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“Let us be grateful to people who make us happy, they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom”
~Marcel Proust
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[/imageframe][separator style_type=”shadow” top_margin=”20″ bottom_margin=”20″ sep_color=”#71b5dd” icon=”” width=”” class=”” id=””][fusion_text]Making my way to a Village Inn on the east side of Flagstaff where we’ve agreed to meet, I enjoy breakfast while waiting for Dave to arrive. The nature of my trip will change this morning from a journey of solitude to a shared journey with a good friend. While the solitude of the trip so far has been a sublime experience, I’m almost giddy with anticipation to see my good friend, and be able to share the joys of this trip with him.
Dave orders breakfast when he arrives, and we relax in the booth while he describes a young fellow on a bicycle he passed along the interstate this morning. The guy was riding a heavy duty touring bike loaded to the gills with anything he might need to survive out in the wilderness. While Dave and I carry well under 20 pounds of gear apiece, he figures this guy’s gear had to weigh in at something north of 75 pounds.
This immediately opens up great breakfast conversation between us about the contrast between our minimalist style, and the more common fully loaded style of touring. It also opens up good discussion about the pros and cons of riding on different types of roads. It’s a conversation we’ve wandered through many times, exploring the difference in our points of view on the subject. While Dave likes a quiet road more, he generally will argue for using an interstate highway when possible and legal. The shoulder is massive, allowing you to keep a good distance between you and the traffic. They’re generally straight without steep climbs. They’re efficient. He makes a strong argument for that point of view. From my perspective, I’ll give up efficiency if it helps me avoid the traffic noise, the fumes, and all the glass, metal and other crap that litters the shoulder. If I have 500 square feet of space, would I rather pour a concrete slab, or plant a garden? Concrete is more efficient, takes less care, and is cheaper in the long run. The garden brings beauty to the space, and joy that can nourish the soul. It’s a balance that requires an understanding of where the space is, who’ll use it, and for what. We all bring our own bias to the balance, some of us leaning toward heartless efficiency, some of us leaning toward oblivious joy. Not that Dave or I are either heartless or oblivious. I lean a little toward the heart, Dave leans a little toward the mind, and we keep each other in balance.
It’s metaphoric discussion territory for us, and we both smile as our banter falls so quickly into the space we enjoy with each other. Efficiency on the one hand, joy on the other, and finding the right balance of the two.
The road headed north out of Flagstaff is two lanes in each direction with a great shoulder. While it’s fairly busy, it’s not nearly as busy as the interstate. A gentle climb takes us up into wonderful Ponderosa Pine country that reminds me of home in Colorado. At a couple points, I catch the smell of elk. It’s pretty strong in one spot, so I stop and scan the Ponderosa upwind of me. A couple hundred yards up the hill, a small group of them rests on the edge of dark timber, the sight bringing a homey feeling to my heart.
Back in the saddle and pedaling up the hill, the road crests at about 7500 feet, followed by a long and gentle drop out of the higher altitude with pines and shrub, and back into the high desert of northern Arizona. I enjoy the long descent sitting up high in the saddle, hands off the handlebars.
After lunch in Cameron at a spot that can only be described as a monument to tourist traps, we saddle up and continue north on 89. The traffic is heavy, and we’re now down to two lanes with a marginal shoulder. About 20 miles north of Cameron we turn right on US 160, which will be our highway from here through most of Kansas on our journey east.
For the next three days, we’ll be crossing the land of the Navaho, Hopi, and Ute. Rust-colored desert and bright red rocks sculpted into magical shapes create an otherworldly landscape around us. It’s breathtaking at times. I can’t imagine moving through this place and not feeling magic all around. How many places like this can there be on earth?
We’re dodging more debris and glass on the shoulder, and this seems to be getting worse the deeper we move into Reservation lands. Why is this? Does the state highway budget not include maintenance of this highway because it passes through reservation land? I find it hard to believe that as the highway crosses the border into the Reservation, the drivers suddenly start throwing more stuff out their windows. After all, it’s clear that the vast majority of the traffic along the road is “passing through†–- the same traffic that was on the highway before it entered reservation land.
