As I rode out of the Burning Man Festival and past a pirate ship art car, I regretted not staying another day. As it turns out, Nevada was not done with me yet...
Since I was departing for the northern California coast, I wanted to take a route that took me as due west as possible. I took Route 447 out of Gerlach, instead of following the RV caravan of burners south toward Reno. 447 was a gorgeous road, and it lacked much traffic beyond the occasional dust-soaked burner vehicle. I didn't want to go too far north, instead wanting to cut across to Highway 395 and through the Lassen National Forest to visit some volcanic moonscapes and hot springs. I studied the map and the GPS (thanks Winston!!!) and found a road that cut across some mountains and high desert. It was called whimsically Tuledad Road. It was a 60 mile long gravel road and I didn't have cell phone reception, but the road was in good shape, I had plenty of gas and sunlight, and it was going to cut 70 miles off of my route. I decided to take it. As I geared up, I pulled an earplug out of my pocket and it found a jeweled bindi stuck to it, a relic of my recent Burning Man past. I laughed.
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| A Burning Man relic |
Tuledad was quite the fun road! It twisted through sagebrush-covered mountains and gave me some much needed space after spending days in the tumultuous ball of humanity that was Burning Man. It wound back and forth along mountain ridges and my only company included some cows and jackrabbits. It was evident that this road had not been traversed in a long time. There were sagebrush tumbleweeds on the road that I had to swerve around and cow patties that had decomposed without being imprinted by a single tire track. It afforded some much needed solace. My mind wandered and I began assessing my life back at home--the things and people I missed, the things I was not looking forward to returning to, the terrible decisions I had made within the past year...the regrets, the guilt, the pain I had caused--as well as the amazing silver-lining of the sour turn my life had taken and all of the joy it had brought as a result. I realized that I was happy to be where I landed in life, despite the tough road that brought me to the present. After all, it had taken me to this beautiful high desert road and through the incredible experiences of the past few weeks.
Just then, I heard a loud, hollow thunking sound, but I didn't think much of it, assuming it was the sound made by a rock shooting out from under my tire, a common occurrence on a gravel road. I turned a corner and slowed down a bit. Just after I had rounded the corner, the back of the bike felt very unstable. It was swerving wildly like I had hit a patch of sand, but the road was firm.
FUCK!
FUCK!
FUCK!
I realized what had happened. I had punctured the rear tire and it had gone flat. I said to myself out loud: "So this is when the adventure begins." I remembered what an ex-boyfriend had told me about how to handle a bike with a flat tire. With adrenaline pumping through my veins, I let off the gas, pulled in the clutch, and channeled every last bit of my concentration into keeping the bike upright and slowly coming to a stop. Slowly, slowly...I dreaded crashing more than anything. It could make a bad problem worse. I stopped and as the dust whooshed past me, I just sat there for a minute on the still-idling bike, grateful that the bike and I were both upright. I looked at the rear tire and confirmed the issue, in the way a person tests for a broken bone when he already knows the answer.
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| Fuck. |
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| The adventure begins |
Now I had plenty of time and space to think. Now I had plenty of time and space to think. Instead of freaking out (at least initially), I told myself that the flat tire was a fortune in disguise, a much needed chance to sort some things out. I thought about the interactions I'd had with people on the trip and how my attitude had changed along the way. The further I traveled from Austin, the more I let go of fear, regret, sadness and uncertainty in my life and my future, and my attachment to what I thought I needed in order to be sustainably happy. I just let it go and left it on the side of that desolate road to decompose under those intense UV rays, to be scavenged by coyotes and cougars, and to be buried by that fine orange dust. If I had started AA at the outset of my walk, I could have conquered at least Step 10 by the time I found another human.
(Damn, this is turning out to be a long post with no photos--thanks for sticking with me)
I hoped that the baggage I had left near my motorcycle was not meeting that same fate as I walked farther from it. I had left a note on the front of my bike: "HELP!"; and another wedged into the seat stating what had happened, where I was going, and who should be called to be informed of my situation. I took the gear off of my bike and stashed it in the sagebrush. Later, I told this to a local, who laughed and said that the cattle out there would learn to read and discern that message before a human would have driven down that road.
