier, today’s Sedona visitors had meandered along the streets in their opulent Escalades and Lexus SUVs to check out the vibe and to be seen. Others were just curious to find out what the Sedona buzz was all about, so they had come for day trips or overnight jaunts in more nondescript vehicles. We saw several white-haired men snapping photos of the perfect boobies that had been sculpted on stone figures outside of one main street establishment.

Sedona’s main street is a bizarre collection of shops crammed together for a quarter mile on both sides of highway 89A. Here you can find Minnesota Minnetonka moccasins, fortune tellers, T Shirts of all kinds and the same typical fare that is ubiquitous in any Southwest tourist town, including those horrifying "life-like" baby Indian dolls with hair and headbands. Brrr. They give me the shivers! These little nightmares don't belong in shops. They belong in Hell. And for the life of me, I've never, not once, seen anybody, anywhere buying one ...

We found many of Sedona’s visitors walking up and down main street, trying desperately to tap into the vibe that had made the town famous years ago—a time before property values in the millions, a time when locals could live without having to hold three jobs, a time when the red rock meant more than just an opportunity for a jeep tour. But the vibe seemed to be missing. Or maybe people have simply lost their ability to feel it in these days of rampant materialism. Predictably, many of them defaulted to the one behavior they could count on: to try and buy the vibe.

In Sedona, tourist dollars flew out of pockets like lead flew from Colt six shooters in the Old West. The rich visitors set out about buying everything and anything they possibly could while on main street, and they walked with bags hanging from each hand. You could tell the newcomers because their hands were empty. Those who had stayed on main street the longest were weighed down with bags upon bags. Perhaps they reasoned that the sheer weight would push them through the Earth’s crust and into the vortex, where they would ascend to a new spiritual plane of shopping bliss. We fled in horror, but not before getting caught up in the Sedona shopping vortex ourselves.

Caroline and I had booked accommodations in the Village of Oak Creek, where things seemed a little more normal. The village is located several miles away from Sedona and seems to house the area’s service-sector working population. We had booked a room in an unusual place, which actually turned out to be one of the best nights of lodging for our entire trip. We had rented a night in one of the apartments above the Bike and Bean, Oak Creek Village’s venerable all-purpose bike shop.

We were given a cheery greeting by Gonzo, one of the Bike and Bean’s friendly staff. I had hoped that they could repair my damaged front shock, which was still oozing life from the previous day’s misadventure. If not, I reckoned that a bike rental would be necessary to enjoy the red-rock rides that Sedona has to offer. Fortunately, the crew at the Bike and Bean said they’d do their best to repair the damage, despite the lack of right-sized seals on hand. By the end of the day, they had effectively cleaned and repaired the shock, and the Golden Beast was ready for a ride the next day.

The Bike and Bean was a hub of biking activity, and the coffee was pretty good, too. The staff recommended an excellent ride that would take us around Bell Rock and then off into the desert toward the creek, where a fine swimming hole lay waiting at the bottom of a set of tight switch backs. The single-track trail wound its way through the red rock, traveled along some fine sections of slick rock and included some technically challenging climbs and descents. It was a beautiful ride, so much so that it was easy to get distracted. The spiked green fans of numerous large prickly pear cacti, however, kept our concentration on the trail ahead; a crash in some spots would have turned a rider into a spandex pin cushion.

When we reached the switch backs about six miles out, the sun had risen high in the sky and the day was heating up. The water looked great. So we doffed our gear and climbed right in. The cold water was refreshing. After a while we climbed back out to dry in the sun. At just about that time, a septuagenarian couple made their way along a trail on the other side of the creek. As a man with empathy, I can fully understand the horror and shock that these people must have felt when they spied the naked fat man sprawled out on a red rock, like a dead lizard bloating in the sun. The old woman apparently didn’t mind, because she drank in the sight with a long, steady gaze. A wide smile crept over her face. Out came the camera. I was proud to have been able to do my part in making someone’s Sedona vacation a most memorable one. I know that in some room somewhere that night, the old spark of romance was rekindled and someone was able to tap into some of that old Sedona magic.

See you on down the road.

Biting Off More Than We Could Chew

2005-10-05T14:34:00.000-06:00

Flagstaff, Arizona, became famous because it rhymed with the “don’t forget Winona” refrain of the popular Route 66 song. We began our long drive to Flagstaff from Vegas after 18 holes at Aliante, a final dip in the pool at Maggie’s and a quick pre-road snack. We reached Hoover Dam (which I still prefer to call Boulder Dam because that’s what my Dad called it when we used to hit the road long ago), the sun was winking at us from behind the hills. Lake Mead was shrouded in shadow. Wackenhut security guards had set up shop on both ends of the dam, shaking down people who looked funny. I wondered if the Wackenhut contract called for enhanced payments for each drug arrest prompted from a stop at the check point. I say this because the vehicle in front of us got the third degree, obviously just because the Wackenhut guy didn’t like the looks of the driver, who was sporting a goatee, several tatoos, wraparound sunglasses and a vehicle emblazoned with skull stickers. We waited as Mr. Wackenhut shook down this modern-day pirate. My short hair and middle aged paunch ensured our passage through the new “Homeland Security” gestapo station without a second look.

At 10 p.m. I was struggling along the last 50 miles into Flagstaff. With the windows rolled down, the music blaring and a lively conversation with myself, I hoped I could stay awake. Caroline was fast asleep. Each time she’d snore, she’d snap her head forward and ask, “Are you okay?” She had mistaken her own sounds of slumber for mine and she was convinced that we were certain to careen off the road. Had it not been for Green Day’s American Idiot cranked at full volume, we probably would have.

If you stay in Flagstaff, Arizona (Don’t forget Winona!), we recommend the Day’s Inn on old Route 66. The rooms were huge and the prices were ridiculously low. The full continental carbohydrate breakfast was a real crowd-pleaser, too. We had read about a great 19-mile singletrack trail that circumnavigated Mt. Eldon and Little Eldon mountain and we were hell bent on riding it. The guide book warned that the trip would take five hours, but did we believe it? Nooooo. We’re strong bikers, we reasoned, and we beat all those time estimates on our hikes through Zion, so we figured a five-hour ride for everyone else would be a three-hour ride for us. We foolishly set off on the trail at 2:30 p.m., trusting that the guide book was accurate in its description of the trail.

Of course it wasn’t, and about 15 miles into the ride we realized that the guide book was a full two miles off in its mileage and that our 19-mile ride was going to be at least a 21-mile ride. I looked up at the sky and the setting sun and realized that 45 minutes of remaining daylight was going to be just barely adequate to finish the ride, even under the best of conditions. We had run into a snag earlier on the trail when my back tire flatted on a harsh (but extremely fun) rocky section of trail. Not only had we lost a tube, the tire itself had been savaged and riddled with cuts and holes. We figured another punctured tube could occur at any time. Moreover, the extremely bumpy single track had blown out a seal on my front shock and it was hemorrhaging hydraulic oil at an alarming rate.

