On the Road US

“NO! BAD DOG!!!” The 10,000 Mile Bike Trek

/ Curt Mekemson / 41 Comments
I camped out for the first time on my bike journey at McConnell State Recreation Area on the Merced River

I camped out for the first time on my bike journey at McConnell State Recreation Area on the Merced River.

There’s this thing about my body: it’s tough. Bouncing back from the second day of my bike trip is a good example. Once my body and its fat cells learned there were no options, they resigned themselves to hitting the road. It helped that I would be cycling over flat land. Make that flat, flat, flat.

I attribute my body’s toughness to working hard as a kid. This isn’t an Old Fartism; I didn’t walk five miles to school through a blinding snowstorm and five feet of snow. I lived a block away from school and we were lucky if we had five inches of snow once every five years. But starting at 14, I worked in the fruit orchards around Diamond, and it was hard, grueling labor that I somehow found fun. Both my body and mind learned that hard work didn’t kill me— and that there is a certain satisfaction from meeting hard physical challenges. It was a lesson that served me well in my years of backpacking and bicycling.

Leaving Escalon, I had some 250 miles of the Central Valley of California ahead of me— five days to get in shape before tackling the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

The Central Valley is one of the richest farm lands in the US, and, indeed, the world. I saw a lot of walnut trees, fruit trees and grapes. If you are a farmer, this is exciting stuff. If not, well the first three hours of cycling through grape orchards might be interesting. After that, it is good to have other things to occupy your mind, like dogs for example. They are always good for a few seconds of heart-thumping entertainment. Loose dogs are the bane of bicyclists. Here’s what I had to say in my journal.

3/15/89: It was a long day through raisin land. I must have had 20 dogs ranging in size from Chihuahua to Doberman decide they wanted a piece of me. I varied my tactics depending on the size of the dog. I slowed down for little ones, cycling just fast enough to keep ahead of them while telling them what good dogs they were. I would speed up for mid-sized dogs and get away. The big ones were the problem. First I would try a sharp, “No! Bad Dog!” If that didn’t work, I would calculate my chance of escaping. Having a down hill helped. If all else failed, I would get off my bike and have a discussion with the dog. Bending down and picking up a rock was a language that most of them understood. One particularly large brute didn’t get the message. I yanked off my air pump and prepared for confrontation. All that stood between us was my bike. He issued a deep, hungry growl while I waved my pump around ninja style. Only a whistle and then demand from his master saved the day. Reluctantly, very reluctantly, he returned to his house.

One road, Conejo, was by far the worst. I think that there must have been a requirement that each house have at least one large dog, that it be loose, and that it have a strong belief that cyclists were wild game to be chased down and eaten.

Congo Road featured this market as well as big dogs. The graffiti is a modern addition.

Conejo Road featured this market as well as big dogs. The graffiti is a modern addition.

My journey from Escalon led me down the west side of the Central Valley following Santa Fe Drive, a road with railroad tracks on one side and farms on the other. Traffic ranged from being busy with big trucks to isolated with a few tractors and pickup trucks. One 18-wheeler brushed by my bike and sent me scurrying off the road, causing my first flat. That was the bad part of the day, followed by some very bad words.

Cycling down Santa Fe Drive featured long, straight stretches, fruit trees and a train track.

Cycling down Santa Fe Drive featured long, straight stretches, fruit trees and a train track.

Train tracks meant trains, which I always considered an excuse to get off my bike and watch them pass.

Train tracks meant trains, which I always considered an excuse to get off my bike and wave at as they passed.

The good part was ending up that night at McConnell State Recreation area on the banks of the Merced River. Stately cottonwoods and other trees provided shade while a variety of birds provided music. It was my first camping out on the trip. When I unloaded my tent, Bone fell out. Apparently, he had been napping. A friend had slipped him into my pack. That night, I wrote letters by candlelight.

(Wi-Fi, Facebook, blogs, texting and cell phones and other forms of modern communication were not yet available in 1989. Except for pay phones, letters were the only way I had to communicate during my six-months of travel.)

The Merced River as it flows through McConnell State Park. When Peggy and I drove through there a few weeks ago, a sign warned swimmers that there were leeches in the water. We didn't go swimming.

The Merced River as it flows through McConnell State Park. When Peggy and I camped there a few weeks ago, a sign warned swimmers that there were leeches in the water. We didn’t go swimming.

After the park, I continued my journey down Santa Fe Drive, passing Castle Air Force Base and its impressive museum (A blog special). Next came dodging traffic in Merced followed by more lonely miles on Santa Fe Drive. I spent the night in Chowchilla and then crossed Highway 99 and made my way around Fresno and down to the town of Corcoran.

Castle Air Force Museum features over 60 vintage airplanes.

Castle Air Force Museum features over 60 airplanes dating back to World War II and up to the present. (I am going to give it a special blog.)

In the tiny community of Raisin City, I stopped at a grocery store and discussed cycling with its Indian owner. He told me his job in India as a young man had been to carry water on his bike with 20 gallons (167 pounds) on each side. It made my carrying 50 pounds of gear seem like child’s play.

Raised City reflected the poverty faced by many farm workers in the Central Valley... a poverty not shared by the majority of farmers.

Raisin City reflected the poverty faced by many farm workers in the Central Valley… a poverty not shared by the majority of farmers.

Much of the history of California as been marked by battles over who gets water.

Much of the history of California has been marked by battles over who gets water. California’s drought has brought this battle to the forefront once again. Farmers consider more dams to be the answer to their problems.

When I rode into Corcoran, the big news was that Charles Manson was being transferred to the state prison there on that day. He had been held in Folsom Prison from 1972-76 near Sacramento where I lived. At the time, one of his followers, Squeaky Fromme, had come to town to be near him. In her spare time, she worked a plot of ground at the Terra Firma Community Garden. The garden had been created by the Ecology Information Center where I had been Executive Director. Squeaky took a liking to my friend Steve Crowle who was the Exec at the time. (He had intense dark eyes, like Manson.)

On the morning of September 5, 1975, Squeaky laid off cultivating her garden, put on a red dress, and walked down to Capitol Park where she made history by pointing her pistol at President Gerald Ford. Shortly afterwards, the FBI showed up on Steve’s doorstep. Fortunately, he hadn’t had a clue who she was when she had been working at the garden.

I am going to conclude this blog with a bit of a rant. I promise to get back to the fun of cycling in my next blog. Here’s the rant: my bike trip down through the Central Valley took me by a number of cattle feedlots where thousands of cattle were penned up in small enclosures. The smell and sight of these lots is enough to turn your stomach, but that isn’t my point. My point is our inhumane treatment of animals. Let me put this bluntly, how would you like to stand around in your poop all day? There has to be a better way to raise cattle, even if it means we pay more for beef.

A feedlot steer checked us out. His feet told the story of his incarceration.

A feedlot steer checked us out. His feet told the story of his incarceration.

This photo tells another story about feed lots.

This photo tells another story about the tragedy of feedlots.

Maybe I am adding a human interpretation, but I can't help but believe that these cattle standing out in their fields are much happier than the cattle locked up in feed lots.

Maybe I am adding a human interpretation, but I can’t help but believe that these cattle standing out in their fields are much happier than the cattle locked up in feed lots.

Next Blog: I will slip in a special on Castle Air Force Base Museum.

Gold, Screaming Fat Cells, and a Great White Whale… The 10,000 Mile Bike Ride

/ Curt Mekemson / 31 Comments
My plans were to start my trip by cycling down Highway 49 through the foothills of California, which are beautiful in the spring.

My plans were to start my trip by cycling down Highway 49 through the foothills of California, which are beautiful in the spring.

It had rained much of the night, big buckets full, with a smattering of thunder and lighting thrown in for good measure— all of which made me thankful for my lumpy but cozy bed in the Old Well Motel. I rallied at 6:30. The clouds were breaking up and the sun was peeking through. It was good day for biking. More importantly, I knew a cup of hot, steaming coffee was waiting next door at the Old Well Café.

Ten people would constitute a crowd in the Old Well Cafe, but several Hollywood stars of yore had stopped there to eat.

Ten people would constitute a crowd in the Old Well Cafe, but several Hollywood stars of yore had stopped here to eat.

“Did you find the treasure?” the waitress inquired with a wink in her voice. She had told me the story the night before. According to legend, a handful of bandits had buried close to $80,000 on the property before being hunted down and killed in a shoot out. “No,” I had laughed, “but I did find a good night’s sleep.”

Tales of lost treasure are abundant in gold country. Some of them may even been true. Growing up in Diamond Springs, 13 miles from where gold was discovered at Coloma, I had often heard such stories. Millions had been taken out of the ground, initially with gold pans and sluice boxes, then with powerful water canons, and finally from deep, hard rock mines. The Kennedy Mine, located a few miles away, measures some 5912 feet in depth, making it one of the deepest mines in the world. It is hardly surprising that some of the gold would have gone astray.