I knew the road was long, but it felt like I had been walking for a couple hours. The sun was setting. The road twisted up and over some mountains and when I crested them and looked at the road ahead, my heart sank. Along the horizon, I could barely make out a linear break in the sagebrush--447 was still many miles away. I sat down and proceeded to freak out. It was starting to get dark and cold and the reality of the situation set in. I was fucked. Not only did I not have cell phone coverage, but I had told the people I had been checking in with on a daily basis that I would be out of cell phone coverage for a few days during Burning Man. Nobody would question my cellular silence for 3 or 4 days.
I started crying and thinking about the people in my life that I love and wanted to see again. I wished at least that they were there at that moment to commiserate with me. I felt so alone. And desperate. I thought about setting a fire--it was certainly dry enough and it would certainly get someone's attention. There couldn't have been anything for miles that couldn't use a good pyro-scrubbing. Or was there? I realized how selfish the fire idea was--even if I died out here, it wouldn't be worth loss of life and property elsewhere--but I kept the idea in my back pocket, next to the lighter I brought in case I needed to start a controlled fire for warmth. I screamed as loudly as I could and it echoed through the valley, and my misery was briefly interrupted by realizing how cool it sounded. Then I sunk back into my hole and screamed again with more gusto. I really wanted to shoot a gun at that moment. In that barren landscape, one could have wildly shot into the air, guns in both hands, like Yosemite Sam or Hunter S. Thompson on an ether binge. I sat there for another minute and realized that my tantrum was not getting me anywhere. Embarrassed, I stood up and pressed on. I started singing because it sounded so cool and I knew that nobody could hear me. I am such a terrible singer that I even avoid singing in the shower, fearing that a neighbor might catch a few decibels of my audio murder. But out here, only the jackrabbits would hear me--and they can shove it.
I pressed on, singing all of the songs to which I am sheepish about knowing the lyrics. It was perhaps the only time that the song "Shoop" had resonated through those canyon walls. After another hour of walking, my ankles were screaming with pain. As it turns out, stiff, reinforced motorcycle boots, designed to protect the delicate ankle bones during a crash, make dreadful hiking boots. I blister easily, but this had been a whole new level of skin abuse. Later, I would take off my boots to find that the entire heel region of my sock was soaked in blood and I won't even begin to describe the horrorshow that laid beneath the sock when I peeled it off of my foot. I couldn't walk normally for days. I hobbled around like the Tin Man from Wizard of Oz--pre-oiling.
Hours passed. But I was determined to get to that road. I took some shortcuts through the sagebrush to avoid extra distance added by the road switchbacks. The sagebrush gave off the most sublime scent as I brushed through it. As I made it back to the road and kept walking, I realized the foolishness of what I had just done--and a local would later reinforce how idiotic it was by heaving you-stupid-city-slicker lectures at my sheepish face. I had just walked about a mile through prime rattlesnake habitat. That was really stupid. I played out the Choose Your Own Adventure/Demise scenarios in my head and thanked Shiva/Buddha/Jesus that no fangs had been drawn. Later, on one of the main roads, I saw dozens of rattlesnake roadkills--the population was robust.
I walked by a parcel of land that I had noticed on the ride out and thought it might hold some promise. The place was graveyard for terrible cars from the 80s, smashed up demolition derby cars and mobile homes and RV's that also appear to have been in a demolition derby or two. It appeared uninhabited. Regardless, I did not want to find out what sort of life forms might be living in there. I had hoped that this place might be helpful. It was like I had been fooled by a mirage oasis. I took my chances with the desert instead.
I stopped to put on my long underwear and another wool sweater. I started running as I got close to 447--I didn't want to get close only to see a car drive by that I couldn't flag down in time. My now it was dark. I switched my headlamp to disco mode so the flashing might be noticed. Of course, a car had driven by as I was less than a quarter mile away. All of my headlamp flashing, screaming and arm waving would prove ineffective.
Finally........I arrived at 447. Later, I calculated that I had walked about 10 miles.
But my arrival was anti-climatic. I could see for miles in either direction...miles of empty pavement. I didn't know what to do with myself. Should I keep walking along 447 and in what direction? Instead, I pulled out my journal and wrote to focus my nervous energy. It would turn out to be the most illegible writing sample of my life. Minutes passed...more minutes passed...darkness thickened and the milky way started to wake up and stretch its arms across the sky. It was beautiful. Maybe I should have camped that night. 20 minutes had passed and I worried that I would be out there all night. I kept scrawling gibberish and got so into my verbal Jackson Pollack painting that I almost missed the set of lights coming my way. My heart raced. I'm saved! It was how I imagine sailors feel after seeing seagulls (indicators of nearby land) after being lost at sea for weeks.