Caroline’s legs were toast and I didn’t have much left in mine, so we stopped briefly to hork down a sandwich in hopes that we’d get an extra burst of energy to make the last few miles of singletrack at a decent speed.

The stupid guide book had been so wrong about so many things, that we had a sudden frightening realization that we could find ourselves on a harsh expert-level descent in the dark if we couldn’t find the bail-out point to the road that had been described in the book. The pines turned to dark silhouettes and every rock and obstacle became invisible as the light began to drop off quickly. Even the lights of Las Vegas would have been a welcome sight now, because, according to trail signs, we still had a half mile on the agonizing singletrack before we would hit the possible bail-out point. But an ambiguous sign a mile earlier also indicated a possible route to the fabled bail-out point. I began to worry that Caroline and I were in for a cold night in the Flagstaff wilderness, or, worse yet, we’d become one of those stories that you read about—you know, the ones about the active visitors who hadn’t prepared adequately and went missing for days in the wilderness, only to be found eight months later during the spring thaw ...

Grimly we continued on the trail. When our odometers reached the mark where the trail sign indicated the bail-out point should be, we hung our heads in despair: there was nothing but more trees ahead in dimmest of twilight. We decided to continue just for a moment farther, reasoning that we still might have enough light to go back the mile and a half to the ambiguous marking if this route didn't pan out. Suddenly, the road appeared. We survived. And it took us exactly five hours. So much for being above average. Once again I was thankful that Caroline hadn't used up all her chits with The Man Upstairs.

In the wake of our heart-thumping adventer, I find myself penning this memo to self: New Rule! No long rides on unfamiliar trails after noon in the fall. I suggest you all adopt it, too.

See you on down the road (in the daylight).

A Really Big Show, A Really Big Day!

2005-10-05T00:19:00.000-06:00

Despite the ridicule I have given Las Vegas, I have to hand one thing to it: They really know how to put on an entertaining spectacle, whether serving a meal or putting on a show.

After golf on Saturday, Caroline and I paid a visit to the Atomic Testing Museum, located about a mile off the strip in the heart of Las Vegas. For those of you scratching your heads and asking, “Why atomic testing?”, the Nevada Test Site—where the weapons in the Nation’s nuclear arsenal were tested and perfected over the course of 40-plus years—is located a relative stone’s from downtown Vegas. Being from the Atomic City ourselves, Caroline and I were highly motivated to check out the latest national museum dedicated to nuclear weapons and weapons-related topics. Moreover, our Las Vegas host runs the museum store and we were anxious to see the fruits of her labors.

The museum, like many others of its type, traces the history of atomic weapons from concept to delivery. Unlike other museums, the Atomic Testing Museum bases its point of view from the Nevada Test Site, where hundreds of aboveground tests rattled the Earth and, occasionally, outshone the neon lights of The Strip. The Nevada Test Site was home to “Doom Town”—constructed as part of “Operation Cue”—where mannequins were posed going about their business in typical American homes, forests were erected on the sterile desert floor and automobiles, Mosler safes, live animals and other everyday things were left lying around, all so they could be subjected to fires of Atomic Hell, ostensibly to test the Civil Defense capabilities and necessities of the nation. The museum has managed to dig up some pretty good replicas of the actual dummies used in Doom Town and they stand freakishly frozen in time as they did just before detonation 50 years ago.

But the real highlight of the Atomic Testing Museum is its bunker, where visitors get a full-sensory taste of what it was like to participate in a test (without getting any extra radiation in the process). Shows inside the bunker begin at regular intervals. When it's time, simulated steel doors automatically swing shut, isolating visitors in the eerie red glow of the bunker. The countdown begins shortly afterward. At detonation, visitors get to witness an awe-inspiring mushroom cloud rising from the desert floor through the bunker's observation port. A few seconds later, the shockwave arrives and the bunker vibrates at an ominously low frequency. A blast of high winds follows, mussing the hair of those inside the bunker. The museum is worth a visit just for this one exhibit.

The museum store includes some great gifts and mementos, ranging from Einstein action figures to those old Viewmaster gizmos with 3D images of the Nevada Test Site inside. And the prices are good enough that you can fill out your whole Christmas list in one stop and within budget.

Slot machines, craps tables and roulette wheels are a dime a dozen in Las Vegas, but how often do you get a chance to see a B-61 warhead, early “the-atom-is-our-friend” propaganda films, an atomic artillery shell or apparati used in the Nuclear Rocket program? A trip to the Atomic Testing Museum is a must-see in Vegas, even if you do leave shaking your head at the sheer madness of the Cold War.

But we were just warming up for a night on the town as we exited the museum. As mentioned, Las Vegas manages to turn just about anything into a show. Back at Maggies, we took a quick dip in the pool and then donned our best beef-eating garb. We had reservations at Lawrys The Prime Rib restaurant, an art-deco establishment that really puts the ass in class. Started in the mid-1930s, Lawrys has been serving meat the old fashioned way for decades. According to our waitress, Miss Whatshername (identity preserved to avoid the appearance of any culpability in the creation of this blog), told us that the menu had changed just slightly a few years ago to add a fish dish as an optional main course and a shrimp cocktail appetizer. Other than that, the restaurant has remained in its own self imposed time capsule for the past 70 years.

To preserve that yesteryear feel, the staff wear the a same uniforms as the first Lawrys staff did. Women wear dresses and bonnets and all of them introduce themselves as Miss so-and-so. They also use the same carving cart as was used in the first restaurants. These “silver carts” as they are called are Art Deco stainless-steel beauties that resemble a large, accented, silver egg tipped on its side and supported by futuristic-looking stainless steel clad wheels. The whole get up stands five feet tall and looks like a mini flying saucer straight from an Ed Wood flick. Each "silver cart" contains hearty portions of succulent prime rib that is carved off the bone before your eyes right at your table. It was a pricey meal that was served about as professionally as I’ve ever seen. The atmosphere was lavish yet comfortable. I haven't enjoyed a dining experience so much in years. If you're coming to Vegas for a visit, you should go for dinner at Lawrys before the odds of getting Mad Cow forever spoil the opportunity to enjoy a grotesque hunk of cow flesh.

But the highlight of the night was seeing Cirque du Soleil’s Kà, a lavish theatrical performance that incorporates elements of dance, martial arts, puppetry and gymnastics to tell an exciting story on a clever set that seems to defy gravity and at times forces the performers to defy it as well. Caroline had managed to score amazing seats for the performance, so we were smack dab in the middle of the action. Colorful, fun and moving, Kà provides eye-popping entertainment for people of all ages, nationalities and backgrounds. No language skills are required, which makes the show work well in Vegas. If I tried to describe anything else about the production, I’d just end up getting it wrong. So I won't say anything else. Suffice it to say, you really do have to see it to believe it. As chronically cynical as I am, it was fantastic to discover that a live stage production can still capture my full attention and imagination and hold them for two hours while fully delighting me in the process.

Like everything in Vegas, however, Kà isn’t cheap—It would take me about a half hour to lose the ticket-price equivalent at the gaming tables. Given the choice of an hour in the casios or two hours watching Kà, I’m picking Kà every time. And I'm saving my pennies so I can donate Kà tickets for poor kids. Weird, huh?

