Larry McMurtry and Archer City, Texas: A Detour… The 10,000 Mile Bike Trek

A small portion of the 150,000 books in Larry McMurtry's bookstore, Booked Up, in Archer City Texas.

A small portion of the 150,000 books in Larry McMurtry’s bookstore, Booked Up, in Archer City Texas. Imagine what it was like with four bookstore and 450,000 books in the small town of 1750 people.

 

Texas is rich in unredeemed dreams. —Larry McMurtry

Larry McMurtry wanted to save Archer City by turning it into a mecca for book lovers. He had a dream of the streets being lined with bookstores and of people coming from thousands of miles away to wander the streets, soak up the ambience and buy books. They would fill local hotels, eat at local restaurants— and spend money. The economy would boom.

“Certainly on the vast windy plain, there was plenty of nothing to be looked at.” —Larry McMurtry

It wasn’t to be. Maybe the town was too far away from any major population center— surrounded by “plenty of nothing,” maybe the Internet was to blame, maybe the town didn’t care enough. Or maybe McMurtry didn’t want to work 24/7 on the task. Writers live to write, not build cities. And writing will be his legacy. Long after he has passed on, and possibly long after Archer City has become a dim memory, people with still be reading and loving his books and watching the movies based on his books and screenplays.

The tradition I was born into was essentially nomadic, a herdsmen tradition, following animals across the earth. The bookshops are a form of ranching; instead of herding cattle, I herd books. Writing is a form of herding, too; I herd words into little paragraph-like clusters. —Larry McMurtry

McMurtry’s roots run deep in the area. He had been raised just outside Archer City on a ranch. (His grandfather’s saddle can still be seen in the local museum.) Books weren’t a part of his early years, there wasn’t one in his house, but members of his family were great story tellers. It was a skill that was passed on to the young Larry. In 1942 a cousin left behind a box of 19 books, a treasure trove that Larry loved to tatters, like other kids love stuffed animals down to their stuffing.

The saddle of Larry McMurtry's grandfather that is now located in the Archer County Museum.

The saddle of Larry McMurtry’s grandfather that is now located in the Archer County Museum.

With the story telling and his cousin’s books as inspiration, McMurtry went on to become one of the best writers of our era, chronicling life in the West as few others have done. He also adapted several of his books to television and movies. Think: Lonesome Dove, The Last Picture Show, Terms of Endearment, Texasville and Brokeback Mountain. McMurtry’s efforts have earned him a Pulitzer Prize, 13 Academy Awards and 7 Emmys.

View of the Royal Theater in Archer City, which burned down and then resurrected for modern day theater productions.

The last Picture Show was filmed in Archer City and used the Royal Theater as its model. It burned down but is now used for theater productions— and weddings, apparently.

I was bicycling way out on the Playa at Burning Man in the Nevada desert last year when I came across this theater that was modeled after the theater in the Last Picture Show.

I was bicycling way out on the Playa at Burning Man in the Black Rock Desert of Nevada last year when I came across this theater that was modeled after the theater in the Last Picture Show.

In addition to his passion for writing, McMurtry developed a passion for collecting books. Bookstores going out of business, estate sales, and even local garage sales were all an excuse to go book hunting. Starting in Washington DC, he opened a bookstore called Booked Up, to house his collection. In 1987, he moved Booked Up to Archer City. His collection would grow to 450,000 books and occupy four buildings in downtown Archer.

Archer was a town in trouble. With the cattle industry declining and oil wells drying up, the city was on the endangered species list of West Texas towns. Somewhat along the line of the 1989 movie, Field of Dreams, “if you build it they will come,” McMurtry built one of the largest bookstores in America in Archer. People came, yes, but never in the numbers necessary to change Archer’s future. In 2012, Larry packed up the books from three of his warehouses, some 300,000 books, and auctioned them off. He was in his mid-70s and neither kids nor grandkids were particularly interested in the business.

Bookstore #1 is still there, however, and still packed with 150,000 books. To all of those who reported on the demise of Booked Up, McMurtry declared “Rumors that we have moved or been sold are pernicious nonsense! We are right where we have been for so long — on Main St. in Archer City.”