There were plenty of outlaws to help. The most famous was Black Bart, the gentleman bandit. Always well-dressed, he robbed stages on foot since he was afraid of horses. Targeting Wells Fargo coaches, he would politely request that strong boxes be handed over. Since his requests were backed up by a shotgun, stage drivers were quick to comply. On occasion, Bart would even leave a poem behind. Here’s a sample:

I’ve labored long and hard for bread, For honor, and for riches,

But on my corns too long you’ve tread, You fine-haired sons of bitches.

Maybe not great poetry, but it managed to get Wells Fargo and the media excited.

I made my way through a second cup of coffee, putting off the inevitable moment when I would climb on my bike and start up the steep hill that was lurking just outside the door. Other travelers had lingered here as well. Notes of appreciation from Bob Hope and Phyllis Diller were on the wall. I procrastinated for a bit longer by reading them. Finally, out of excuses, I stepped outside and strapped on my helmet. The day had begun.

My goal was another short day. As you may recall, I had done nothing physically to prepare for my journey. I was conditioning on the road, whipping my fat cells into shape. The first day had been 18 miles, my second was supposed to be around 30, the third 40 and so forth. By the end of the first week I was hoping to be riding somewhere between 60 and 70 miles each day.

“The best laid plans of mice and men often go astray…” –Robert Burns

My problem, I quickly learned as I pedaled out of Drytown, wasn’t that I was bicycling 30 miles my second day out (what kind of a big deal is that?); it was that I was biking down historic Highway 49. The foothills of California don’t understand flat. They go up, and they go down… period. Make that steep up and down. My fat cells were screaming after 100 yards. By 200 yards they were so loud I was convinced that people driving by could hear them. I dropped down in gears until I didn’t have any more to drop into. I climbed out of the saddle. I was travelling so slowly that if I traveled any more slowly I was going to fall over.

The foothills of California may be beautiful in spring, but they also make for steep cycling— any time of the year.

The foothills of California may be beautiful in spring, but they also make for steep cycling— any time of the year.

This sign really wasn't pointed this way, but it is how I imagined it.

This sign really wasn’t pointed this way, but it is how I imagined it.

But enough on that. I made it over the hill and coasted down to Amador City. I made it over the next hill and coasted down to Sutter Creek, one of my favorite towns along Highway 49. I had travelled all of five miles. It was time to celebrate. It was time for breakfast. “Yahoo!” the fat cells shouted in unison. You may have heard them.

Many of the old gold rush town along Highway 49 have done a great job of maintaining their early buildings. Sutter Creek is a good example.

Many of the old gold rush town along Highway 49 have done a great job of maintaining their early buildings. Sutter Creek is a good example.

The cells did little more than grumble as I cycled out of Sutter Creek and up another hill. They were too busy scarfing down bacon, and eggs, and buttered toast. But then my right knee started to whine. Screaming fat cells are one thing; a whining knee another. It can be serious. By the time I reached Martel, at the top of the hill, I had a decision to make. Highway 49 promised more hills, lots of them, and I had 9,974 miles to go. I didn’t want to mess up my knees. So I turned right. At 26 miles into my trip, I changed my well-planned itinerary. I was headed for the Central Valley of California, which was as flat as the foothills were hilly.

The road out of Sutter Creek. There will be lots of street shots in this series, since this was my world for the six months I bicycled.

The road out of Sutter Creek. There will be lots of street shots in this series, since this was my world for the six months I bicycled. Here’s a bicyclist’s perspective: steep hill, narrow/nonexistent shoulder with no where to ride or escape, rough road, and curve coming up. There is danger if someone tries to pass you (you may want to ride out in the road to force motorists to ride behind you until you get beyond the danger).

Decision time. Do I ride on down Highway 49 to Jackson and beyond? Or do I cut right and ride toward Stockton and the Central Valley?

Decision time. Do I ride on down Highway 49 to Jackson and beyond? Or do I cut right and ride toward Stockton and the Central Valley?

The decision, heading for the flat lands.

The decision, heading for the flat lands.

Getting there was 90% of the fun. It was mainly downhill. About 35 miles from Drytown, I reached the small community of Clements, a perfect distance for the day— except the grocery store where I had planned to shop was closed. Boy did that create a dilemma for the fat cells. They could go hungry or cycle on. I decided that the Calaveras River, another ten miles, would make a great camping spot— except the Calaveras turned out to be little more than a mosquito-infested ditch. Are you beginning to see a trend here? I went off route for several miles looking for a motel— except I couldn’t find one.

I could have stopped on the Mokelumne River near Clements that still had water, bit I cycled on the the Calaveras.

I could have stopped on the Mokelumne River near Clements, which still had water, but I cycled on to the Calaveras, which didn’t.

My fat cells and my legs were not happy. But they were having a picnic in comparison to my butt. Any bicyclist will concur: few things can match the pain of an out-of-shape abused tail at the beginning of a long bike ride. You don’t get off your bicycle seat, you peel yourself off. And you don’t sit down on your seat. You gently lower yourself and then shoot a foot up in the air from the agony. So there we were: me, my butt, my legs, and my fat cells, unhappily faced with another 20 miles of cycling into the town of Escalon, hoping beyond hope there would be a motel.

The long road to Escalon...

The long road to Escalon, with a headwind.

I made it. What more can I say. I turned a 30-mile day into a 67-mile day my second day out. And there was a motel, a beat up old motel, a barely standing old motel, the most beautiful motel I have ever seen. I cycled across the highway to the office… and couldn’t get off my bike. My right leg refused to function. It had gone on strike. I couldn’t get it over the bike. There was nothing left to do but laugh. I finally managed the trick by lowering the bike.

The room made my room at the Old Well Motel look like the Taj Mahal. It didn’t matter. Nothing did. I stripped and headed for the shower, hardly stopping. And made a mistake. I glanced in the mirror. Moby Dick, the great white whale, was staring back at me. Ahab would have taken one look and grabbed his harpoon. What in the world was I doing?

It was a three-beer night. I declared the next day a layover.

The Escalon Motel as It looks today. Peggy and I stopped for a photo. Several restaurants and a Starbucks are now located nearby and the motel looked like it had received a recent paint job.

The Escalon Motel as it looks today. Peggy and I stopped for a photo. Several restaurants and a Starbucks are now located nearby and the motel looked like it had received a recent paint job. My ‘driver’ was rewarded with a Grande Caffe Latte.

NEXT BLOG: Four days of cycling through the Central Valley. I discover a great air museum, find Bone hidden in my panniers, meet far too many dogs that want to eat me, learn something about the loneliness of the long distance bicyclist, and ride by a prison that tells me I can’t pick up any hitchhikers. Since mass murderer Juan Corona and Charles Manson are housed there, I decide it is a good idea.

The Ten Questions People Most Frequently Ask Bone… The 10,000 Mile Journey

/ Curt Mekemson / 19 Comments
Bone checks out Mt. Everest in Nepal

Bone checks out Mt. Everest in Nepal

Note: Last post I introduced you to my travelling companions as Peggy and I make our way around the US and Canada following my bike route. Peggy, Eeyore and I are relatively normal. Well, at least two of the three are. But Bone is way out there. For example, yesterday he was looking for Elvis Presley… but that’s a story for later. Today I want to provide greater insight into Bone’s character by reposting an earlier interview that Bone had. I think that you will agree he/she/it is really strange.

1: Do you really talk. We’re speaking ethics here, Bone. Blogging is about transparency. That means honesty.

Are you crazy? Have you ever heard a bone talk? Of course I don’t talk. I just think out loud.

2: Curt sometimes refers to you as he. Does this mean you are a male bone?

No. He makes assumptions, lot of them. He was showing me to a biologist at the San Francisco Writer’s Conference and she suggested I have my DNA tested. “Just cut a small chip off of it,” she said nonchalantly. “You can determine its sex and breed.”

 “Just cut a small chip off of it?” Outrageous! I am not some it to have chips cut out of. Besides, I lead a rich fantasy life and have no desire to know whether I am male or female. Call me she, he, or Bone, but never it.

Um, I think Bone is definitely a male in this photo.

Um, there are reasons why I tend to think of Bone as a male.

3: You have travelled all over the world and met thousands of people. How do they usually react to you?

With befuddlement. You should have seen the look on the face of the customs agent in New Zealand who tried to seize me as ‘animal matter.’ But emotions run the gamut. There was a Japanese man who got off a tour bus at Yellowstone National Park and wanted to hold me for good luck. Soon there were 43 other Japanese handing me around and oohing. On the opposite side, I know a woman who refuses to touch me, like I have cooties. “I don’t know where Bone has been,” she states primly. Not surprisingly, there is also jealousy. “I want to be Bone and travel the world,” a good friend in Sacramento claims.

4:  What is your favorite thing to do?

Visit graveyards; there are lots of old bones there. My favorite grave is Smokey Bear’s in Capitan, New Mexico. I once stood on his tombstone for ten minutes trying to communicate but all I could get was something about ‘growling and a prowling and a sniffing the air.’ A close second is the grave of Calamity Jane in Deadwood, South Dakota. What a woman! These are difficult choices though when you toss in the likes of Hemingway, Daniel Boone and Billy the Kid. On the light side I once visited Ben and Jerry’s graveyard of discarded ice cream flavors in Vermont. My spookiest experience was a visit to the Capela dos Ossos, the Chapel of Bones, in Evora, Portugal. Those folks definitely have a skeleton in their closet, lots of them.