See you on down the road.

Mr. and Mrs. Mulligan Play Vegas

2005-10-04T16:46:00.000-06:00

Las Vegas is probably the fastest growing city in the United States. With 2.5 million people in the immediate area, the town continues to spread across the desert like an unchecked canker. They build 14 new schools a year in the Vegas environs, and the growth rate doesn’t seem to be slowing one bit. In addition Vegas is striving to become the number one tourist destination in the world. And it probably has succeeded.

The Las Vegas Strip is teeming with fat, sunburned drunks who drift from one casino to another, holding out hope that they will be the one and only person in the horde to beat the odds with a lucky slot-machine pull that will enable them to return home a millionaire or the owner of a fancy new Hummer or recreational vehicle. Inside the Vegas casinos, a thousand sloppily dressed nicotine addicts slump paralyzed in front of slot machines, hands thrust out for “free” drinks, feeding quarter after quarter into a bottomless pit of unfulfilled hopes and unholy desires. At the game tables, chips representing 10 dollar bills are confiscated by the handful every minute from the suckers. For some strange reason millions of people each year haven’t figured out that the odds are overwhelmingly in favor of the House and that sitting at a table longer does not, in fact, increase a person’s odds of winning .

It drove my mother crazy when I told her several times that we had not deposited anything—not a thin dime—into a slot machine anywhere in Vegas. She was equally distressed to learn that we did not haunt the gaming tables. I told her that I would be just as successful and probably have just as much fun if I were to break a fifty-dollar bill into ones and run through a casino throwing the loot freely into the air for anyone to grab. In greed-soaked Vegas, the chaos that such an act would create probably could qualify for prosecution under the Patriot Act. Tempted as I was, Caroline’s good sense and strong biceps prevented me from following through with my plan.

Instead of Gambling, Caroline and I hit the fairways of two of Vegas’ fine golf courses. Like everything else in Las Vegas, the courses were particularly pricey, though I did manage to score a deal on one of them, thanks to the Internet. In exchange for a $100 discount, I unwittingly signed up for a lifetime of SPAM e-mail and junkmail at my home. Amortized over 40 years, I think the golf club came out on the better end of that deal.

In brochures and on their website, they call Desert Pines Golf Club “The Pinehurst of Vegas.” While it was true they did have plenty of pine trees, I have to imagine in my heart of hearts that Pinehurst, unlike Desert Pines, has grass on its fairways that does not resemble a badly botched hair-plug job on a steroid-addled, middle-aged ectomorph. Worse than the condition of the grass, however, was the roar of the freeway, which ran right through the heart of the course. We had missed rush hours in Las Vegas before while driving, but we experienced them full strength at Desert Pines.

“NICE SHOT, HONEY!” I would holler from the cart each time Caroline smacked one 200 yards straight down the fairway.

“WHAT?!” she would holler.

“NOTHING!”

Perhaps Desert Freeway Pines’ most stunning asset was its billboards. Nothing inspires a shot more than a set of 50-foot tall boobies peaking out the top of a T-shirt worn by a billboard model hawking Live Vegas Sex Shows.

Desert Pines' beverage cart beauty was the highlight of my game. Each time she showed up I would hammer a long, straight drive into the perfect fairway position, or I would sink a thirty-foot double-breaking putt. I nicknamed her Lady Luck and tipped her even when I didn’t buy anything. Nevertheless, Caroline managed to beat me handily on the front nine, despite my three mulligans and a foot wedge play near the green of Number Eight. Her luck didn’t hold out on the back nine, though.

On Sunday, before fleeing town, Caroline and I hit the links at Aliante—Vegas’ newest 18-hole course. The course had recently been built on Vegas’ burgeoning North side, where housing developments appeared out of nowhere, like the rapidly spreading athlete’s foot fungus infection I got from the Bootleg Canyon showers. But we couldn’t have been paired with a nicer couple: Norm and Susan, who had moved to the area from Florida just before the building boom had really begun to explode. Although a nice course, Aliante was so densely surrounded by houses that it was like playing golf down the middle of an inner-city street. Along every fairway, around every green, developers had crammed in zero-lot-line houses, each one looking like a clone of the one next door—from the color of the stucco and tile roof to the gravel-and-yucca landscaping. I asked Susan, a real-estate broker, how much one of the beauties would cost.

“That one there,” she pondered, “oh, it’s about $350,000.” She spit ruefully. “But those are only 900 square feet, and the two car garage, well, that’s gotta eat into the living space.”

“Dang,” is all I could come up with in terms of a reply.

Like the rest of Vegas, people buying into “exclusive” gated communities like the ones that ruined the ambiance of Aliante were gambling that the already ridiculous prices for a modern-day shotgun shack would rise even higher in the future. Maybe they will, and God bless ‘em if it pays off. But I wonder how much the place will be worth once all the water has been sucked up out of the ground and the whole valley is socked in with smog so thick that it would be impossible to come out of your home without SCUBA gear. That eventuality lies just around the corner, I’m afraid. But here in Greed Central—Fabulous Las Vegas—the future is only as far ahead as the next roll of the dice. For most people here, the long-term plan is just to get to the next casino without passing out or spilling a drink.

See you on down the road.

Pilgrims in an Unholy Land

2005-10-04T09:12:00.000-06:00

By providence, we found a place in St. George where we could add another entry to our Testament from the road. At the Hampton Inn, I strolled in with several people who had arrived for the St. George Marathon, which we knew about due to our chance encounter among the hoodoos of Bryce Canyon with Manny, who was planning to participate in the race. While the runners checked in and generally overwhelmed the hotel staff, I asked a maintenance person for the password to the WiFi system. Seconds later she returned with a card that had the security code on it. I wrote and posted while enjoying a cup of delicious Hampton Inn coffee.

The sun was retreating to the horizon by the time we hit the road again, and long shadows were beginning to streak across the landscape. About a half hour later we crossed the threshold into night, which was racing westward at tremendous speed. The lights of Las Vegas lit up the sky ahead. We leaned back in our seats and relaxed for the first time in the day.

Suddenly, the car slammed head-on into a wall of stench so foul, so overpowering, that Caroline and I momentarily wretched. Clasping our noses shut with one hand, we cried out in alarm.

“What the hell is that?” we attempted to shriek, but our clasped noses made our voices sound hollow and high-pitched, like the cries of startled Munchkins.

How could we know what had taken hold of the evening air out there? We were still 20 miles from civilization. Could it be that the waste generated by the 2 million denizens of Las Vegas and its millions of annual guests necessitated a landfill comprising 20 miles of desert land? Could something have escaped from nearby Area 51? Was it a dairy farm that had been left lock, stock and barrel to rot in the sun? Or perhaps the Well of Sin was simply overflowing onto the desert floor. We did not know. the odor’s origins were unsettlingly uncertain.