I didn’t make it to Archer City on my 1989 bike trip. Booked Up had just opened and the town was 45 miles out of my way. Thousands of miles of bicycling lay ahead. I did drop by in 2005, however. Our daughter Tasha was having our first grandson, Ethan, in Tennessee and I was on my round-about way there. (Peggy had flown in for the necessary hand-holding at the time Ethan chose to drop in on the world. Grandpa was driving the van and would be a few days late. Ethan approved of my tardiness. But if he didn’t, who’s to say.)

I spent several hours in Archer City wandering around through the four warehouses of books, a book lover in book heaven. The only place I found staff was in Bookstore #1. Beyond that, an honor system existed. I eventually picked out a few books and headed over to #1 to pay.

Peggy and I also took a detour to Archer City on my recent bike route review. I wanted her to see Booked Up. In fact, we had a date. Peggy’s brother, John Dallen, and his wife, Frances, drove up from their home in Georgetown, Texas to join us. While we were spending the night at an RV campground in Wichita Falls, John and Frances stayed at Archer’s Spur Hotel, along with one other guest and an elk.

The KOA where Peggy and I stayed in Wichita Falls, Texas, had to have the most imaginative dog walk area I have ever seen.

The KOA where Peggy and I stayed in Wichita Falls, Texas, had to have the most imaginative dog walk area I have ever seen. Imagine how much water a male dog would have to drink to leave his mark on all of the fire hydrants.

The elk at the Spur Hotel in Archer City where John and Frances stayed, appeared like he was ready to talk.

The elk at the Spur Hotel in Archer City where John and Frances stayed, appeared like he had something to say.

We met them in the morning and had a couple of hours to kill before the bookstore opened. We decided to go on a tour, pretty much having the town to ourselves. There were only four people out and about— and that included us. We admired the historic courthouse, stopped off at the Royal Theater for an obligatory photo and then checked out the lobby of the Spur Hotel where I held a spirited, but silent, conversation with the elk.  The whole business took about 30 minutes.

Restored Courthouse in Archer City, Texas.

The historic Courthouse has been restored and is quite attractive.

The Royal Theater in Archer City, Texas was used for the Last Picture Show

Peggy, John and Frances in front of the Royal Theater.

Still having an hour and a half before the bookstore opened, I suggested we visit the town’s museum. I had read about it on the Internet. It was housed in the town’s retired jailhouse and still featured a hanging gallows that had never been used but must have inspired local drunks to sober up. Unfortunately, the museum was closed. A handwritten note was taped to the door, however. It said if we wanted to visit the museum we should call Mary Ann and gave her phone number. Peggy said, “Why not,” and made the call. Mary Ann came right over. What a kick!

The Archer County Museum was originally built as a jail in 1909. The bottom floor served as a home for the sheriff and his family. The top two floors included cells and a hanging gallows.

The Archer County Museum was originally built as a jail in 1909. The bottom floor served as a home for the sheriff and his family. The top two floors included cells and a hanging gallows. A hand written note on the door told us we were to call Mary Ann if we wanted a tour.

The museum was definitely in need of some loving attention but it was full of interesting items. Mary Ann turned out to be extremely knowledgeable, not to mention funny. At one point she picked up a large snake-skin and explained how she had found its six-foot owner coiled up in the toilet. The story, along with a photo, had been run in media around the world.

Mary Ann Levy holds up the snakeskin from the six-foot rat snake she found in the museum's toilet.

Mary Ann Levy holds up the snakeskin from the six-foot rat snake she found in the museum’s toilet. The picture also provides an idea of how crammed the museum is with items from Archer County’s history.

The photo of the snake that was taken by Barbara Phillips of the Archer County News and made its way around the world.

The photo of the snake that was taken by Barbara Phillips of the Archer County News and made its way around the world. I think I would be hesitant to use the toilet after that!

I want this guy to represent the many interesting things housed in the museum. My first reaction was, "What the heck!"

I want this guy to represent the many interesting things housed in the museum. My first reaction was, “What the heck!”

And then I saw a photo the museum featured.

And then I saw a photo the museum featured.