5: So, what’s your second most favorite thing to do?

Too hard; I am a dilettante dabbler, but here are a few.

  • Wandering, of course, anywhere and everywhere and by all modes: bikes, kayaks, rafts, skis, backpacks, sailboats, planes, helicopters, trains, cars, RVs, etc.
  • Visiting wild, remote and beautiful natural areas. I began life wandering the Sierra Nevada Mountains, John Muir’s Range of Light.
  • Seeking out strange phenomena such as ghosts, Big Foot and aliens (I’ve been to Roswell four times).
  • Attending unique events like Burning Man but I also have a fondness for any type of fair.
  • Meeting weird people like Tom.
Tom, being wonderfully weird on a raft trip down the Colorado River he was leading, put on a Bone headpiece.

Tom, being wonderfully weird on a raft trip down the Colorado River he was leading, put on a Bone headpiece.

Bone dressed up for the Canyon trip in his own life best.

Bone dressed up for the Canyon trip in his own life vest. The vest, BTW, was certified by our son Tony, who flies helicopters for the US Coast Guard.

6: Speaking of Tom, he and Curt ‘discovered’ you in 1977 and you have wandered extensively with both. Who do you like best?

Eeyore, the jackass who can’t keep track of his tail. We’re travelling companions and he saved me from being strung up and buried on Boot Hill in Tombstone, Arizona. I’d robbed a bank, cheated at cards and hung out with women of delightful character. (This is what I mean by having a rich fantasy life. It’s also known as evasion.)

7: Which of your journeys has been most memorable?

I would have to say traveling the length of Africa in the back of a truck from the Sahara Desert in the north to Cape Town in the south. Almost falling off the back of a riverboat into a piranha infested section of the Amazon River would have to be a close second. I was perched on the back railing doing a photo shoot. And of course there was my 10,000-mile bike journey.

Bone doing his photo shoot on the Amazon. Shortly after this he started to fall off. I made a quick leap and barely caught him. The photo shoot was over for the day.

Bone doing his photo shoot on the Amazon. Shortly after this he started to fall off. I made a quick leap and barely caught him. The photo shoot was over for the day. We did eat piranha that night in his honor, however. They taste like fish.

8: You are often seen scrambling over rocks in remote sections of the Southwestern United States. What’s that all about?

I’ve developed a fondness for Native American Rock art. It resonates with my bone-like nature. It’s also another excuse to go wandering around in the outdoors. Plus, some those places might be haunted and it is a great place to look for UFOs. Some of the petroglyphs look amazingly like aliens. Finally, wandering in the desert is known to be good for the soul. Ask the Prophets of yore.

9: Ah, being a Born Again Bone, do you have any insights into the great unknown?

Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

10: Finally, and this may be a little sensitive, but do you always run around naked?

What kind of question is that? Do you think I am uncivilized? For shame. I am the epitome of haute couture! A bow and arrow toting, card-carrying NRA member in Montana who is building an airplane in his basement has designed and made me two leather vests. What’s more, an 80-plus year old woman in Kansas going on 20 with a crush on Johnny Depp and a room devoted to the Egyptian gods has made me a kilt and several other outfits. Face it; I am hot stuff, clothed or naked. I may take up a modeling career.

Bone celebrates on top of Mt. Kilimanjaro!

Bone celebrates on top of Mt. Kilimanjaro! (red coat above the O)

Here's Bone at the lowest point in North America in Bad Water Basin in Death Valley, 282 feet below sea level. (He was there on the bike trek and has since returned.)

Here’s Bone at the lowest point in North America in Bad Water Basin in Death Valley, 282 feet below sea level. (He was there on the bike trek and has since returned.)

NEXT BLOG: I return to my bike route. My first days are supposed to be easy short days, a time to make up for the fact that I didn’t do anything physical to prepare for my adventure. The second day turns out to be a doozy, however. And I am greeted by a great white whale at the end.

Traveling Companions: Peggy, Eeyore, Bone… 10,000 Miles by Bike

/ Curt Mekemson / 19 Comments
Eeyore rescues Bone from the hangman's noose in Tombstone, Arizona allowing him to continue his journeys around the world. Bone travelled with me on my bike trek.

Eeyore rescues Bone from the hangman’s noose in Tombstone, Arizona allowing him to continue his journeys around the world. Bone travelled with me on my bike trek.

Now that you have had an initial introduction of my journey, it’s time to introduce my travelling companions as Peggy and I cross the country in Quivera the Van retracing my 10,000 mile bike route. If you follow this blog, you know Peggy, of course. She is integral to this story, as she is to all of my blogs. Remember, I met her at the end of my bike trek. Sparks flew. She is the conclusion to this story… and the beginning of another.

I mentioned Eeyore in my first blog of this series. He was peering out the back window, his favorite location when we travel. He prefers looking backward instead of forward. He is a bit of a contrarian. It’s the jackass in him.

Everyone knows this lovable donkey who has trouble keeping track of his tail. He’s been travelling with us for ten years when we travel by van. Normally his life is rather calm. There have been a couple of exceptions, however. The first was the time the teachers kidnapped him from Peggy’s office when she was working as an elementary school principal. They demanded chocolate for ransom.  Peggy dearly loves her chocolate, however, and Eeyore was almost out of luck. He could still be hanging out at Olive Grove Elementary School while being abused (whoops sorry, meant loved) by first graders. Fortunately, Peggy finally gave in. It wasn’t like the teachers were demanding higher salaries…

Bone faces the gallows in Tombstone, Arizona. He'd been cheating at cards, hanging out with loose women, and robbed a bank.

Bone faces the gallows in Tombstone, Arizona. He’d been cheating at cards, hanging out with loose women, and robbing  banks.

The second time was scarier; he had to save Bone from the hangman’s gallows in Tombstone, Arizona. “Wait a minute,” you say. “Who and what is Bone?” Thanks for asking. Those of you who have been around my blog for longer that three years will know the answers. But for the rest of you, here’s the story. In the beginning of my blogging efforts, I had in mind writing a book called “Travels with Bone.” (It’s still coming.) So I developed a blog titled, The Peripatetic Bone. When I decided to write The Bush Devil Ate Sam about my Peace Corps’ experience I changed the blog to Traveling through Time and Place. Here is the very first paragraph from my very first blog.

This is it, the Peripatetic Bone’s blog. And no, I am not Bone. My name is Curtis Mekemson. My wife Peggy and I participate in, or one might say, facilitate, Bone’s wandering ways. Like the ubiquitous gnome, Bone shows up in some rather unique places. Burning Man is an example. Peripatetic means to wander about. It’s a good description for Bone (and me).

My friend Tom Lovering and I found Bone in 1977. He was hanging out half buried in snow in a patch of corn lilies along the Tahoe-Yosemite Trail south of Lake Tahoe. Tom and I had a game when we backpacked. If one of us found trash, the other person had to pack it out. I found Bone, declared he was trash, and Tom had to carry him— at least until he could sneak him back in my pack. Here is Bone’s perspective on being found:

I didn’t plan on seeing the world and becoming famous. Once I was part of a horse located just above the hoof. I had no freedom; I had no glory. Wherever the horse went I went also, a mere slave to his desires. During the summer this meant carrying greenhorn tourists into the backcountry of the mountains above Lake Tahoe. The added pounds gave me bone-jarring headaches. Then the horse died; I like to fantasize that a large bear with big teeth and sharp claws ate him.  Hopefully he ate the tourist as well.

Whatever happened, I was free to be me, Bone. Yes, that’s right, Bone is my name. A kindly coyote picked me up and carried me to a high meadow filled with Corn Lilies. It was there that I discovered my Zen-like nature as I meditated through the seasons. I was alone except for a mouse that came by and nibbled on me occasionally. That hurt. In fact, it interrupted my meditation and scarred me for life; you can still see teeth marks. I blame all of my subsequent bad behavior on that flea bitten miscreant.

My annoyance at the mouse, however, was minor in comparison to my anger at the large two-legged creature who yanked me from my meadow home and begin yelling I was trash as he ran down the trail in pursuit of another two-legged creature.  Can you imagine the insult? I had no way of knowing that this was the beginning of my world travels or that the two creatures, Curt Mekemson and Tom Lovering, would become my servants.

World travels indeed. Bone has now been in over 50 countries and all 50 states. He travelled with me on my 10,000-mile bike trip and with Tom in the back of a truck from the Sahara Desert to South Africa. He has wandered close to 200,000 miles with Peggy and me as we have explored North America. Other people have also carried Bone. He has been blessed by the Pope and attended a Bill Clinton Presidential press conference. “Excuse me, is that a gun in your pocket.” He has been on top of Mt. Kilimanjaro, at the base of Mt. Everest, and on top of Mt. Whitney. He has gone deep sea diving in the Pacific and boated up the Amazon. You get the idea. It’s only proper that he be along with Peggy, Eeyore and me on our present journey.

Bone is going to answer the ten most common questions people ask him in my next blog. After that, I will get back to my bike trip and the big white whale that scared the hell out of me.

