Greenhorn: a person who lacks experience and knowledge.
There came a time when I was out of options. I had gone as far south in California’s great Central Valley as I cared to go. It was time to head east. It was time to leave the flat lands and climb over the massive Sierra Nevada Mountain Range. They were looming ominously in the distance.
I was no stranger to the Sierras. I had been raised in their foothills and spent 15 years leading hundred-mile backpack trips up and down its spine. I had hiked their length and breadth. I’d even biked across them a couple of times. But was I ready for them, now? Had my week of biking down the Central Valley prepared me for the tough climbs I knew were ahead of me? Were my knees and fat cells ready for the challenge?
There was only one way to find out.
I spent a half day in the town of Porterville having my bike tuned up. The town perches on the edge of the foothills and the edge of the valley. When I left the town, I would literally begin my climb. As usual, I picked a remote route. My plan was to start off on a country lane with the name of Old Stage Road. It wanders through the foothills and eventually runs into Mountain Road 109 which morphs into Jack Ranch Road before finally dropping down to Highway 155 at Glenville.
From there I would begin my climb up and over Greenhorn Pass, the true test. I wasn’t a greenhorn, but I was feeling a little green. Kermit would have seen me as a soul mate. I had never been over the road. I had no idea of what lay before me. My goal was to reach Isabella Lake, a reservoir east of the city of Bakersfield and, for me, the gateway to vast desert lands of the Southwest.
Leaving Porterville after lunch, there was no way I would make the 60 miles in one day, however. So I lollygagged. Why hurry? Orange trees greeted me as I biked out of town. Sampling one led to sampling two. California grows great oranges. Eventually the fruit trees stopped but it was a beautiful spring day and the hills were gentle. Luscious green grass was sprinkled with cheerful flowers. Happy cows munched away out in the meadows.
After some 30 miles, I began looking for a place to land along Mountain Road 109. Forget campgrounds or motels. There weren’t any. A babbling brook caught my attention. It was hidden by trees in a small canyon beside the road. The trees would also hide me. All that stood between me and Shangri-La, was a barbed wire fence. I hadn’t seen a car for 15 minutes and didn’t hear any coming so I quickly took off my panniers and tossed them over the fence, followed by my bike and then me with nary a tear in my clothes. Barbed wire has a nasty disposition. Panniers, bike and I then disappeared into the trees where I set up a pleasant camp a few feet away from the stream. I went to sleep that night to the gentle sound of water cascading down the canyon and a talkative hoot owl.
I awakened by a deep, loud, low moo, the type that comes from 2,000 pounds of bull. I couldn’t see him, which meant he couldn’t see me. That was the good. The bad part was that he was between me and the fence. I set about whipping up breakfast on my small backpacking stove, hoping the bull would move along. He didn’t.
As I was loading my panniers, I was struck with how red they were. Bull fighters use red capes, right? They make bulls angry and encourage them to charge. With a certain amount of don’t-want-to, I picked up my bull-charging panniers and headed toward the fence. The bull was pressed up against the fence and was as big as his moo. His bull-hood almost dragged the ground. He glanced at me disdainfully and returned his attention to staring across the road. I was saved by two girls. A pair of pretty heifers were making cow eyes at him. He could have cared less about me. I didn’t push my luck, however. In a flash, my bike, panniers and I were over the fence and on our way. But not before thanking the girls.
Two hours later I was eating my second breakfast in the tiny town of Glenville. A pair of old timers eyed me suspiciously. “Where you heading?” one asked. “Over Greenhorn Pass,” I’d replied.
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that. There’s a storm brewing up there today. It’s supposed to snow like crazy. You’ll freeze to death.” He warned me enthusiastically.
“That’s nothing,” his friend declared, not wanting to be outdone in the local doomsday competition. “It’s the drop off on the other side of the pass you need to worry about. Bike brakes can’t handle it.”
I suspected that the guys were having a bit of fun at my expense so I headed off with only a slight twinge of concern. My attitude changed when I was flagged down by an RV driving down the mountain I was struggling up. “I couldn’t believe how steep it is coming up the other side,” he told me. “I wouldn’t go down it on a bike.” My worry level jumped from a .01 out of 10 to a 9.99 in a nanosecond. But the only option would add a hundred miles. I labored on.
Thirty minutes later it started snowing. It wasn’t a blizzard but the snow was coming down fast, in large flakes. Visibility was limited. It was cold. I stopped to put on more clothes. At least, I thought to myself, if everyone is right about the drop off on the other side of the pass, I’ll be below the snow-line quickly. It was small consolation— like jumping from a freezing boat into icy water. And first I had to make it to the top. Hypothermia was a real concern. I tried riding but bicycling in the snow without studded tires is difficult and dangerous. So I got off and walked. Summer cabins off to my right caught my attention, but they were still boarded up.
Fortunately, I hit the top in a couple of miles and I wasn’t frozen solid. Better yet, the snow had turned to a few fluttering flakes, and the road off the pass was wet but not covered in slush. I’d survived the bull and the snow, but what about the downhill. A sign announced a 13% grade; 6% is usually enough to post a warning. I thought fondly of the apartment I’d left behind in Sacramento. But what the hell, life’s short. I climbed on my bike and started down. Soon, I was smelling my brakes, like a semi out of control. It was a long, long downhill. I stopped often to let the brakes cool. Even with that, my wheels had lost their true and were slightly warped by the heat when I hit the bottom.
I found another motel and declared another layover day. I’d earned it. The motel owner told me that a couple had biked off the pass the week before and then hitchhiked 50 miles into Bakersfield to have their wheels trued. I managed mine with a spoke wrench. Given my mechanical aptitude, it was a small miracle.