What was certain was that the stench was so thick and heavy that it clung to our clothes, as if we had been tossed smack-dab in the midst of a Landfill that had taken steroids. It was a moist smell, a rotten smell—like the concentrated funk emanating from a pool of feces expelled from the dripping asses of 10,000 rotund, hairy men who had dined on nothing but teriyaki steak and Vidalia onions for the past 21 days in a row. And it would not go away. Not for miles and miles. I put the gas pedal to the floorboard and goosed the car up to 90 in hopes that we could outrun the smell or dilute it with the rush of air that was spilling into the open windows and churning up our belongings in the back of the car.

About 10 minutes later the odor vanished. In its place came Vegas billboards, the first of which advertised a place called Sin City, which unabashedly advertised hard core sex toys for every desire. We noted its location in case we cared to take in some window shopping later on during our visit. I wondered if a billboard with the smiling face of Jesus were looming above the place, like the Triple X store in Farmington. But I digress.

The freeways in Vegas were lousy with speeding cars, but I maintained my composure and my speed just like our host-to-be, Maggie, had advised earlier on over the cell phone. Like a smooth air-traffic controller, she talked us in to her home near the strip, and I only had to look at my instruments to land successfully. After a wholesome meal and hours of conversation, we hit the sack. It had been an extremely long day.

Maggie’s words about the Vegas rush hours echoed in our heads so we hit the road the next morning at 6 a.m. This was not our original plan, but the air already was oppressively hot at the crack of dawn. We were headed toward Boulder City, home of the Bootleg Canyon mountain bike trail system. The trail system is located in the foothills outside of town and is part of the Boulder City parks network. After a fine breakfast of a huge hammy omelet and hash browns at the Southwest Diner at the edge of Boulder City, we set out for the trails. The heat rained down on us like fire from the sky as we stood in the parking lot readying our gear.

I am not generally familiar with desert biking. This was my first time. We were smart enough to realize that we would need full Camelbacks if we were to pull off this ride alive, so we crammed the Camelback bladders full of ice and as much water as they could hold. I could feel the desert air pulling the liquid from my body even as we stood in the parking lot, turning me slowly into jerky. The rocky ground was home to many spiky plants that could shred a tire or rip the flesh with a single careless turn.

The trail system was great, giving us plenty of twists and whoopdedoos to work with as we made our way out into the desert heat. Unfortunately, the trail system also required miles and miles of prolonged climbing to reach any scenic destinations. Additionally, the trails, marked as “easy” or “intermediate” were much harder than their given designation implied, and in many areas were unrideable—at least in the uphill direction. Unclear trail markings steered us onto some severely difficult trail sections as well, and after about 10 miles of riding we were pretty thrashed and on the verge of dehydration, and we hadn’t even ridden the trail we had come to ride: the Caldera loop, which offers views of Vegas off in the distance. At just before 11 a.m., when the sun was high and bright, we found the Caldera trail head and we set off upon its rocky path.

Now there is an old story about Lot and his family fleeing Sodom and Gomorrah after receiving a warning from God about the Sin taking place in the city. As they fled, Lot’s wife looked backward and was turned into a pillar of salt that rose from the desert floor. As we rounded a curve halfway through the Caldera loop, Vegas was clearly visible in the distance below. Smog from the city hung thick in the air and spread into the surrounding valleys, giving one valley in particular the appearance of being a huge brown lake. I took one last look over my shoulder at the city as we rode away. It was a fateful mistake. A few miles later, as our odometer registered mile 14, I began to feel strangely otherworldly. A terrible pain nestled itself in the pit of my stomach and my temples began to pound. My insides were turning to salt and my Camelback was totally empty. We painfully rode the last mile back to the car. I drank deeply and cheated death. A film of salt coated my skin and I literally sparkled in the desert sun. Thankfully, Bootleg Canyon had showers, albeit nice hot ones.

We briefly enjoyed the spectacle of some downhill riders catching big air off of some fine jumps, but the desert heat continued clawing at my skull so we fled. Down in Boulder City, we drank more water at Mel's Diner and replenished our salts by consuming one of Mel's "Famous" steak sandwiches and some awesome fries. The throbbing in my temples began to subside somewhat.

We had big plans for an evening of Vegas nightlife, but back at Maggie’s we slept the sleep of the dead. I dreamed about a dancing horse that was wearing a sparkly blue costume with one of those fuzzy toilet-brush looking thingees on its head. I forgot the wisdom that the beast imparted to me during a casual conversation, but I was glad the day was over.

See you on down the road.

Mesmerized by The Raging Current ...

2005-09-29T23:59:00.000-06:00

Reading back on some of these entries, it strikes me that there is a peculiarly overt thread of quasi-religious fanaticism running through this travelogue. I suppose this is natural given that Caroline and I are, in some manner of thinking, on a pilgrimage, and no great pilgrimage can be complete without some amount of revelation, suffering, sacrifice, repentance and, potentially, absolution. It strikes me, however, that a true pilgrimage must involve a quest of some sort, a destination if you will, a purpose. I’m not sure whether the destination or the purpose are to be known or unknown at the outset of the journey. I suppose if the destination or purpose were unknown, it would be acceptable and, perhaps, even preferable, because it would allow it to be revealed at some point along the journey.

We are quite aware of our destination, but the purpose of our sojourn on the road still remains mostly esoteric. It would be easy to write it off as merely a vacation, a chance to relax and recharge. And perhaps that’s what it is and no more. But it also is possible that our quest has something to do with getting our noses up off of the grindstone and looking around beyond the horizon and context of our workaday lives and glimpsing a larger picture of Life and Society that exists at the fuzzy edges of our day-to-day realities.

Just outside of Zion on Friday, the sun rose in the chilly morning air, shedding light onto the towering cliffs above and imbuing them with a neon radiance of electric crimson and psychedelic orange. The western peaks glowed like hot pokers thrust into the azure. We had read that the other “Epic” hike in Zion is a trudge to The Narrows, an area where the Virgin River has carved a claustrophobic serpentine passage into the Navajo sandstone at a depth of some 2,000 feet. The hike itself must be done mostly in the stream.

The night before our trek we had rented walking sticks at a local outfitters. The Virgin River was flowing at a relatively modest rate, spewing some sixty cubic feet of emerald water downstream each second. With a water temperature of just 55 degrees and a destination cloaked mostly forever in shadow, Caroline and I began the day with apprehension, wondering whether an early departure was the right thing to do. The specter of hypothermia lurked in those narrow passages, waiting to extend an icy hand to the unprepared and the foolhardy, park literature warned. Moreover, we wondered whether immersing the increasingly serious-looking gash on my leg in nonpurified water for five hours straight was really a wise thing to do. Nevertheless, we began our journey shortly after breakfast.

The air temperature had warmed somewhat by the time the park shuttle arrived at the trail head. We walked smartly along the first mile of hike on dry land on a path along the river’s edge. A robust-looking twenty-something couple vigorously outpaced us early on in the hike. When we reached the water’s edge, however, the youngsters had stopped dead in their tracks. They were engaged in an earnest debate about whether to continue. Caroline and I swiftly marched into the green current. The cold clamped around our feet and ankles like a vice and we grimaced as it tightened. The poor lad looked at me and asked, “how cold?”

“Just horrendously cold,” I grunted.