Wyatt Earp arrests Bone in Tombstone. Doc Holiday checks him for weapons.

Wyatt Earp arrests Bone in Tombstone. Doc Holiday checks him for weapons.

Bone checks out Billy Clanton's grave on Boothill— thankful it wasn't him.

Bone checks out Billy Clanton’s grave on Boothill— thankful it wasn’t him.

A 10,000 Mile Bike Trek Begins with the First Pedal… Maybe

/ Curt Mekemson / 33 Comments
This would have been my first official stop sign on my bike trek. My first grade teacher, Mrs. Young, had lived across the road. She kicked me out for a year when she learned my mother had forged my birth certificate to get me out of the house.

The  first official stop sign on my bike trek. My first grade teacher, Mrs. Young, had lived across the road. She kicked me out for the year when she figured out my mother had forged my birth certificate. The cut off for first grade had been March 1st. I was born on the 3rd. It was a poor forgery. I was happy to return home. My mother, not so much.

“So, you are going out beyond the clouds this morning.” –Pop

I had planned to leave on my birthday, March 3. I liked the symbolism. But it was raining, and I had a few things left to do— like buy my bike. It wasn’t a big thing; I had owned several over the years. My first had been a one speed bike with coaster brakes and handle bars that would have made a laidback Hell’s Angel jealous. It was well-used. Some kid would have been proud to call it new back before World War II. My parents paid five bucks for it. The bike provided me with the freedom to zip around my home town and the surrounding countryside for several years until impending teenagehood suggested it wasn’t cool.

My Trek 520 cost a lot more. It was designed for touring. According to the company: “If you’re a committed touring cyclist looking for the utmost in comfort and durability to carry you to familiar destinations and unexplored vistas, 520 is your ride.” The ad went on to claim that the bike was “ultra-stable even when fully loaded.” Well, I was definitely headed for ‘unexplored vistas’ and ‘fully loaded’ for my trip meant close to 60 pounds of bike gear, camping equipment and books— plus Curt. It was a lot to ask of a bike.

A funny aside on Trek Bikes. The company once threatened to sue the American Lung Association for using the name “Bike Treks,” which was silly, to say the least. When I pointed out that I had trademarked the name two years before the company was created as The Sierra Trek, it became a question of who should be suing whom. The issue was quickly and quietly dropped.

I decided to begin and end my trip in Diamond Springs where I was raised, a small community 30 miles east of Sacramento on Highway 49. Here’s the opening paragraph in my bike journal:

3/10/89

The journey starts today, where so much of who I am started. That’s why I am here. That, and because my father is here and I wanted to spend some time with him.

As I wrote, Pop was out in the kitchen of his trailer meticulously preparing eggs and grumping because he hadn’t prepared everything the night before. At 84, he liked to have things just right. In fact, he had always wanted things to be done just right, maddenly so. Maybe it had come from his training as an electrician where he had once done something wrong and come in contact with a live, 11,000-volt high power line. Those type of lessons stick with you.

Pop in his 80s

Pop in his 80s

I’d been visiting and sleeping on his couch for the past three days. It had been a good visit, as we relived his youth, and mine. He’d been born back at the end of the horse and buggy age and the beginning of the horseless carriage era. He’d seen a lot, but his favorite times were still when he was growing up in Iowa. I had heard the story many, many times. It was a well warn groove in his brain, to be remembered when everything else was forgotten. He was functioning well for his age, however, even though he had suffered a minor stroke. I treasured our time together.

Finally, after breakfast, I loaded my four panniers and a day pack I would be carrying. Pop came out to wish me a safe journey and take photos. He always carried a camera and was quite disgusted I didn’t. It was one of three complaints I heard regularly. The other two were that I wasn’t happily married and making little Mekemsons (lots of them), and that I had strayed from my Christian upbringing. Of the three, I am still convinced that he believed not taking photos was my greatest sin.

A solid hug sent me coasting down the hill from his trailer in the Diamond Manor Mobile Home Park, a bit teary eyed. I couldn’t be sure he would be around when I returned. My first pedal rotation at the bottom of the hill stopped halfway. “Damn,” I thought, climbing off my bike and almost falling over. I was ever so glad that no one had been present to watch. The problem was immediately apparent. I’d put my panniers on backwards, not a great start. I righted the wrong and began again— the first pedal of 10,000 miles.

Thomas Wolfe said, “You can’t go home again.” He was right, of course. The 46-year old Curtis of 1989 was a world apart from the 6-year old Curtis of 1949. And both were different from the Curtis of today.  And yet you never totally escape from the home of your youth, and in ways, it always remains your ‘home.’ My first short day of bicycling was packed with memories. I’ll let photos tell the story. Pop would be tickled that Peggy and I are redriving the route— and even more pleased that we are carrying cameras.

I am rather amazed that the house I was raised in still stands, given that it's parts had been prebuilt foe a World War II army barracks. My room was on the far left.

I am rather amazed that the house I was raised in still stands, given that it was an early version of a manufactured home, prebuilt for a World War II army barracks. My room was on the far left.

Every few feet of bicycling brought back a memory. This sunken ground was once a cave that included the crystal clear springs that gave Diamond its name.

Every few feet of bicycling brought back a memory. This sunken ground off of Main Street was a cave when I grew up. It  included the crystal clear spring that gave Diamond its name. It had once provided water for Native Americans and later was a watering hole for 49ers passing through town. When a group of miners found a 25 pound gold nugget nearby, they decided to hang around and the town was founded.

Now it hosted a Tea Party sign. Thinking Tea party led me to think of Alice in Wonderland and I wondered if that was where the name had come from. The Mad Hatter tea party seemed to fit a lot of politics.

Now it hosted a Tea Party sign. Thinking tea party led me to wonder if the Boston Tea Party or the Mad Hatters Tea Party in Alice and Wonderland provided the inspiration for the name. A crazy hatter who had inhaled too many mercury fumes and a March Hare who ineffectively threw tea cups willy-nilly at anyone and everyone seems to be a great model for much of today’s politics.

As I made my way down main street, I came to this barber shop. I'd had my hair cut there in the 40s and 50s! Even further back in time, it had served as a one room school house.

As I made my way down main street, I came to this barber shop. I’d had my hair cut there in the 40s and 50s! Even further back in time, it had served as a one room school house.

The old Diamond Hotel is just across the road from the barber shop. It still serves good food. Now days, like many old establishments along historic Highway 49, it claims to be haunted. Ghosts are good for business.

The old Diamond Hotel is just across the road from the barber shop. It had served good food when I was growing up and still does. Now days, like many old establishments along historic Highway 49, it claims to be haunted. Ghosts are good for business.

The Graveyard: I could write a book about it. It was just across the alley outside our back yard and dominated many of my early memories. In the day time it was an elaborate play pen. At night it became the dreaded home of dead people and ghosts.

The Graveyard: I could write a book about it. It was just across the alley outside our back yard and dominated many of my early memories. In the day time it was an elaborate play pen. At night it became the dreaded home of dead people and ghosts.

Heavenly trees on the edge of a graveyard in Diamond Springs, CA

It was a wild place covered with Heavenly Trees like these that served to hide the tombstones when we were young. They still lurk on the edge of the Graveyard, waiting to reclaim it. I prefer the wild look to the manicured look.

This old Incense Cedar dominated the Graveyard. It was probably planted in the 1850s. it's lower limbs held a tree fort that Pop had built for my brother and me.

This old Incense Cedar dominated the Graveyard. It was probably planted in the 1850s. it’s lower limbs held a tree fort that Pop had built for my brother and me. He built it when he caught us trying to build a fort 60 feet up in the tree. Our big sport was racing each other to the top.

Flowers burst out all over the graveyard in spring, and provided many a bouquet for Mother, picked dutifully by me. This lilac bush was still blooming away.

Flowers burst out all over the graveyard in spring, and provided many a bouquet for Mother, picked dutifully by yours truly. This lilac bush is still blooming away.

Our alley didn't have a name at first. Then the County decided to name it Graveyard Alley. Mother gave Marshall and me our orders. "Make the sign disappear. Don't tell your father." We did. The County put up another sign. It disappeared. Finally, the County decided to namer it Georges Alley after the first man who lived on the alley. We liked him. The sign stayed.

Our alley didn’t have a name at first. Then the County decided to name it Graveyard Alley. Mother gave Marshall and me our orders. “I won’t live on Graveyard Alley. Make the sign disappear. Don’t tell your father.” We did. The County put up another sign. It disappeared. Finally, the County decided to name it Georges Alley after the man who built it. We liked George. The sign stayed.

This beautiful old gold rush era building is about a 100 yards away from our house.

This beautiful old gold rush era building is about a 100 yards away from our house. The school was a block beyond it.

Tony Pavy lived just outside of Diamond on the road to El Dorado. As I cycled past it, I was reminded of the time he threatened to shoot me with a shotgun.

Tony Pavy lived just outside of Diamond on the road to El Dorado. As I cycled past it, I was reminded of the time he threatened to shoot me with a shotgun. We’d been hunting squirrels near his property when a bullet ricocheted and took out his pig. “Get my gun, Mama. They shot my pig!” he had screamed. We figured he wasn’t in much of a mood for an explanation and hightailed it. When the sheriff caught up with us later we had a good alibi.