I made sure that there was no way this person would be able to pass me without seeing me. I stood in the middle of the road, waved my arms wildly, and even started jumping. The driver must have thought that I was nuttier than squirrel shit, but he stopped. It was a cement truck. Great...this was probably some creepy trucker guy who is going to do terrible things to me then use my body as reinforcement in a new sidewalk. I took my chances. He rolled down his window and I just started bawling. I started retelling of my misfortune between sobs, but he interrupted me to tell me to get in. I stepped up into the truck and looked around--no guns, no creepy photos, no rope or lye in sight. As I told him my story, I kept my guard up. He told me about his wife and kids, his cement business, and his stint at Boston University to study physics, I relaxed a little more. As it turned out, David Goodwin was a very kind, generous man. The funny part--he was only driving about 40 mph because he had a flat rear tire! If he didn't have that flat, he would have been well past me by the time I had arrived at 447. Since he had dual rear tires, it didn't cripple him--it just made the ride really bumpy.
He drove 25 miles before regaining his cell reception (there aren't many hipsters with iPhones in the desert, so it is an AT&T cell reception desert too). I used his phone to call AAA to arrange a tow. It was one of the most frustrating phone conversations I can remember. After I gave the operator the location of the bike, which I knew had been lost in translation, she insisted that I be AT the vehicle before she dispatched a tow truck. What?! I asked her if the tow truck could pick me up and she gave me a firm "no." Plus, the bike was going to be towed to a town (with tire services) that was 20 miles from where David was stopping for the night and the tow truck driver, according to AAA, would not go looking for the gear I had stashed in the sagebrush. The operator transferred me to a car rental service: the nearest one was 70 miles. My frustration was thinly veiled. I got lost on the AAA phone tree and decided to just deal with it in the morning. I left messages with some friends and family and arrived in Cedarville about 20 minutes later. David hooked me up with a hotel room. I took a lackluster shower--my toiletries were still near by bike. I had looked forward to that first shower, having not had one for 5 days. It was better than a night stranded in the desert. I slipped my naked body beneath the sheets and dozed off--until a loud knock startled me so badly that I hopped out of bed. Being alone, naked, and having no cell reception put me on edge. A little interdoor communication revealed that the tow truck guy had tracked me down. I got dressed and hopped in his truck (which is ok with him, but not AAA). Gerry could have been cast as the tow truck driver in a small town--he fit perfectly, mullet, mustache, and an Arkansas heritage. We chatted at length about vegetable gardening, probably one of the only things we had in common. He was a wealth of knowledge. As we drove along Tuledad road, we got a feel for the size of the jackrabbit population. At no point was there not a jackrabbit in the headlights. At times, there were dozens. It was impossible to avoid crushing some along the way. Gerry winced each time, because it was unnecessary to be killing them and because he was taught to "eat everythin' ya kill." I think he would have picked up all the roadkill rabbits if I hadn't been there. He explained to me how to skin and butcher one. Gerry was a wealth of knowledge. We arrived at the bike, loaded it up and hauled her sorry ass back to civilization.
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| Poor little Claramond |
In order to get to the bike the next morning, David's mother-in-law gave me a ride to Alturas, CA. Joanne was a very kind woman and despite the thick of cigarette smoke cloud in her car, the ride was very pleasant. The sun was just starting to heat up the rock formations along the road and the healthy rattlesnake population became evident. The local tire shop put a patch in my tire and made me promise not to ride too far on it. They shop crew was great--they called up motorcycle shops in Redding to inquire about a tire that would fit my bike. Their buddy Jason in Redding set one aside.
The ride out of Alturas was tense. I was constantly worried that the tire patch would fail. I rode about a hundred miles on 2 square inches of butt cheek. Every gust of crosswind and imperfection in the road that caused my bike to quiver was cause for further muscle contractions. A roadside art installation lightened the mood a bit, as did the amazing roads and the fact that the tire had not failed yet. And the California coast was beckoning.
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| Random roadside art in rural CA |
Redding, CA is hot--Texas hot. Somehow, central California felt hotter than my ride through west Texas.
(to be continued)
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