I placed the walking stick in front of me for stability because my feet could no longer feel the slippery baby-head sized stones that carpeted the river bottom. We left the vigorous couple at the bank. They apparently chose not to continue. About 100 yards upstream, we found ourselves wading chest deep through the frigid waters, which were so cold that Caroline could only let out little gasps when she opened her mouth to speak. The current, though listed at the Visitor Center as mild in comparison to early season flow rates, was deceptively strong, and it took strength and resolve to fight it.

But most unsettling was the hypnotic effect of the water itself. While crossing particularly swift sections, we had to pay careful attention to focusing our gaze below the surface of the water to find secure footing. If you did not maintain this concentration, the eyes would fixate on the surface flow, and soon you would find yourself mesmerized by the water and becoming unsteady and somewhat seasick on your feet. This mental tug-of-war with the water made hiking the four miles against the current even more exhausting.

Hours later, cold, shivering and hopelessly wet, we found ourselves at “Wall Street,” where the cliffs towered two thousand feet above in a passageway that was narrow enough to be touched on either side if Caroline and I linked hands. We had beaten the crowds and beaten the river. The trek back seemed to take half the time. Along the way we met more pilgrims who would look at us with eyes wide with fear and ask, “How much farther?”

“You’re almost there,” we lied.

After our cold baptism in the Virgin River, we made our way to St. George, Utah, the third fastest growing city in the nation and the location of Brigham Young’s Secret Hideout. For those of you who don’t know, Brigham Young was one of the founders of the Church of Jesus Christ-Latter Day Saints (The Mormons). According to some literature, Young particularly enjoyed the Mormon tradition of keeping multiple wives. Later, when the United States government used Bigamy laws as a way to hound the Mormons and emasculate the burgeoning power structure they had built in Utah, Young built a secret hideout at St. George, where he spent the winters in the community’s extremely moderate climate enjoying the offerings of his many wives. And who could blame him?

I have searched this land for a salamander to lick so that I, like those Mormon founders, may become addled and able to find a set of indecipherable golden tablets that will point my way to a fabulous winter home in a real-estate broker’s paradise. But I’ve had no luck so far.

Next stop: Fabulous Las Vegas—where no salamanders are necessary to partake in pleasures of the flesh. See you on down the road.

Danger Lurks Everywhere!

2005-09-28T23:43:00.000-06:00

About 485 people were checking out of Ruby’s Bryce Canyon Best Western Inn as we attempted to hit the road. Because most were on European holiday, they were having trouble with the language and apparently were protesting the many add-on charges that had lifted their bill far away from the Triple A rate and into Rack-Rate stratosphere. The well-trained members of Ruby’s staff did not budge at these protests and instead insisted that the charges were correct, smiling pleasantly until each and every bus-riding tour member relented and signed the bottom line.

As we waited, I was able to post the previous day’s recollection, thanks to WiFi access in Ruby’s lobby. On the way out the door, the last throngs of European tourists were scrambling to capture photos of cowboys behind desks, booking trail rides into Bryce Canyon. I followed suit and was able to snap a photo of one of the poor pseudo-wranglers without protest.

The night before at Bryce, our hiking interloper, Manny, had confessed that he was terrified of being alone on the trail because of the potential for chance encounters with cougars. Apparently, the previous day at Zion, an effective ad campaign had scared the bejesus out of him to the point where he viewed the woods as an alien place where danger lurked around every corner. At one point in the hike I had pondered pulling the K-Bar USMC survival knife from my pack and menacing him just to ensure he wouldn’t try any funny stuff as we made our way down the isolated and virtually soundproof Peekaboo Trail. But he seemed so utterly spooked about the woods that I thought my plan would push him over the edge and we’d be forced to either have to drag him up the horrendously steep trail once he became utterly paralyzed with fear, or we’d have to report him as a missing person once he ran screaming blindly away into the rugged, hoodoo-infested maze that enveloped us.

Fear is all around. George W. Bush used Fear of The Unknown to ensure another four years of corporate profiteering for his friends and family. Ever since Nine Eleven, we are used to being frightened in this country. Even today while walking in the rock crevices deep below the rim, I was paralyzed with a momentary flash of fear that certain death would befall us if an earthquake were to suddenly occur and pour weighty objects down upon our heads.

What frightened me more as we made our way toward Zion National Park was the paucity of restaurants in rural Utah. Those that did exist had weird hours and mostly were closed by the time we were able to finally negotiate past the human horde of Ruby Guests and get on the road. It wasn’t until several hours later that we finally came across a restaurant with hours that matched our schedule. About 80 miles before Zion, the neon lights of The Thunderbird beckoned to us like sirens in a lonely sea. I pleaded with Caroline to stuff my ears with wax so I could avoid the Thunderbird temptation, but it was too late. Inexplicably, I found myself parking out front. The sign announced that its baked goods were made by Utah prostitutes, known as “Hos” in the vernacular. They were proud of their Ho-Made pies, and I couldn’t wait to get my lips around a slice—but not before ordering a Ham and Cheese sandwich for me and an ersatz Denny’s Superbird sandwich for Caroline. After our "meals," as we ordered our pie slices, a busload of French tourists descended on the place, and this reminded me of the coolest thing I’ve heard in years. The night before at Bryce Canyon, Caroline overheard a French tourist talking to her friend about what they were seeing: “This place is like the music of the sun,” she said. And she was absolutely right. I wish American English allowed for phrases like that, but the fear of sounding stupid has erased any hope of lyricism for the time being in this country.

Zion National Park gave us a chance to face Fear head on, hand-to-hand, nose to nose. After arriving mid-afternoon, Caroline and I grabbed the shuttle and headed off toward Angel’s Landing, listed as one of the nation’s “Epic” hikes. Zion itself sits among towering cliffs of Navajo sandstone that rise thousands of feet from the bed of the Virgin River. Angel’s Landing is a five-mile round-trip hike that takes you quickly up and up and up, nearly two thousand feet. The last three-quarters of a mile is a heart-rate-raising steep and treacherous journey along a narrow razorback that’s only six feet wide, with an 800-foot sheer drop on one side and a 2,000-foot sheer drop on the other. A series of chains anchored to the rock give climbers an additional handhold. But stability is not the problem. Fear is the problem.

As I ascended toward the lofty destination, the sky darkened with a bruise of threatening clouds. The winds kicked up to a sustained 30-mile-an-hour gale. At a wide spot in the trail, a thousand feet from the summit, I cowered among the rocks and fished my wind breaker from my pack, taking special care not to lose my grip on the garment and on the single rock outcropping that prevented me from being carried away over the edge like a runaway kite. I continued climbing, trying with all my might to shake off the Devil’s shackles, which were filling my head with whispers of doubt and visions of doom. One foot after the other, on and on, higher and higher until ...

About 40 feet from the summit, the wind stopped completely. I lifted my head, which had been braced against the buffeting gale. It was quiet and I was but a few steps away from the top. I took those steps with authority and marched out onto the wide ledge at the top, puffing out my chest and calling out a hearty greeting to the small handful of hardy souls who had ventured to the landing.