Poor Red is long since dead but his Bar-B-Q restaurant lives on in Eldorado, an historic eatery from the 1940s well-known throughout Northern California.

Poor Red is long since dead but his Bar-B-Q restaurant lives on, an historic eatery from the 1940s well-known throughout Northern California. I consumed many a rib and Golden Cadillac there. I forget the ingredients of Golden Cadillacs but I do remember they tasted wonderful and after two, you didn’t care what was in them. Reds is in the small town of El Dorado, two miles outside of Diamond. I had turned left on my bike there and began making my way south.

The foothills of California are beautiful in the springtime. Shortly after this Highway 49 began its steep, curvy descent to the Consumes.

The foothills of California are beautiful in the springtime. Shortly after this, Highway 49 begins its steep, curvy descent to the Consumes River. It was my first downhill.

I once organized a student strike so we could have a ditch day as seniors. I wasn't expelled and we got the day. We held our party on the Consumnes River a couple of miles upstream from this photo. I had stopped for lunch at a small greasy spoon restaurant along the river on my bike and was kept company by a cat and a drunk. "You are fucking crazy," he had told me when he learned of my journey.

I once organized a student strike so we could have a ditch day as seniors. I wasn’t expelled and we got the day. We held our party on the Consumnes River a couple of miles upstream from this photo. I had stopped for lunch at a small greasy spoon restaurant along the river on my bike trip and was kept company by a cat and a drunk. “You are fucking crazy,” the drunk had told me when he learned of my journey. Maybe.

This is an historic spot. I was on my first ever official date. Mom, boyfriend, and Paula had taken me with them to dinner in Sutter Creek. On the way back, boyfriend and Mom had climbed in the back and insisted I drive home. "But I just got my learner's permit last week," I pointed out. I was just beginning to gain confidence when I ran over the skunk here.

This is an historic spot dead skunk spot. I was on my first ever official date. Mom, boyfriend, and Paula had taken me with them to dinner in Sutter Creek. On the way back, boyfriend and Mom had climbed in the back and insisted I drive home. “But I just got my learner’s permit last week,” I pointed out. Didn’t matter. I was just beginning to gain confidence when I ran over the skunk.

I made it 18.3 days on day one and stopped at Old Dry Well Motel and Cafe in Dry Creek. My plan for the next day was to make it 30 miles! The world had other plans for me.

I made it 18.3 miles on day one and stopped at Old Well Motel and Cafe in Dry Creek. Old stories report that outlaws once buried thousands of dollars here. My plan for the next day was to make it 30 miles! The world had other plans…

A photo of the well.

A photo of the well. Another relic from the Gold Rush.

Peggy has volunteered to drive the whole trip so I can take photos and write notes. What a woman! Eeyore, another of our travel companions peers out the back window.

Peggy has volunteered to drive the whole trip so I can take photos and write notes. What a woman! Eeyore, another of our travel companions, peers out the back window. The world famous traveling Bone is seated up front.

NEXT BLOG: I will introduce Bone. You probably already know Eeyore.

 

Is Insanity a Requirement for Bicycling 10,000 miles?

/ Curt Mekemson / 30 Comments
You can get lonely when you are out on the road. I'd moo at cattle along the way for entertainment. They always turned to look, and would often moo back.

You can get lonely when you are out on the road by yourself. I’d moo at cattle along the way for entertainment. They always turned to look, and would often moo back.

Bilbo’s advice: “It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.”

I was out of the saddle, climbing the steepest hill in Nova Scotia, and grumpy. A couple of friends from California had joined me on a bicycle trip around the province. They were sailing up the mountain and having a merry conversation while I could barely grunt. They were both college track coaches and strong, women athletes. But they hadn’t just bicycled across the US; in fact, they had hardly bicycled at all. What they had that I didn’t were gear clusters on their bikes that made mine look like a one speed. Eventually I made it to the top of the mountain and was greeted by two Cheshire Cat grins and a giggle. On the side of the road a bicyclist had painted a bicycle with the word “WHY?” stenciled next to it.  Having been left in the dust, I could only wonder…

Not many people decide to leave home and go on a six month, solo bike trek. In fact, not many people have the option or, I might add, the desire. But I didn’t have a wife, I didn’t have any children, and I had a solid job offer if I chose to return. I was ready for adventure.

This doesn’t mean that folks were urging me out the door. Three or four women were hoping I would stick around and change my marital status. (This was pre-Peggy.) The legislative advocate for the California Lung Association wanted me hang around and work on the implementation legislation for the tobacco tax initiative we had just passed. My sister Nancy was quite concerned about all of the terrible things that might happen to me out on the road. (My bother, Marshall, thought I should carry a pistol.) Etc.

There were good reasons for staying. They just weren’t as strong as my reasons for leaving. Here are three that I had noted in my journal way back then:

  1. The physical journey— I wanted the experience of travelling, seeing new things, and meeting new people. I love to wander. Going anywhere, anytime, excites me. I think it is genetic. I could have been an early explorer. I would be living in the outdoors, a plus for me, and seeing the US and Canada in a way that few people do. And finally, the trip would be good for me from a health perspective. I was 46 years old and in serious need of a tune up.
  2. An internal journey back in time— I wanted to know more about what drove me. I don’t handle stress well. It drives me bonkers. All too often it had led to depression and could become debilitating to the point where escape was the only solution. I’d run off to the woods to lick my wounds. Even doing things I was good at and enjoyed in time came to resemble a cage I was trapped in. By learning more about what drove me, possibly I could learn to be more in the driver’s seat.
  3. A quest— I am not particularly religious, but I do have a spiritual side. I pictured myself meditating for long stretches as I pedaled for thousands of miles along North America’s highways and byways. Who knows where it would lead me? I carried books like the Tao Te Ching and Bhagavad Gita for inspiration. A friend had even given me a copy of the New Testament.

A Bit on Preparation:

I joked in my last blog about preparing for my trip by increasing my beer consumption from one to two cans a night. There was a bit of truth to that. I did little (nothing) to prepare physically for the adventure. Unfortunately, I had learned from a long history of backpacking expeditions that I could get away with it. (For example: my backpacking trip into the Grand Canyon.) Once my body figures out there are no other options, it reluctantly gets in shape, whining the whole time.

I am a bit more anal about equipment. I would be bicycling for thousands of miles by myself, sometimes in remote regions with the nearest bike shop a hundred (or more) miles away. Even small towns are far apart in America’s great desert regions of the Southwest and up in the vast forest lands of northern Quebec. So I needed a good bike, and I needed to carry enough tools and parts to make repairs along the way. (At least until I could find a bike shop.) My friends in the bicycling business provided good recommendations. As for living outdoors, my backpacking experience made me something of an expert on what was needed to survive in almost any condition nature might throw at me. (The tornado was an exception.)

Do you have any idea how many remote, lonely roads there are in America and Canada. I found many of them on my bicycle. They did have a way of going on and on...

Do you have any idea how many remote, lonely roads there are in America and Canada? I found many of them on my bicycle. This one in Arizona went on and on.

Threatening skies along Route 66

Threatening skies suggest that traveling the interesting and historic Route 66 was about to get more interesting.

Was this rustic accommodation a chance for shelter?

Was this rustic accommodation a chance for shelter? In an emergency, almost anything served as ‘a port in the storm.’ I would end up hiding out from a tornado in a brick outhouse in Mississippi.

I spent hours studying maps and planning my route. It was a blast. Most people who travel a lot (including many who read this blog) will likely agree with me that planning is half the fun. My goals included avoiding cities, staying off of major highways, and visiting remote areas whenever possible. I was not interested in following someone else’s recommended bike route.  I prepared copies of my proposed route for friends and family but added a cautionary note: “This route is tentative. I may find myself out there making changes for any number of reasons.” The original length of the journey was 11, 309 miles. I made my first change at 28.6 miles.

And finally, a note on bicycling. There are bicyclists and there are “bicyclists.” Bicyclists are passionate about the sport. Whether they race, tour, or commute by bike, they talk the talk and wear the clothes. They love their bikes. They have a certain lean look. Most (but not all) think of bicycling as a communal sport. I’ve done a lot in bicycling. I commuted by bike for several years, organized Sacramento’s first conference on bike commuting, and was responsible for creating the American Lung Association’s bike trek program. I even led and rode on a number of 500-mile bike treks. But, at heart, I am a “bicyclist.” My bike is simply a means of getting from point a to point b, hopefully without any mechanical problems. Still, for those passionate bicyclists who want to follow me on my journey, I will confess that I talked with my bike, Blue, as I crossed the country. Maybe there is hope.

Serious bicyclists wear bright clothes. They want to be seen. I bicycled through Death Valley on my trip. I found this jersey there a couple of weeks ago.

Serious bicyclists wear bright clothes. They want to be seen. I bicycled through Death Valley on my trip. I found this jersey there a couple of weeks ago.

I’ll close with a couple more photos to emphasize why a bit of insanity is valuable for long distance bike trips.