In my lifetime, I’ve experienced the beginning of an epic transformation in our cultural ethic on how we treat our environment. When I was a very young boy, it was common and widely accepted to throw trash out of the car window. When we were out fishing, my dad and uncle would leave their beer cans out in the lake. My uncle was a forestry officer, having what at the time was probably an elevated ethic on land use. He insisted they fill the empty cans with water so they’d sink rather than float.
In the short years of my youth, the environment ethic of our culture began a transformation. By the time I was a teenager, it was no longer acceptable to throw trash out of the car window. We began to admire those whose behavior protected and nurtured the world around us, and to eschew those whose behavior was destructive to the world around us. It wasn’t a complete transformation, and some areas changed more quickly than others.
Hitchhiking in Georgia back in the mid-seventies, when this transformation was well underway in most of the country, I glimpsed a corner of the culture that wasn’t ready to change yet. My friend Scott Stuckey and I caught a ride with the perfect stereotype of the southern redneck. After several miles, he threw his empty beer bottle out his window to crash on the pavement. He must have seen the surprise on our faces, because he commented about “giving those government leeches something to doâ€.
That image has always hung with me. It’s one of those moments that just doesn’t fit well into the way I see the world. Considering the rest of what came out of the guy’s mouth, you’d think he loved the place where he lived. Yet, he felt perfectly justified in damaging the wonder he said he liked, and he justified it in his mind with the assumption that someone should be coming along behind him to clean up his mess.
I recall that long-ago incident as I negotiate around the glass and debris, wondering how we get to the point where it’s okay in our mind to leave a mess for someone else to clean up. Maybe we all do it in our own little ways, and some are more destructive than others. From the coworker who leaves her dirty dishes in the common kitchen sink all day, to big oil companies who destroy entire ecosystems, are we all guilty of some level of transgression?
I suppose big cultural transformations take time.
Treat the earth well, it was not given to you by your parents, it was loaned to you by your children.
~ Native American Proverb (Also one translation of “Hozhoâ€)
Tuba City is a little Navaho town in northern Arizona, right at the edge of the Hopi Tribe. Dave and I pull up to the Moenkopi Legacy Inn, and check in to an excellent room. We easily settle in to the routine we developed last summer when we toured together: unpacking, showering, doing laundry in the sink, hanging clothes to dry, and walking to a relaxing supper.
Ahhhh. The comfort of a familiar routine out in the desert of unfamiliar exploration. Dark chocolate for the soul.[/fusion_text][/three_fourth][fullwidth backgroundcolor=”” backgroundimage=”” backgroundrepeat=”no-repeat” backgroundposition=”left top” backgroundattachment=”scroll” video_webm=”” video_mp4=”” video_ogv=”” video_preview_image=”” overlay_color=”” overlay_opacity=”0.5″ video_mute=”yes” video_loop=”yes” fade=”no” bordersize=”0px” bordercolor=”” borderstyle=”” paddingtop=”20px” paddingbottom=”20px” paddingleft=”0px” paddingright=”0px” menu_anchor=”” equal_height_columns=”no” hundred_percent=”no” class=”” id=””][one_fourth last=”no” spacing=”yes” background_color=”” background_image=”” background_repeat=”no-repeat” background_position=”left top” border_size=”0px” border_color=”” border_style=”” padding=”” class=”” id=””][imageframe lightbox=”no” style_type=”dropshadow” bordercolor=”” bordersize=”0px” borderradius=”0″ stylecolor=”” align=”none” link=”http://www.amazon.com/Pilgrim-Wheels-Reflections-Cyclist-Crossing/dp/0982639120/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1425163739&sr=1-1″ linktarget=”_blank” animation_type=”0″ animation_direction=”down” animation_speed=”0.1″ class=”” id=””] 
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Pilgrim Wheels Excerpts
This post is part of a series of posts, representing excerpts from Pilgrim Wheels, a story of a cycling journey across America. Pilgrim Wheels was released on March 1, 2015. Before it’s release date, it had already won the following awards:
- Great Southwest Book Festival – 2nd Place – General Non-Fiction
- LA Book Festival – Honorable Mention – General Non-Fiction
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[/imageframe][separator style_type=”shadow” top_margin=”20″ bottom_margin=”20″ sep_color=”#71b5dd” icon=”” width=”” class=”” id=””][fusion_text]We’re up at 4:30 the next morning, headed up toward Flagstaff. There are a few miles of very narrow road indeed, and I can see why Dale was concerned. Reaching the top, I point out places where we can stop so Dale can drop me off, but he’s clearly intent on taking me further.