It’s amazing to me that, with all the liability laws in the nation and all the fear of lawsuits ripping through the viscera of Those in Power, a National Park has an activity such as the hike to Angel’s Landing, with only a mere warning sign stating that “Safety is Your Responsibility.” This is an obvious statement, and people accept it. Our rugged founders accepted this proposition from the beginning and we’ve accepted it ever since. Until recently. Now we have become a nation of scared little crybabies who are willing to do just about anything in exchange for protection by the Government. And this is what should truly frighten us.

See you on down the road.

Now I Know Why Germans Are So Friggen Happy!

2005-09-27T23:14:00.000-06:00

Several hours after I had awakened the entire Capitol Reef campground, I awoke to the sound of rustling at the campsite next door. Three German women were waking up and breaking camp. I was breaking wind deep down in my sleeping bag. It’s hard to cover that up at daybreak in a crowded campground. When I crawled out of the tent, the German women grimaced at me. I waved cheerily and put the coffee on to boil. All of the people who were tucked in to their RVs with Direct TV dishes were still asleep, so I loosed another butt reveille in 4/4 time in hopes of rallying the camp. This time the German women didn’t look.

It’s a strange culture that RVs these days. As we were getting ready to drive out of camp, the American RVers came climbing out of their wheeled houses. Some of these RVs really are as big as houses, with La-Z-Boy recliners, washers and dryers, satellite televisions, Internet access and Puerto Rican man servants. The RV Captains gathered in the center of camp, clutching coffee cups and their wives, and wearing sweatshirts with logos or scenes from all the places they had visited. Some banded together to see if they could gain any traction with scandalous tales about the campground host that might spread all the way up to park headquarters—possibly freeing the way for one of them to earn the title of “Host,” with all the honors and benefits that come with it. Others gossiped about the camping habits of the other campers. One glared at me and muttered something to her friend about “farting.”

I’ve never published the word “farting” before. It’s a new experience. I wonder if the Internet has some kind of rules against using using the vernacular term for colon gas? But which term is worse: fart or colon gas? I’m thinkin’ that I’m in the right on this one, and for those of you who might try to argue that I take on a more formal tone, you're wrong. But I digress.

The other brand of RVers are those who have rented them. These people aren’t owners, but rather are the scabs of the campgrounds in the eyes of RV owners. Every time one of these rental RVs shows up in a campground, the RV owners gather to sneer and give a chilly welcome. The owners know that it’s impossible for someone to truly absorb the RV Culture if they merely are squatting in one of the coveted vehicles. They know that the only sure way to understand “The Craft”, as they call it, is to mortgage yourself to the hilt and buy one, or, better still, to sell your home, buy one and live the vagabond life until age, infirmity, poverty or total mechanical failure force you to move in with your children and live out the rest of your Autumn years in uncertainty and cloaked resentment.

This week, many of those in the rental RVs are European tourists. I guess these folks get several weeks of vacation each year, and they know how to use it, too. Here in Utah, thousands of Europeans and Asians have taken to the roads, making Americans a minority here in the leisure capitals of the West, because most of us Americans are at work. These foreign vacationers seem immensely satisfied, and who can blame them? Everybody should have five weeks of vacation each year. Even our President thinks so; he’s been known to spend an awful lot of time in Crawford each summer, and this year he only gave up two days of his extended vacation to deal with the largest contemporary natural disaster America has ever known.

So I’m thinking we should all get five weeks vacation like our President and the Germans. There is so much to see and so little time, and I think we would all be better people and better employees if a whole bunch of R&R were on the schedule each year.

We found ourselves in a cavalcade of rental RVs on our way to Bryce Canyon. The narrow roads were scary enough in a car, but they must have been especially treacherous in an RV. My suspicions proved true. In a particularly winding stretch on a 14 percent grade, we saw an RV quickly pull into a turn out, ostensibly to let the line of 40 cars behind her get by. As we passed, I looked over to see the driver gulping down a handful of pills. I’m pretty sure what she was taking wasn’t Feenamint ...

At the Hell’s Backbone Inn in Boulder, UT, they serve fancy breakfasts. Every dish is tastefully prepared with organic ingredients. It is a Zen garden set up smack dab in the middle of Mormon country. Go eat there if you ever find yourself out here in the middle of nowhere like we did. Or if you need to post something to a blog. They don't mind a bit if you walk in stinking of camp. The WiFi access made the meal particularly satisfying.

Hiking in Bryce Canyon, a spectacular place, we came across a man from Pittsburgh named Manny. He worked as a tax accountant. He admitted that, being from the East Coast, he was slightly scared to be taking the hike alone. So he invited himself to tag along with us. We didn’t mind. He was good company. Turns out he had come to the area a week before he was to run the St. George Marathon, scheduled for this coming Saturday. As we walked, Manny indicated his pleasure with the current Administration’s tax cuts and credits for things like energy efficient cars. He lamented the impending winter costs of natural gas. He stopped short of telling his political affiliation. I refrained from expressing my belief that George W. Bush is the Devil or, at the very least, a minor demon. Manny's marathon legs were good at climbing, and there was plenty of that—for a long way. We finished the hike in about two hours, 15 minutes, a full forty five minutes less than the park’s listed required minimum hiking time.

If you take nothing else away from this blog, remember this: Do not eat at the restaurant at Ruby’s Best Western hotel on the road to Bryce. Caroline and I enjoyed all of the fare the place had to offer in true, stuffed-to-the-gills buffet fashion. It was like eating at Furr’s Cafeteria, except Furr's has more entrees and doesn’t cost 40 bucks. Throngs of German vacationers seemed to be enjoying it though, which lends more credence to my theory that five weeks of vacation makes for more satisfied, happier people.

I’ll have time to post this tonight from Ruby’s main Lodge. Ruby’s was started in 1920 by Rueben and Minnie Sybett. It began as a guest tent that served toast for the Sybett’s friends. Nowadays it's a gold mine! The guy in the restaurant, the manager, told us that they serve 5,000 meals a day. Every day of the year! They have hotel rooms, a trading post, a store, pony rides, a rodeo, campgrounds and, oh yeah, they are located right next to Bryce canyon. That adds up to millions! Cha-ching! Why, oh why didn’t my parents move someplace cool and start inviting friends over for toast?

(It’s amazing how much WiFi access there is in this state. Keep checking back for postings.)

Auf Weidersehen!

Wilkommen from Capitol Reef, Utah!

2005-09-26T22:54:00.000-06:00

Moab is a mountain biking and jeeping Mecca. It is filled with mountain bikers and Jeep drivers. You can easily tell the former from the latter by sight. Mountain bikers wear shorts and Teva sandals when they’re not on their bikes and they walk with a hip self-assuradness that says, “I can eat anything I want because I just hit the trails for four hours in the hot desert sun.”

In contrast, the 4x4 crowd seems to have a higher than average rate of cigarette consumption, big round bellies and hip holsters concealing camouflage colored Insulin pumps. These folks walk or hobble through town with a grim self-assuradness that says, “I can hit the IHOP any time I want because I’ve got my medicine and my jeep could roll at anytime and kill me and I’d sure hate to miss out on one more Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity before my Maker calls me home.” Or something like that.