Big rigs traveling 60 miles per hour on narrow roads with no shoulders tended to elevate my heart rate, especially when they chose to come up behind me and honk their horns. (Most were quite courteous.)

Big rigs traveling 70 miles per hour on narrow roads with no shoulders tended to elevate my heart rate, especially when they chose to come up behind me and honk their horns. (Most were quite courteous.)

I ran into dogs that were about as big as this dinosaur and wanted to eat me.

I ran into dogs that were about as big as this dinosaur and wanted to eat me.

NEXT BLOG: Join me in Diamond Springs, Northern California as I climb on my bike, coast down my first hill, and discover I can’t pedal because I have put my panniers (bike bags) are on backwards.

A Ten Thousand Mile Bike Trip… Let the Journey Begin

/ Curt Mekemson / 24 Comments
28 years ago, after wrapping up my part in increasing California's tobacco tax, I decided to go on a 10,000 mile bike trip around North America. Peggy and I are now redrawing the route.

28 years ago, after wrapping up my part in increasing California’s tobacco tax, I decided to go on a 10,000 mile bike trip around North America. Peggy and I are now driving the route. Peggy first met me when I stepped off my bike in Sacramento. She said I looked svelte and seemed to appreciate my tight bicycling clothes. Having been by myself for six months, I immediately fell in love.

It had been an exciting night at the Proposition 99 Campaign Headquarters in Sacramento. The tobacco industry had just spent $25 million ($56 million in today’s dollars) trying to defeat our efforts to increase California’s tax on tobacco, which, up to that point, was more than it had spent on any single political campaign in its history. The industry regarded our efforts as the most serious threat it had ever faced, not because we were increasing the tax, but because we were proposing to spend a significant amount of money on prevention. It had hired some of the best political operatives in the nation, including Ronald Reagan’s former media director— and, it had run the kind of campaign you might expect from an industry that had made billions off of successfully marketing a deadly, highly addictive drug to children.

The prevention part of the equation had been my idea. If we succeeded, we would embark on one of the most extensive prevention program ever, anywhere in the world. The industry was right to be worried. And we were right to be nervous. As the full force of the industry’s campaign had come to fruition in the last week before the election, we had seen our once comfortable lead drop to .05%.

But the night was ours. Heroic efforts by our friends in the health and environmental communities, including my future sister-in-law, Jane Hagedorn, made the difference. Early returns showed us leading. Later returns showed that we had won. I gave a talk on the power of a small group to take on one of the world’s most powerful industries and win. I then led the group in a series of cheers as the TV camera’s rolled. I ended my night by consuming more alcohol than a health advocate should. Jane drove me home.

California’s health community went on to prove that prevention works. The state moved from having the second highest incidence of tobacco use in the nation to the second lowest. Five years ago the California Department of Health estimated that over one million lives and $70 billion in health care costs had been saved to date.

The Proposition 99 battle was won in 1988, over a quarter of century ago. Ancient history now— except it relates to the story I will be telling on this blog for the next 2-3 months. The campaign wrapped up an important chapter of my life, and it left me with a question: what would I do next? I decided to buy a bike and go on a solo, six-month, 10,000-mile bike ride around the US and Canada. It was a completely reasonable decision, right… kind of like taking on the tobacco industry. So I went out and did it.

And this brings us to the present. I earned a huge number of husband brownie points last year— billions of them. I spent lots of time with kids and grandkids, supported Peggy’s various efforts to improve our community, and did many manly chores around our property. The wife was impressed. She made a mistake. “Next year is yours, Curt,” she announced. “What would you like to do?” It was like a blank check. I got a wild look in my eye and (before she could reconsider), tossed out, “Take our van and follow the route of my North American bike tour… for starters.”

That’s the reason Peggy and I are sitting in a Big O Tire store now in Roswell, New Mexico while Quivera, our van, has some work done. I am sure a UFO is circling above us, the same UFO that caused us to have a blow-out last night.

Quivera, the Van. We put a sing on Quivera to encourage people to follow my blog. The blue bike on the outside is the bike I rode around North America.

Quivera, the Van. We put a sign on Quivera to encourage people to follow my blog. The blue Trek bike (creatively named Blue) is the bike I rode around North America.

We were quite amused by the sink in the Big O Tire restroom.

We were quite amused by the sink in the Big O Tire restroom.

Even the toilet paper dispenser followed the theme.

Even the toilet paper dispenser followed the theme.

The staff at Big O was great. Putting new shocks on Quivera was a massive challenge. She is not mechanic-friendly. The mechanic on the left worked diligently. The front desk man helped us maintain our sense of humor. "Twenty more minutes" he told us several times.

The Roswell staff at Big O was great. Putting new shocks on Quivera was a massive challenge. She is not mechanic-friendly and objects to people working on her undercarriage. The mechanic on the left was one of three who worked diligently on her. (He is trying hard to smile.) The front desk manager helped us maintain our sense of humor. “Twenty more minutes” he told us numerous times.

Starting with my next blog, I will take you back to the beginning of my bike trek in Diamond Springs, California. I’ll talk more about my reasons for the trip and I will outline the extensive preparation it takes for such an adventure: I increased my nightly consumption of beer from one to two cans.

The blog will cover both my original journey and our present journey by van. For example, here’s what we have done in the past couple of days:

  • Visited a small town museum in Springerville, Arizona that included a Rembrandt among its treasures that could probably buy the town, or maybe the whole county.
  • Stopped off in Pie Town on the crest of the Rockies that is nationally famed for the pies it sells. The owner, who once gave me a free piece of pie, came out to have her photo taken with Peggy, me, Quivera and our bikes. (Crossing the Rockies was my first 100-mile day on the bike trip.)
  • Magically showed up at the annual open house for the Very Large Array of radio antenna/telescopes that have been featured in movies like Contact and Independence Day. Scientists from around the world compete for time on the radio telescopes. We were given a tour by a scientist who is looking back in time to the very beginning of the universe.
  • Contemplated the devastation created by nuclear bombs as we viewed the Trinity site where the first atom bomb ever was exploded.
  • Paid homage to Smokey the Bear by visiting his gravesite and singing his song. (Do you know it?)
  • Walked the streets of Lincoln where Billy the Kid fought in the Lincoln County range wars of the early West.
  • Kept a sharp eye out for UFOs as we drove in to Roswell.

And that’s just two days. My challenge will not be in finding things to write about! This is a back roads journey through America and Canada, a Blue Highways Adventure. I’ll give more details on my next blog, but to get you started, here is a rough map of the journey I made by bike and we are now making by van. Please join us.

This is the route I followed through the US and Canada. I began and ended my trip in Northern California.

This is the route I followed through the US and Canada. I began and ended my trip in Northern California.

From Anchorage, Alaska to Fairbanks by Rail… A Perfect 10

/ Curt Mekemson / 41 Comments
One of many views we had of Mt. Denali as we rode the Alaska Railroad from Anchorage to Fairbanks.

One of many views we had of Mt. Denali as we rode the Alaska Railroad from Anchorage to Fairbanks.

The conductor told us we were a 10, or I should say he told us we were among the 10% of people who travel by rail from Anchorage to Fairbanks and get to see Mt. Denali. Normally it is covered in clouds, or maybe you get a teasing glimpse. Having lived in Alaska for three years, I know how special it is to see the mountain.

Once, I was camped out at Wonder Lake, which is way out at the end of Denali Highway. I’d been backpacking in Denali National Park dodging grizzlies and had a small backpacking tent that I had pointed in the direction of the cloud-hidden mountain. I woke up early with the sun (in summertime Alaska, that’s really early). A huge mountain had appeared out of the clouds. “Wow! I said to my friend. You have to see this.” And then a larger mountain appeared behind it. As we sat there in awe, the clouds parted and a third, even larger mountain appeared, a massive mountain, Mt. Denali. At 20,310 feet, is the tallest mountain in North America.

Denali has only recently reclaimed the name it was known as for centuries by the Athabaskan natives of the region. It means big mountain, or the tall one. In 1896, an Alaskan gold miner named it Mt. McKinley in honor of the man he hoped would become president. McKinley won and the name stuck. Alaskans have been lobbying for years, quite rightly I would argue, to return the name to Denali. Their efforts had been continually blocked by a small contingent of politicians from Ohio, McKinley’s home state. On August 28, 2015, President Obama renamed the mountain Denali on the basis of a recommendation by the Alaska Geographical Society. I suspect the Ohio politicians are trying to impeach the President because of his action.

The sky was clear on our whole 350 mile trip from Anchorage to Fairbanks and we had several views of the Mountain. The engineer would stop the train each time we saw it. In fact, the engineer stopped the train several times to point out other things of interest as well, like moose for example. There’s a reason why the trip took 12 hours! Alaska is a state of great natural beauty, and we were privileged to see much of it on our trip. Following are a few of the many photos that Peggy and I (along with grandsons) took along the way. Enjoy.

I used this photo earlier on another post but you are getting to see it again because I like it so much and feel it is symbolic of our trip.

I used this photo earlier on another post but you are getting to see it again because I like it so much and feel it is symbolic of our trip with the train, mountains, rivers and trees.