The jail, in itself is worthy of stopping off at the museum. Here I am locked up in the drunk tank.

The jail, in itself is worthy of stopping off at the museum. Here I am locked up in the drunk tank.

The women's cell featured a throne with a view and a blue bathtub.

The women’s cell featured a throne with a view and a blue bathtub.

The upstairs gallows was finished in 1910. A trapdoor is under the noose and was released by the lever in back. Hanging was outlawed in 1911 and the gallows was never used.

The upstairs gallows was finished in 1910. There was a trapdoor under the noose that was released by the lever in back. Hanging was outlawed in 1911 and the gallows was never used.

John, always up for a little gallows humor, modeled for me. He refused to put the noose over his head, however.

John, always up for a little gallows humor, modeled for me. He refused to put the noose over his head, however.

After we broke out of jail, it was time to visit the bookstore. 150,000 book were more than enough to keep us busy. I disappeared into the stacks and side rooms for a couple of hours— lost to the world and my fellow travelers, who tried to find me. “Where were you?”

Booked Up store window sign in Archer City, Texas.

The Booked Up sign in the window of Bookstore #1 signifies just how informal the store is.

John and Peggy peruse the history section at Booked Up.

John and Peggy peruse the history section at Booked Up. John is an avid amateur historian, particularly of the Civil War era.

I wandered around into the far corners of the store where I found a refrigerator covered in unusual refrigerator art.

I wandered around into the far corners of the store where I found a refrigerator covered in unusual refrigerator art. I wondered if McMurtry had been responsible for the decoration.

I also found this dramatic skull with it Saguaro Cactus backdrop.

I also found this dramatic skull with its Saguaro Cactus backdrop.

And this skull as well, which I thought was appropriate for a bookstore whose owner had written so many glorious books about the West.

And this skull as well, which I thought was appropriate for a bookstore whose owner had written so many intriguing books about the West.

Archer City has started planning a Larry McMurtry Festival in 2017, designed to celebrate McMurtry and encourage young artists. Larry and his wife, Faye, widow of author Ken Kesey, showed up for the meeting. Possibly the town has finally found a way to utilize McMurtry’s fame and his life-long commitment to the city to assure a touch of prosperity.

I’ll end this post with a final quote from Larry McMurtry that fits with my 10,000-mile bike trip and my general philosophy of life:

“If you wait, all that happens is that you get older.”

NEXT BLOG: A ping! and broken spoke lead me into more Texas adventures.

A Sizzling Sun, A Reclining Rattler, and A Hellaceous Headwind… The 10,000 Mile Bike Trek

The sun in Texas can beat down unmercifully.

The sun in Texas can beat down unmercifully. For a bicyclist on the open road in West Texas, the only escape is to cycle on to the next town.

 

“Only mad dogs and Englishmen (plus Curt) go out in the noonday sun.” Indian Proverb

 

Life becomes incredibly simple out on the road. The normal aspects of our lives— jobs, family, friends, deadlines, houses, yards, bills, etc., drop behind us. There is a freedom here: the freedom to unwind, the freedom to think about our lives, and the freedom to live in the moment.

This freedom is strengthened by the physical challenge of long distance backpacking or bicycling. The difficulty of getting through the event pulls us even farther out of our normal life while our success changes our perspective on who we are and what we can accomplish. When I led nine-day, 100-mile backpack treks and 500-mile bike treks, I could see people’s lives changing, literally before my eyes. Some profoundly.

There was ample challenge built into my day of cycling between Post and Aspermont. To start with, the temperature was pushing 80°F when I left Post around 7:00 AM. The day promised to be a scorcher. By 1:00 PM, the thermometer had climbed beyond 100 (38°C). I was down to minimum clothing and maximum sunblock, sucking on my water bottle, and worrying about sunstroke, always a danger in the hot sun. Tar began to seep up through the pavement. I climbed off my bike to take a look at the phenomena and my shoes stuck like I was walking on well-chewed gum. I noted in my journal, “I wonder if this is what the saber tooth tigers felt like when they encountered the La Brea Tar Pits in Southern California.”  I imagined my foot sinking into the pavement and me becoming a fossil for future generations to ponder over.