[/imageframe][separator style_type=”shadow” top_margin=”20″ bottom_margin=”20″ sep_color=”#71b5dd” icon=”” width=”” class=”” id=””][fusion_text]I expected to enjoy the solitude of my ride, and I have. More than I’d anticipated. The lonely lovely desert amplifies solitude. Wandering across these deserts has moved me beyond my expectations. I’ve found a deeper peace within myself.
[/imageframe][separator style_type=”shadow” top_margin=”20″ bottom_margin=”20″ sep_color=”#71b5dd” icon=”” width=”” class=”” id=””][fusion_text]In Aquila, the Coyote Flats Cafe and Bar sings a sweet invitation to me as it comes into view. I lean my bike against the window in the cool shade beneath a big awning. Leaving my helmet and gloves with the bike, I saunter through the front door, me and my Lycra. What’s it like, you might wonder, sauntering into a desert bar called “Coyote Flats†wrapped in Lycra? Looking back, it does seem a little odd. But the only thing on my mind as I walk through the front door is water and cool air.
[/imageframe][separator style_type=”shadow” top_margin=”20″ bottom_margin=”20″ sep_color=”#71b5dd” icon=”” width=”” class=”” id=””][fusion_text]Walking out of the store with full water bottles and sated thirst, the heat descends on me and drenches me. I’m a little nervous about whether my two bottles of water will be enough to make it 30 miles to Aguila, and walk back in to buy a little more liquid to be safe.
[/imageframe][separator style_type=”shadow” top_margin=”20″ bottom_margin=”20″ sep_color=”#71b5dd” icon=”” width=”” class=”” id=””][fusion_text]The desert has taken on a new complexion this morning. The landscape around me is dotted with saguaro cactus, while the sandy landscape beneath the saguaro is covered only thinly with desert plants. The saguaro are fascinating, standing regal and tall, welcoming the heat and desiccation, an endless army of green soldiers scattered across the desert for as far as the eye can see, soaking in all the punishment the sledgehammer sun can pour down on them.
[/imageframe][separator style_type=”shadow” top_margin=”20″ bottom_margin=”20″ sep_color=”#71b5dd” icon=”” width=”” class=”” id=””][fusion_text]I’m up and riding at first light. There’s more traffic today at this early hour than I’ve been seeing, and I consider whether it would have been wise to have a brighter headlight with me. I started the trip with a brighter one, but that extra pound or two was part of the flotsam I jettisoned back in Paso Robles. Sitting in the comfort of my living room, planning the trip out, it seemed like an easy and obvious choice to bring along the heavy extra light in order to add another level of security to my morning rides. However, out where the rubber and the road come together, the scales took on a different tilt.
[/imageframe][separator style_type=”shadow” top_margin=”20″ bottom_margin=”20″ sep_color=”#71b5dd” icon=”” width=”” class=”” id=””][fusion_text]Twenty miles out of town, I stop along the side of the road to take in a few calories and some liquid. The sun has crept above the horizon, a bright furnace of nuclear fusion, beginning the morning ascent into his throne in the sky. Mountains rim the horizon around me. The air is crystal clear. I’m a tiny dot in a vast petri dish of sand and desert plants.
[/imageframe][separator style_type=”shadow” top_margin=”20″ bottom_margin=”20″ sep_color=”#71b5dd” icon=”” width=”” class=”” id=””][fusion_text]Pre-dawn darkness sees me quietly stealing out into the wilderness, away from people, toward solitude. Rolling down the road through a sleeping town toward the vast empty expanse of the Mojave Desert, I listen to the sweet sound of my freshly oiled chain reflected from the buildings in town as I push my bicycle out onto the surface of a vast desert wilderness.
[/imageframe][separator style_type=”shadow” top_margin=”20″ bottom_margin=”20″ sep_color=”#71b5dd” icon=”” width=”” class=”” id=””][fusion_text]Day 7 of my trip. A good day to rest. This seems to be a popular opinion at any rate.