Another photo of the train. I liked the perspective, and the trees.

Another photo of the train. I liked the perspective, and the trees.

My nose was glued to the window for the whole trip. (Except of course to eat and pay attention to the family.) Many of the views, like this one, were right beside the track.

My nose was glued to the window for the whole trip. (Except of course to eat and pay attention to the family.) Many of the views, like this one, were right beside the track.

Snow, trees and shadows provided interesting compositions.

Snow, trees and shadows provided interesting compositions.

I thought these birch trees deserved a black and white look.

I thought these birch trees deserved a black and white look.

Numerous rivers dot the Alaska landscape we found several along the tracks.

Numerous rivers dot the Alaskan landscape. We found several beauties along the tracks.

Another example.

Another example.

Homesteaders living along the railroad give a new meaning to 'off the grid.' Most live several miles apart and all depend on the railroad to provide access to the outside world. The conductor/guide told us they stood along the tracks and flagged the train down when they needed a ride out.

Homesteaders living along the railroad give a new meaning to ‘off the grid.’ Most live several miles apart and all depend on the railroad to provide access to the outside world. The conductor/guide told us the homesteaders stood along the tracks and flagged the train down when they needed a ride out.

While bears hibernate during the winter, moose operate year around, this open, ice covered river provided a moose highway as indicated by the trails.

While bears hibernate during the winter, moose operate year around. This open, ice-covered river provided a moose highway as indicated by the trails.

We were there long enough to see them moving along at the upper end of the small lake.

The engineer had stopped the train on the bridge over Hurricane Canyon when we spotted this family of moose following a trail.

I liked the shadows they cast in the bright sunlight.

I liked the shadows they cast in the bright sunlight.

Looking the other way across Hurricane Canyon provided this magnificent view of the canyon and the Alaska Range.

Looking the other way across Hurricane Canyon provided this view of the canyon and the distant Alaska Range. (Click on this for a larger view.)

Much of our time was spent admiring magnificent mountains. A different kind of animal made the tracks in this photo, people on snowmobiles, a primary form of transportation in backcountry Alaska.

Much of our time was spent admiring magnificent mountains. A different kind of animal made the tracks in this photo, people on snowmobiles, which are a primary mode of transportation in backcountry Alaska. I think these guys was playing.

More impressive mountains...

More impressive mountains…

Mountain Scene on Alaska Railroad between Anchorage and Fairbanks.

And more.

And a final view of Mt. Denali in the distance.

And a final view of Mt. Denali in the distance.

Our son Tony and his family talked us into the railroad trip and other great adventures we had on this visit to Alaska. We owe the family big. In this photo, Tony and Cammie's son Cooper has decided my head is a good place for a snooze. (I took this as a selfie.)

Our son Tony and his family talked us into the railroad trip and other great adventures we had on this visit to Alaska. We owe the family big time. In this photo, Tony and Cammie’s son Cooper has decided my head is a good place for a snooze. (I took this photo as a selfie.)

I usually don't have much luck with photos taken out of airlines but I feel this photo of the Alaska Range taken on our Alaska Airways trip back to Anchorage from Fairbanks is an exception.

I usually don’t have much luck with photos taken out of airlines but I feel this one of the Alaska Range I took on our Alaska Airways trip back to Anchorage from Fairbanks is an exception. It seems worthy of concluding my series on Alaska. (Click on this for a larger view.)

NEXT BLOG: A new adventure! Peggy and I hit the road in our 22 foot van retracing the route I followed on my 10,000 solo bike trek I took around the US and Canada in 1989.

 

Sled Dogs Are Among the World’s Best Athletes… Alaska

/ Curt Mekemson / 24 Comments
A sled dog strains against its harness as it leaps to take off in the annual Fur Rendezvous championship sled dog races.

A sled dog strains against its harness as it leaps to take off in the annual Fur Rendezvous championship sled dog races. He was jumping the gun, so to speak, and still held in place. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Note: I’ve been away from the Internet for several days. I haven’t been up in the cold north of Alaska, however. I’ve been hanging out in Death Valley, California, warming up. Peggy and I returned from our adventure up near the Arctic Circle and immediately jumped into another.

A number of years ago, as many of you know, I went on a  10,000 mile solo bicycle journey around North America. Over the next two months, Peggy and I will be retracing the route in our van. I rode through Death Valley on the trek, which is why I am here. I’ll start blogging about my adventure soon, but first I have two posts left from Alaska. Today’s is on sled dogs; the next will be on our railroad trip from Anchorage to Fairbanks. 

“On King, On you huskies!”

I was eight years old when I climbed on my first sled and went dashing across the wilds of the Yukon in hot pursuit of bad guys with Sargent Preston, his team of loyal huskies, and his faithful dog King. So what if I was sitting by the family radio. So what if my dash through the snow was totally in my imagination. Sargent Preston and King were as real to me as the Lone Ranger and Silver. My brother Marshall and I never missed an episode.

With this background, it is hardly surprising that I was fascinated with sled dogs when I first moved to Alaska in 1983. I watched with interest as the mushers and their teams raced through Anchorage in preparation for the Iditarod. I jumped at the opportunity to recruit Libby Riddles to be a spokesperson for the non-profit I ran immediately after she became the first woman to win the race. “I am doing a spread for Vogue,” Libby told me. “Pick me up at the airport when I get back and we can run around and do media together.” It was a great coup for the organization but even a greater coup for me. We talked sled dogs nonstop.

I missed the Iditarod in my recent visit to Alaska. Our timing was off by a day. But I did get to watch the world-class sled dog races that were part of Fur Rendezvous. What struck me most about the dogs was how eager they were to run. There was no, “Do we have to?” It was “Let us go. Now!” They couldn’t wait for the start command. I was fascinated by how powerful the dogs are. To keep them in place, each sled was attached to a snowmobile, several people were assigned to hold the sled, and dog handlers stood beside each of the dogs. At the start command, everyone simply let go. Off they went, every muscle straining to pull the sled.

Championship sled dog races are held each year in conjunction with the Anchorage Fur Rendezvous. This year snow had to be brought into the city and put down on the streets.

Championship sled dog races are held each year in conjunction with the Anchorage Fur Rendezvous. This year snow had to be brought into the city and put down on the streets.

Sled dogs are highly honored in Alaska as this statue on 4th Street attests.

Sled dogs are highly honored in Alaska as this statue on 4th Street attests.

Naturally, our grandsons wanted their photo taken with the sled dog.

Naturally, our grandsons wanted their photo taken with the sled dog.

When we arrived, mushers were busily harnessing their dogs. 4th Street was lined with vehicles like these.

When we arrived, mushers were busily harnessing their dogs. 4th Street was lined with vehicles like this.

As I mentioned above, sled dogs love to run and compete as much as the finest of Olympic athletes. This dog is saying, "I'm ready, Let's go!"

As I mentioned above, sled dogs love to run and compete as much as the finest of Olympic athletes. This dog is saying, “I’m ready, Let’s go!”

These people were assigned the responsibility of holding the dogs back until the start of the race. It is a great indication of the strength of the dogs. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

These people were assigned the responsibility of holding the dogs back until the start of the race. It is a great indication of the strength of the dogs. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Dog handlers are assigned to keep the dogs in place until it is time to run. The far dog seems to be barking, "Now!" While the near one says, "Are they ready?"

Dog handlers are assigned to keep the dogs in place until it is time to run. The far dog seems to be barking, “Now!” While the near one says, “Can I go, Boss?” (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

And they are off!

And they are off! (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Racing sleds are engineered of speed...

Racing sleds are engineered for speed with every ounce of weight considered.

While more traditional sleds are built to haul loads, or, in this case, our Daughter-in-law Cammie and Grandson Chris at Chena Hot Soprings.

While more traditional sleds are built to haul loads, or, in this case, our daughter-in-law Cammie and grandson Chris at Chena Hot Springs.

Peggy caught the dogs racing for the finish line.

Peggy caught the dogs racing for the finish line.

These animals are superb athletes and can sprint up to 20 miles per hour. Even more amazing, is the ability of the Iditarod dogs to run a thousand miles in little more than a week. Few animals can match their capacity to work, compete, or eat. It takes 10-12 thousand calories per day to fuel the dogs on their dash to Nome.

Dogs are raised from puppies to be sled dogs and develop a close bond with their mushers. Before they learn the discipline of being a sled dog, they learn that it is play. It’s a lesson they remember their whole lives. As they grow older they are tried out on different team positions. The most important is the lead dog. He or she responds to the commands of the musher and keeps the dogs in line. An occasional nip may be required. Lead dogs also help keep the musher out of trouble. “Um, there is a moose up ahead you might want to worry about.” Moose think of sled dogs as wolves and wolves are enemies. You don’t want a thousand pounds of angry moose charging your team.

Next in line are swing dogs who help assure that the team follows the lead dog. Behind them come the strong team dogs who are responsible for providing power to pull the sled and maintain speed. Finally, the wheel dogs are next to the sled and are responsible for turning it.  The dogs work together closely, along with the musher, as a finely tuned crew.