There were also ups and downs, a welcome change from the flat, flat of West Texas I had been cycling across. Several tributaries to the Brazos River flow through the area, cutting down through the plains. I even caught view of what Texans consider a mountain, or two to be more specific. The Double Mountains are a pair of flat-topped buttes that rise 500-800 feet above the surrounding plains and can be seen for hundreds of square miles. Pioneers traveling by horse and covered wagons used them for land marks. Native Americans probably used them to spot the pioneers.

A number of tributaries feed into the Brazos River in West Texas. Eventually the river flows into the Gulf of Mexico south of Huston.

A number of tributaries feed into the Brazos River in West Texas. Eventually the river flows into the Gulf of Mexico south of Houston.

The Brazos River near Aspermont Texas.

The river cuts through the Llano Estacado providing travelers with a break from the flat terrain of West Texas.

A distant view of the Double Mountains of West Texas near Aspermont.

A distant view of the Double Mountains of West Texas near Aspermont.

The break in terrain was welcome. My over-heated body appreciated the 20-30 mile per hour breeze generated by my downhill dashes— although it whined about the climb afterward.  There was even an occasional shade tree! The challenge here is that it becomes difficult to see in the shade when you are quickly moving between shadows and sunlight. Loose gravel, broken glass, and other road hazards lurk in the dark, waiting to provide nasty surprises.

That’s the way it was with the rattlesnake. I was racing down a hill and he/she was relaxing in the shade, enjoying the warm pavement.  I was a few feet away from a fanged encounter when I spotted him, all coiled up. I prefer my rattlesnakes rattling a warning when I approach. But there wasn’t time for him to rattle or me to think, “Oh, there’s a rattlesnake.” Instincts honed by a million years of my ancestors fearing snakes and two thousand miles of me bicycling took over. I zigged, damn lucky I didn’t land on top of four feet of extremely irritated serpent.

Heart beating like a jack hammer, I executed a U-turn at the bottom of the hill and pedaled back up to the rattlesnake. It hadn’t budged. That changed when I lobbed a couple of rocks his way (from a distance). As he grouchily slithered off the road wanting to bite someone— me, I told him how lucky he was to have encountered a bicyclist and not an 18-wheeler.

Adding insult to almost injury, a strong headwind caught me about ten miles outside of Aspermont. The wind had to be blowing at least 40 miles per hour. Tired, hot, and cranky, I dropped into my lowest gear and climbed out of the saddle. Two hours later I reached the town. My journal tells me I drank a gallon of ice tea.

Aspermont was like most of the west Texas towns I rode through: small, isolated, and slightly depressed. Employment opportunities were few. Population was going down, not up. The town’s population had been 1,357 in 1980. By 1989 it had dropped by a hundred or so.  The young people were leaving, heading off to the brighter lights of Dallas, Houston and other urban areas.

High school sports were a bright spot, however. Most towns had signs announcing when their kids had won state or regional championships, even if it was 10-20 years ago. I spent a pleasant evening in Aspermont recovering from my long day and chatting with the friendly locals who laughed at my adventures and regaled me with tales of their own. Texas is a place for story telling. That night there was another impressive thunder and lightning show, reflecting the heat and wind I had experienced during the day.

High school sports are very important in the small towns of West Texas. The local team, the Aspermont Hornets, is featured on the town's water tower.

High school sports are very important in the small towns of West Texas. The local team, the Aspermont Hornets, is featured today on the town’s water tower.

Abandoned homes reflect the dropping population of many West Texas towns. This was once somebody's dream.

Abandoned homes reflect the dropping population of many West Texas towns. This was once somebody’s dream.

The next day, I bicycled on to Throckmorton, a short 60 miles without excessive heat, wind or rattlesnakes. I was really impressed with the town’s beautiful city hall. Not so much with the local grocery store where I went to buy some fresh fruit. The oranges looked like rejects of rejects. (I admit to being spoiled by the fruits and vegetables of California.) Throckmorton is cow country so I booked myself into the Cow Country Motel and ate dinner at the Rancher’s Restaurant.

Highway 380 between Aspermont and Throckmorton.