NEXT BLOG: Into Death Valley. (Peggy and I will soon be disappearing into a remote part of Canada and may not have Internet access. Also, as noted before, all photos are from the trip we are present on.)
29 thoughts on “A Huge Bull, a Blinding Snowstorm, and an Insane Downhill… The 10,000 Mile Bike Trek”
Curt, your adventures are hair-raising! I don’t even like the little hills on my bike after one particular scary incident when my brakes failed. As for the bull and your red pannier!! 😀 Keep safe…although your next section title doesn’t bode well – Death Valley!
They certainly were on that day. 🙂 Failed brakes. Ouch. Did our cable snap? Death Valley had it’s challenges, naturally, but they were a bit more tame than Greenhorn Pass. –Curt
Yep, you guessed right! Cable snapped and I ended up with both feet on the ground trying to slow down before jumping off. I’ve been quite cautious after that incident – not that there are many hills where we live now. I love following your journey!
Had I lost a cable coming off of Greenhorn pass, it would have been bye, bye Curtis. Glad you are enjoying the trip, Annika. –Curt
I always love it when the ladies get to be the heroes!
They were udderly charming. The bull didn’t stand a chance. 🙂 –Curt
Glad to see Eeyore is looking out for you and Peggy. I’m not sure which was more dangerous, bull, blizzard or brakes (hot ones that is). Glad you made it safely to the bottom. By the way, finished your book and love it. Will post a review when we get to Portugal and have more time.
Eeyore is a good companion, no doubt. Peggy has tried to leave him behind with adoring grandkids a couple of times but I’ve insisted that he come along. 🙂 Much excitement that day. Fortunately most of my days on the bike weren’t nearly that exciting. Really glad you enjoyed the book. And thanks for the review when you have time. –Curt
Good to know you made it out alive—again! Enjoy this trip. See you when you surface.
Thanks Peggy. Little adventures always add spice, keep me chugging along. Who knows, I may find better Internet in most of Canada… but not when we journey up to the far north, if the road is open. –Curt
Glad you managed to true your wheels. A term I will use next time around. Hope you don’t mind, Curt. Stay away from cranky bulls and steep down-mountains.
You are always free to use anything, Gerard. 🙂 Cranky bulls and steep downhills are definitely something to avoid… –Curt
Oh my goodness Curt what an adventure. Thank heavens you didn’t end up in a full blizzard! Love this line …Kermit would have seen me as a soul mate. Made me laugh out loud. 🙂
Me too, on the blizzard, Sue. It probably would have made me hightail it back the way I came. The old fellows at the restaurant would have been tickled. Glad you enjoyed Kermit. 🙂 –Curt
A bike is the way to travel and write – fast enough for variety, slow enough for observation! Must be difficult to steer and make notes though …
Ha Dave, that’s why I am retracing my route in the van… much easier to take notes and photographs. 🙂 I’d write my journal when I got into camp at night. Assuming I had enough energy. –Curt
I wondered how you did it! The results are excellent, anyway. Look forward to reading the next instalment.
Hmm, my sympathies over the bull, there were rather too many of them in my childhood, and my neighbours shut me in the cow byre.
Oh no, Hilary. That sounds like blog material to me. Traumatized forever. Was it on purpose? Had you been bad? 🙂 –Curt
An excellent as always post, Curt. I enjoy your adventures so much and your narrative voice just keeps getting better and better. Well done, my friend. 📮
Yikes! That’s a lot in a couple of days. I’d have totally freaked about the bull, let alone the snow and a descent so long and steep it overheats your brakes. Still I think of things I did when I was young and honestly wonder how I survived, and yet, like you, here I am today. It’s amazing what we get away with by just going for it isn’t it?
That it is Alison, and many people would note, still are! Obviously, you and Don still are. On another note, I’ve never worried as much about four legged animals as two. 🙂 –Curt
Big bulls are not to be messed with. I came across one just before Easter. Even though we were on different sides of the fence, that fence didn’t look like much security when compared to his size.
There’s a famous motorcycle run in Texas, over around Medina, that’s formally called the Three Sisters, except by those who’ve experienced it on motorcycles or bicycles. It’s known to them as the Twister Sisters — glad you didn’t have hairpins to contend with, too!
Ah, but there were hairpin turns, and even cattle guards. (Those were the type to keep big bulls in , not guard them, Linda:)) And a couple of days ago, we even saw a restaurant called The Twisted Sisters. –Curt
Orange trees are definitely not something we see in TN — but would love to! Come end of May, though, and you can pick peaches and see blueberries forming. And I’m one of those readers who does remember 40-cent gas. At least I think I do! I can remember McDonald’s hamburgers for 15 cents!!! Does that count?
McDs will do. 🙂 So will peaches and blueberries. –Curt
Ahem. When I lived in Nevada, we said the Sierra. I got scolded immediately upon using the wrong word when I was broadcasting for the National Weather Service. I found this funny comment: “‘We cannot argue logically with persons who deprecate logic; nevertheless, we can call them names. So we aver that the man who will say “Sierras” will also say “Frisco,” and is probably on a par with the printer who would letter-space lower case type. Such a printer, said Goudy, would steal sheep.’ Excerpt from the 1947 Sierra Club Bulletin. ed. David Brower”
You’ve probably already heard this. But funny how the red flags go up when I hear Sierras, after having been trained by the locals. God help you if you pronounce it “Nevohduh.”
Laughing, Crystal. I think my feet and the thousands of miles I have trekked up and down the range allow me to call the beautiful range what I will. 🙂 –Curt
A sense of ownership well-earned!