These dogs in Chena Hot Springs were prepared to provide our son Tony and grandsons cooper and Connor with a ride. The fist dog is the lead dog, the next are swing dogs, the following four are team dogs and the last two are wheel dogs.

These dogs in Chena Hot Springs were prepared to provide our son Tony and grandsons Cooper and Connor with a ride. The first dog is the lead dog, the next two are swing dogs, the following four are team dogs and the last two are wheel dogs.

In 1983 when I ventured into the far north, three breeds of dogs were considered sled dogs: Alaskan Huskies, Siberian Huskies and Malamutes. These dogs had been hauling sleds through the tundra for hundreds, if not thousands of years. While theses breeds are still a central component of any sled dog breed, short-haired German Pointers and even a little greyhound have been interbred with the huskies to create sprinters for shorter races. The new dogs are known as Eurohounds. Most of the dogs at the Fur Rendezvous seemed to fit the description.

Today's racing sled dogs look quite different from the sled dogs of 30 years ago. These are Eurohounds, a mixture of traditional Alaska Huskies and German Short Haired Pointers.

Today’s racing sled dogs look quite different from the sled dogs of 30 years ago. These are Eurohounds, a mixture of traditional Alaska Huskies and German Short Haired Pointers. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

A more traditional Husky. I took this photo at Chena Hot Springs.

A more traditional Husky. I took this photo at Chena Hot Springs.

We finished our Alaska sled dog experience at Chena Hot Springs where we visited a kennel and the grandkids (along with the required parents) went for sled dog rides.

Dog kennels at Chena Hot Springs. Libby Riddles told me that mushers normally owned a number of dogs. Imagine feeding this lot! And cleaning up their poop.

Dog kennels at Chena Hot Springs. Libby Riddles told me that mushers normally owned a number of dogs. Imagine feeding this lot! And cleaning up their poop.

Luke Skywalker was happy to greet the grandkids. All of the dogs came with imaginative names.

Luke Skywalker was happy to greet the grandkids. All of the dogs came with imaginative names.

Sled dogs are raised from puppies, such as this cut fellow at Chena.

Sled dogs are raised from puppies, such as this cute fellow at Chena.

A final shot of the sled dogs at Chena Hot Springs as they round a corner carrying Tony, Connor and Cooper. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

A final shot of the sled dogs at Chena Hot Springs as they round a corner carrying Tony, Connor and Cooper. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

So, is this the future sled dog champion of the world? No, I think it might be a Toy Pomeranian. A woman walked by with it on a leash. When I asked if I could take the pups photo, she picked it up, handed it to me, and snapped our photo. Next blog: the great train trip from Anchorage to Fairbanks.

So, is this the future sled dog champion of the world? No, I think it might be a Toy Pomeranian. A woman walked by with it on a leash. When I asked if I could take the pups photo, she picked it up, handed it to me, and snapped our picture. NEXT BLOG: The great train trip from Anchorage to Fairbanks.

Alaska’s Fur Rendezvous: From Outhouse Races to Sled Dogs

/ Curt Mekemson / 23 Comments
The strange looking creature here is a decorated outhouse that belongs to

The Fabulous Flying Duck Farts prepare their duck-billed entry for the Fur Rendezvous Outhouse Race in Anchorage Alaska. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

The word Fur Rendezvous immediately brings to mind early American history, fur trading, and mountain men. One of the most renown/notorious of the rendezvous took place in the Green River region of Wyoming in the 1830s. After a long, lonely winter of trapping beavers and other fur-bearing mammals, the mountain men would gather on the Green River to meet with traders out of St. Louis who would purchase their winter harvest. There was lots of drinking, gambling, and snuggling up with accommodating women (for a fee)— which is pretty much what you might expect from barely civilized men who had spent the winter isolated in tiny cabins.  I’ve visited the region and backpacked through the mountains where beavers were trapped. You can read about this adventure at: A Rabid Wolf Walked through Camp.

Alaska was a Johnny-come-lately to the fur rendezvous business, deciding to create its event in 1935. Alaska was still a raw frontier at the time, however. It wouldn’t have been much different from the Rocky Mountains a hundred years earlier. It was a wild place, and the people who chose to live there were a bit on the wild side. I would have fit right in.

The Fur Rendezvous in Anchorage, or Rondy as they call it today, has lost much of its mountain man edge. But it is still an excuse to party. And it had become a major tourist attraction. When I was there with Peggy, our son Tony and his family a few weeks ago, we attended four of its many events: sled dog races, a snow carving contest, the Rondy Parade, and the annual outhouse race.  I’ve already written about the snow carving. My next blog will be on sled dogs. Today is all about porta potties and parades.

What’s not to like about an outhouse race, especially when one of the main contestants was the Fabulous Flying Duck Farts. Among its competitors were the Willow Fire Department, the Mormon Brigade, the AE club from the University of Alaska, and others. There was even a young woman being pushed in a shopping cart. Not even my fertile imagination could figure out how she fit in, but she was having fun. Both the Fabulous Flying Duck Farts and the AE club are involved in charitable activities. The jet propelled Duck Farts ended up winning, so I checked them out on Facebook. Here’s what they have to say about their organization:

“The Fabulous Flying Duck Farts are a forever funny fabulous formation flying flock of fast, furious, and friendly foul-fowl; a fine festival feature famous for flatulent fueled flight, frequent fierce flapping, faithfully finishing first, and frolicking feathery fun.”

That seems to sum it up.

And they are off!

And they are off! The Ducks’ jet propelled launch is shown on the side of the outhouse. Each entry required that a person be sitting on the “pot.”

The Mormon Battalion lacked the pizazz of the Flying Ducks. The child inside seems a little dubious about his role.

The Mormon Battalion lacked the pizzaz of the Flying Ducks. The child inside seems a little dubious about his job. The Battalion definitely earned points for its ragged roll of TP, however. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

These folks were having fun but any resemblance to a real outhouse is totally coincidental.

These folks were having fun but any resemblance to a real outhouse is totally coincidental. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Judging from the look, I'd say that the Willow Fire Department provided serious competition.

Judging from the look, I’d say that the Willow Fire Department provided serious competition. As the start and finish sign notes, the Architecture and Engineering club from the University of Alaska hosted the event. AE uses funds it raises to support Habitat for Humanity. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

The Rondy Parade had it all, starting with princesses, lots of princesses. There were also kids, dogs, old cars, older tractors, horses, a reindeer, white bread, M&M’s, Hells Angels, and a very large colon. The only thing missing was a band. I’ve never seen a major parade without a band. In fact, the only parade I’ve ever seen without a band was the Buncom Day parade near where we live in Oregon. It goes one block, turns around and repeats itself. And even it had first graders blowing kazoos. Still, the Rondy Parade entertained us well.

The Rondy Parade must have featured 15 or so princesses and queens. At least it seemed like it. The parade announcer joked all you need is a tiara.

The Rondy Parade must have featured 15 or so princesses and queens. At least it seemed like it. The parade announcer joked all you need is a tiara. This young woman stopped by for a visit.

This 'pumpkin-like' float pulled by a handsome black horse was one of several conveyances that transported princesses.

This ‘pumpkin-like’ float pulled by a handsome black horse was one of several conveyances that transported princesses. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Star the Reindeer lives on a lot in downtown Anchorage. I think there is a requirement that he participate in all Anchorage parades.

Star the Reindeer lives on a lot in downtown Anchorage. I think there is a requirement that he participate in all Anchorage parades.

Naturally, a good parade deserves at least one clown. I suspect more that one child had nightmares that night.

Naturally, a good parade deserves at least one clown. I suspect more that several children had clown nightmares that night.

Remember the white bread of your youth?

The white bread wasn’t nearly as scary unless you thought about its food value.

Bernese Mountain Dogs were out in force at the parade.

Bernese Mountain Dogs were out in force at the parade.

This Bernese Mountain Dog stopped by for a sniff.

One pup pulling a cart stopped by for a sniff.

I think these M&Ms had a Methodist Flavor.

I think these M&Ms represented the local Methodists.

This Hell's Angel participant brought a slightly different flavor to the parade.

In contrast, here is a Hell’s Angel participant.

Apparently, this is the latest in macho tricks by four wheel vehicles.

Apparently, this is the latest in macho tricks by four-wheel vehicles. It brings a whole new connotation to ‘mounting a tire.’

There were a number of old cars in the parade...

There were a number of old cars in the parade. The chains were hardly required on Anchorage’s globally warmed streets.

There were old trucks...

There were old trucks…

Old tractor featured in 2016 Fur Rondy Parade in Anchorage, AK.

And old tractors.

I recognize that this large colon had an important message. But I can't help myself; it was strange. And what in the heck were the folks dressed up inside supposed to be? There is no way I would dress up and be a whatever in a colon. I'll leave you with this image for my post.

And one very large colon. I recognize that it had an important message. But I can’t help myself; it was just strange. And here’s a probing question: what in the heck were the folks dressed up inside supposed to be? There is no way I would dress up and be a whatever in a colon. I’ll leave you with this last image for today. Don’t forget your checkup. NEXT BLOG: Sled dogs.