Highway 380 between Aspermont and Throckmorton.

Some appropriate cattle on the way to Throckmorton.

Some appropriate cattle on the way to Throckmorton.

Peggy and I found this 22 foot high sculpture of a Texas Longhorn bull just a few miles west of Throckmorton.

Peggy and I found this 22 foot high sculpture of a Texas Longhorn bull a few miles west of Throckmorton. It wasn’t there when I bicycled through the area in 1989. The artist, Joe Barrington, is noted for creating  anatomically correct animals.

A side view of the sculpture, which is known as the Bridle Bit Bull. The local rancher who owns the property commissioned the art.

A side view of the sculpture, which is known as the Bridle Bit Bull. The local rancher who owns the property commissioned the art.

A side view of the City Hall in Throckmorton.

A side view of the City Hall in Throckmorton.

And a front view to conclude this post.

And a front view to conclude this post.

NEXT BLOG: A side trip to Archer, Texas, the home of Larry McMurtry and his fabulous bookstore. I also continue my bike trip on to Jacksboro and Fort Richardson, one of my favorite campgrounds on the bike trip.

 

 

And Just How Big Is Texas? The 10,000 Mile Bike Trek

Texas is like this bone, big. I found this mastodon bone at the Garza County Museum in Post, Texas.

Texas is like this bone, BIG. I found this fossil at the Garza County Museum in Post, Texas. Peggy and I often stop in small museums as we travel. We are never disappointed and often delighted. Where else could I play with mastodon bones? There are more photos from the museum below. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

 

“You must remember that space is large; it is even larger than Texas.” — Werner von Braun, the great rocket scientist. I don’t know if you could persuade a true Texan of this, or even me, after I rode my bicycle across the state.

 

Every state greets you with a welcome sign.

Every state greets you with a welcome sign.

My first major landmark the next day was a sign declaring I was about to enter Texas. I stopped, of course. I had now bicycled through four states: California, Nevada, Arizona and New Mexico. Texas with its heat, thunderstorms, hailstorms,and tornadoes was next.

I knew something about distances in the state. I had driven across it twice. I also knew a little about the weather. In search of the perfect steak on one of my trips, I barely escaped a flash flood. A day later it was hailstones the size of hardballs. In the early 80s, I taught a workshop in Houston, Texas on using long distance bicycle trips as fundraisers. None of this, however, prepared me for bicycling across the state.

Sometimes it is best not to know too much about what you are getting into. A lot of adventures would be missed.

I climbed back on my bike and spontaneously broke into the song, All My Ex’s Live in Texas. George Strait had made the country-western tune popular a couple of years earlier and I had been singing it with flair ever since. My first wife lived outside of Houston.

My initial view of the state surprised me. Where I had expected scrub brush and cacti, large farms stretched into the distance. Huge, insect-like, irrigations systems crawled across the land shooting long showers of water over several acres at a time. Plowed areas were so red they reminded me of the laterite soils of the West African rain forests, where I had served as a Peace Corps Volunteer.

I wasn't prepared for the extensive farms and the red soil I found in West Texas.

I wasn’t prepared for the extensive farms and the red soil I found in West Texas.

Cotton was king here. The crop had been harvested the previous fall but scroungy grey cotton balls could still be seen clinging desperately to weeds just off the highway. Bicyclists, who live on highway shoulders, tend to notice such things, along with dead animals and broken auto parts. And they have a lot of time to contemplate what they see.

I biked on through the small town of Plains and on to Brownfield. Natural landmarks are few and far between in flat country. I came to rely on two man-made additions to the skyline: water towers and grain elevators. Almost every town in the Texas dry-country had a water tower, which would proudly display its name. Many farming towns with rail connections also had grain elevators. Both of these structures reach for the sky. My challenge was to dampen my Pavlovian responses and not get too excited about food and drinks when I first spotted them. Usually, they were miles away. I’d arrive at DQ (Dairy Queen), when I arrived at DQ.

A water tower seen in the distance marking the town of Plains, Texas.

Water towers became one of my main land marks as I biked across Texas. Do you see that tiny dot in the air?