With all the self-propelled and motorized Fat Tires out in the rocks, Moab isn’t generally known for its golf. And today, we found out that the Moab Golf Club takes itself about as seriously as mountain bikers and jeepers do. We had booked a 7:57 tee time weeks ahead of our visit. When we arrived at 7:30, we found ourselves standing outside the Pro Shop with several other groups, scratching our heads, wondering why the establishment was closed up tight as a drum. At just after 8, a bleary-eyed kid showed up, apologetically mumbling something about festivities from the night before and some sort of confusion about who was supposed to open. So much for the myth of Mormon temperance.

The course itself was beautiful, tucked among folds of red slick rock towers and cliffs. It was straightforward, with most holes showing up as subtle doglegs or long, wide straight-aways. But it was difficult to concentrate with the mowers running full tilt right next to several tee boxes and, in at least one case, motoring straight up the fairway into the line of fire. We played with a gentleman from South Africa who started out well but melted down as the round wore on. All told, it was a fun, yet uninspiring round of golf.

On the way out of town we loaded up with camping supplies and stumbled onto an errant WiFi network, which we used to quickly upload a post to this blog.

Several hours later we found ourselves in Capitol Reef, Utah’s “other” National Monument. Being the stepchild of Utah recreation areas, Capitol Reef encourages travelers to clamber into the many orchards that dot the property and pick all the fruit they care to eat at deeply, deeply discounted prices. All the peaches had been taken, and all that remained on the limbs for us were red apples. We declined.

Utah has an amazing amount of rock. It’s everywhere. It’s beautiful rock, but it’s rock nonetheless. With all this rock around, it was easy for me to understand why the early Mormon settlers took on several wives. You have to do something out there in the rocks, and procreating seems as good a hobby as any. It certainly beats the delusional thoughts that wracked the minds of Capitol Reef’s early founders, who gave the place its name because they said one of the rocks was reminiscent of the Nation’s capitol. Not only that, the rock created a barrier that made crossing nearly impossible. I really couldn’t see the Capitol in the namesake rock, but I did see forms reminiscent of Marshmallow Peeps, those delightful, brightly colored little mallow-birds that are so popular around Easter.

At Capitol Peeps, Caroline and I navigated a beautiful, yet narrow canyon. It was a good hike, and it included evidence of early bloggers, who had carved stories in rocks way up the stream bed. That night in camp I slept soundly. But at around 2 a.m. I heard the unmistakable creak of a cooler being opened. When I shown the light out into the night, a pair of shameful eyes glowed in the darkness. The marauding raccoon scampered away with a packet of hard salami slices, and I successfully woke up the entire campground securing our supplies inside the car.

“The best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup,” I sang as lantern after lantern came on in tents and RVs all across the area.

Earlier in the day we came across a one-room cabin of one of the area’s earliest inhabitants. The man, his wife and 10 children all lived there, in a 10 by 20 foot shack. The boys slept out in the rocks. The littlest kids slept near the parents. The parents kept having children. Those rocks were doing their job.

And so it goes.

Don't Worry, It's Only an Advanced Trail, You Pussy!

2005-09-25T22:54:00.000-06:00

Sunday is a spiritual time. I spent most of today praying that I would survive our ride on the Sovereign trail, which I guess is Moab’s only singletrack ride. Things were going pretty well at the beginning. Then things started to get tricky. Not out of control, mind you, but difficult. That was about a quarter of the way in.

“What kind of trail is this?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s rated as advanced,” Caroline said matter-of-factly.

Shortly thereafter, a merry band of bikers—a robust coterie of Spandex-clad men—came zipping up the trail behind us. We pulled over to let them by. They passed and then stopped right in front of us, whipping the Camelbacks from their shoulders and whipping out Power Bars and bananas. They stuffed these items in their mouths and chewed with mighty, purposeful, robust chews, chattering about the obstacles behind and the trail ahead. One let out a tremendous belch, a battle cry to let the Earth know that it was about to be conquered. As we watched them snake up the hills in the distance, they looked like swarming ants, zigging and zagging around and then bunching up in little groups, waiting for the lead ants to go off and come back with news of what lay ahead.

A ways down the trail I found myself curled up in the fetal position next to the trail, making all kinds of promises to God about how I’d repent for all of my sins and mend my wretched ways if He would just grant me the strength in my legs and the coordination to pick my way through the remaining rocks, drops and badly rutted trail sections. It seemed as though a summer of torrential rains apparently rutted out the trail in several areas, making it much more difficult than when Caroline had last ridden it a few years ago. About 12 miles later, we found ourselves back at the car. I was happy to be alive. Caroline was relieved that my whining had ceased.

Caroline is a Moab pro. She danced over the trail on her bike like a pixie at a German wedding ceremony. And for those of you who don’t know what that means, well, I’m here to tell you that it’s pretty friggen graceful. She never broke a sweat—but she did mostly drain her Camelback.

Back at the hotel, I fell into a deep slumber. I had these terrible dreams of Angels buzzing around my head, reminding me of the promises I had made. I dreamed I was riding down some of the smoothest singletrack on the continent. Then my point of view zoomed out and I realized I was riding through the Slot Canyons of Hell on a singletrack trail that spelled out the word “Repent” in some of the most graceful penmanship I had ever seen.

When I awoke, I found that Caroline had taken it upon herself to clean up the bikes, organize our things and start looking over the itinerary of the coming days. I brooded in a sleep-soaked stupor.

With a few hours of daylight left, we made the drive into Arches National Park. Arches! Arches! Arches! That’s what you see there. Arches! I’m telling you. They’re everywhere, dotting the landscape like the forgotten promises of my Sovereign Repentance. We figured that we had timed things just right to be able to hit the Delicate Arch at around sunset, when the light would be most spectacular.

It was a brilliant idea, we thought, one that no one else would possibly think of. Why, the hike alone would scare most people away, we thought. The parking area was full when we arrived, but we snagged a space because Caroline hasn’t yet used up all her favors with the Lord. I figure God’s favors are kind of like sick leave and you only get so many each month. I constantly have a deficit going, but I believe Caroline has amassed enough to be able to ask for five, maybe six, favors a day for the rest of her life. I’m the John Travolta character to her Olivia Newton John character in our own real-life production of Grease (we’re planning on a debut live in Vegas next month).

Now this is an apparently magical time of the year right now. Every German, Asian and British tourist is right here, right now, visiting exactly the same places as we are. And perhaps this is why our plan went awry. The trudge to Delicate Arch was fairly strenuous, meandering through desert and slick rock. Had only the typical fat, out-of-shape American tourists that we routinely happen upon be out here, we surely would have been alone; most would have given up early on in the hike. The last half mile included a treacherous walk along a narrow ledge with a several hundred foot drop off the side. And just beyond this thin rock walkway lies Delicate Arch. Our arrival time was perfect, the light in the west was just beginning to soften, bringing out the vibrant colors of the surrounding landscape.

“This is perfect,” I whispered as we rounded the last corner.

It was wishful thinking. We crossed the threshold only to find that about 200 people had gathered with with their tripods and professional cameras and camcorders and tiny digital cameras perched atop 40-pound professional tripods. They were all there. Waiting. To take that perfect photo. As if Kodak were offering a million bucks this week only for the best Delicate Arch photos, which are ubiquitous in this area. One poor soul wandered beyond the threshold of people to stand under the arch for a photo. The mob cried out in protest and ran him off. These people were gathered to capture a rock, not people. Then, in a millisecond, it was over: The light flashed to a perfect hue, the sound of a thousand shutters echoed off the canyon walls.

Caroline and I jogged away, intent on beating the crush of humanity back to the parking lot, where a traffic jam awaited in this pristine land. And in three months, in hundreds of houses across the globe, a single photo of the Delicate Arch will lie forgotten, tucked away in hard drives, CD ROMs, and shoe boxes full of photos stuffed on the top shelf of a closet, to be discovered again later and puzzled over as to why it was taken in the first place.

See you on down the road.

The Fat Man Hits Moab; Moab Hits Back!

2005-09-24T22:30:00.000-06:00

I can tell you one thing about Cortez, Colorado: It's got no shortage of ham! Caroline and I pulled into a little place on the main drag called Poppi's to grab a quick bite. The road had been long and hot. We had been on the road for hours, and we still had hours to go. Outside of Poppi's we found a great way for securing our bikes. The method ensured that it would take a thief hours or an Atom Bomb to steal them, and if the latter method were used, they'd be worthlessly radioactive anyway. But I digress.

Poppi's has a menu item called "The Ultimate Grilled Cheese." Boy am I a sucker for the word ultimate. And when the description said the sandwich included not only ham, but bacon, and chedder cheese and pepper jack all served between two slices of Texas toast, well who was I to refuse? We dispatched the waitress to fetch one, and a plain old grilled ham and cheese for Caroline. Delicious! Bing-bang-boom! Ham in our guts and we were outta town! Cortez doesn't have a lot of things. But it does have tasty ham. Check out Poppi's next time you're in town.

Hours later we found ourselves in Moab. It was my first time. Caroline is a Moab pro. We quickly checked into our hotel, a strange wood-clad affair called the Red Rock Inn. Everything in Moab is rock something. Red rock, slick rock, tower rock, balance rock—you name it, and they'll add the word rock to it and sell it to you.

With just a few hours of daylight left, we took the opportunity to get in a short 16-mile ride. Caroline had chosen the easiest trail in Moab, which was good, I would later find out. Out on the Klondike Bluffs trail, we got a taste for slick rock and got to see some really cool fossilized dinosaur tracks. The three-toed tracks were right next to the trail and were well presevered. Looked like a meat eater. I was walking near the footsteps of kin.

That was all well and good until disaster struck shortly afterward. Now I'm big and sluggish on foot, but on a bike, well, you can imagine. I had been handling the slick rock pretty well, but then all of a sudden I had to go up this cliff thing. With a belly full of ham weighing me down, I couldn't quite get the momentum I needed, and before I knew it, I was down on the rocks with a shooting pain in the back of my leg. My big chain ring had ripped me open stem to stern, with about a five-inch long gash that had three other gashes radiating away from the main one. The bleeding was incredible! Not to be branded as a wimp, I rode down the rock and attempted the climb again. Nailed it—though the back of my leg by this time looked like it had fallen prey to a real dinosaur.

Later on at the hotel, the towel got pretty soaked with blood. I hoped the maids had biohazard training or wouldn't get spooked and call the police the next day when they would come and make up the room. Nothing worse than finding a blood soaked towel, I always say.

I have proof that giants walked the Earth with humans a long time ago. I got this photo of a human footprint wearing a size 47 double D dress shoes in the same geologic member as that three toed dinosaur track. (heh-heh. I said "member.") It wasn't just a human, but a giant, like the one David smote back in the Bible days. Put that in your pipe and smoke it and tell me not to support the teaching of Intelligent Design in schools, Mr. and Mrs. Smartypants! Had I had the time and a half pint more blood, I would have chiseled the damned thing out of the rock and sold it for about a million bucks on Ebay. But since I didn't, I'm not tellin' you where I saw it. You best just leave it alone!

See you on down the road ...

Jesus is Watching You!

2005-09-24T20:47:00.001-06:00

We hit the road at the cruel crack of dawn this morning. The car was loaded down with enough stuff to make seven of these journeys, but we wanted to make sure that we hadn't forgotten anything and we went for broke.I find it difficult to pack light anymore. The last time we took an actual vacation before this one, the town was destroyed in a terrible inferno and all that remained was what I had in one suitcase. And with the way disasters are hitting these days, the only thing that stands between you and disaster after you step out of the door to anywhere is a single roll of the Cosmic Dice. And when it comes up craps, that's all she wrote.

The people of New Orleans learned that the hard way. And they didn't make point again this time when Rita came calling. Lady Luck went to Texas and New Orleans crapped out again under five feet of water. If you wonder why that is, the Religious Right say they have the answer: New Orleans got punished because God has gotten tired of the Sin that soaks the streets there every day. That's what they're saying. Not that God flooded New Orleans so he could see how rich folk like Trent Lott and Pat Robertson would treat the poor and the afflicted afterward, so he could see for himself whether anyone actually learned anything about what Jesus had to say about the Golden Rule and humility and charity. Nope. God's mighty wrath was unleashed upon the poor in New Orleans because He's really pissed at sin and He wanted the barons of Big Oil to have an opportunity to make record profits this year as a just reward for all their good and decent acts of late.

Jesus is big business these days, and he's watching us. He's watching out for sin. Nowhere was this more apparent this week than just outside of Farmington, NM, where Caroline and I saw the likeness of the Biggest of the Big Guy's looming over a roadside Den of Iniquity. Just down the road, on the other side of the highway in Kirtland, there was a store selling sex toys for couples, its wares shamelessly advertised in bright day-glow colors, as if couples sex toys were as ordinary as April rains. Maybe they are in Kirtland, which could explain why that place had no billboard over it. But Jesus sees every which way, so they're not getting away with anything. They're only fooling themselves. Since they're out of the flood plain over there, we can only guess what type of disaster will befall that area in the days and weeks ahead. God's dishing out wrath these days like the Red Cross is dishing out relief checks. We were glad to leave dusty, sin-filled Farmington far behind. We didn't want to be around when all hell broke loose.

Okay, so I realize none of this has anything to do with vacation, other than since we've been able to stay away from work we've had more opportunity to read the news, and that's where we read about the Religious Right's latest shameful pronouncement. And we were able to drive through Farmington and see what the Religous Right is spending their money on these days. Billboards won't help much in New Orleans, except maybe for creating some high ground where people can escape the water while they figure out what they're going to do next. Having been through a disaster myself, I can say with authority that those peoples' struggles are just going to be getting started once the Media pull out and Katrina becomes yesterday's news. The Religious Right should be talking about God's mercy. Because that's what the people of South need most of all right now.

See you on down the road.