I always wonder where they find enough grain to fill these grain elevators up. This particular elevator was in Brownfield.

I always wonder where they find enough grain to fill these huge grain elevators. This particular storage facility was in Brownfield.

The local DQ in Brownfield must have taken its cue from the water towers and grain elevators. I ate in enough DQs as I bike across the country that the company should have sponsored me. Peggy and I stopped here for old times sake.

The local DQ in Brownfield must have taken its cue from the water towers and grain elevators. I ate in enough DQs as I biked across the country that the company should have sponsored me. Peggy and I stopped here for old times sake.

That night, billowing dark clouds stretched across the sky. There was a tornado watch on, the first of several I would face. To prepare myself, I went in search of a beer. Unfortunately, Brownfield was a dry town. Blue Laws were still in effect and there was no booze available, at least publicly. I’m pretty sure that 99%, or more, of the adults in town drank. Luckily, someone directed me to a liquor store drive-through a few miles outside of town. The clerk laughed when I rode my bike through. As I recall, they only sold their beer in cases or six-packs. Darn.

There was a spectacular thunder and lightning storm that night, but fortunately no tornadoes. I only had to drink three beers out of the six-pack.

I awoke to a clear, warm day and bicycled 47 miles into Post, a town that had been founded by CW Post of cereal fame in 1907 as a utopian experiment. There were to be no whores or alcohol in town. People could eat all the cereal they wanted. Post was something of a fanatic when it came to breakfast food.  He thought his Grape Nuts product could cure appendicitis. (Don’t try this at home, kids.)

CW Post founded the town of Post, Texas on 200,000 acres on property he bought from the Cattle Baron Slaughter.

CW Post founded the town of Post, Texas on 200,000 acres he bought from the cattle baron John Slaughter.

Post picked up his ideas on the curative properties of his products from another cereal magnate, John Harvey Kellogg. My favorite health food advocate of the time, however, was the Presbyterian minister, Sylvester Graham. The good reverend thought his creation, Graham Crackers, would curb people’s sexual appetites.

It’s something you might want to think about the next time you scarf down a S’more.

The Garza County Museum in Post is housed in what was once a sanitarium built for the town by CW Post. It was choked full of almost everything imaginable.

The Garza County Museum in Post is housed in what was once a sanitarium built for the town by its founder. The museum was  full of almost everything imaginable. Following are a few examples.

There is nothing particularly unusual about finding a stuffed buffalo head in a museum. But i found the sign on the side quite interesting. A quote: "In order to subdue the Plains Indians, mass extermination of the buffalo was ordered by the US Government."

There is nothing particularly unusual about finding a stuffed buffalo head in a western museum. But I found a quote on the sign quite disturbing:  “In order to subdue the Plains Indians, mass extermination of the buffalo was ordered by the US Government.” To the degree this is true, it is a dark moment in US history indeed.

There was also a bear rug. My toes, unbidden by my more rational mind which thought 'poor bear,' wanted to bury themselves in the rug.

There was also a bear rug. My toes, unbidden by my more rational mind that thought ‘poor bear,’ wanted to bury themselves in the fur.

I am not sure how Harvey the rabbit made it into the museum, but there he was, all six feet of him.

I’ll close today with Harvey, the rabbit. I am not sure how he made it into the Garza County Museum, but there he was, all six feet three and one half inches of him. Originally, Harvey was an invisible rabbit who starred in a 1950 movie with James Stewart.

NEXT BLOG: I leave Post and find sizzling heat, high winds, and a misplaced rattlesnake.

A final note: A friend of mine who lives in Alaska, David McElroy, has recently finished a book of poetry, Mark Making, that is now available for preorder. David somehow combines working as a bush pilot and extensive travel with writing poems. According to the publisher:

“He has been published in national journals and has a previous book of poems called Making It Simple.  He is an award winner of grants from the National Council on the Arts and the State of Alaska Council on the Arts and Humanities.”

I quite enjoy his work, and you may, as well. If you are interested, here is the preorder information. When you arrive at Finishing Line Press, just type in Mark Making in the search box at top.

David's poetry book

Roswell, UFOs, and Billy the Kid… The 10,000 Mile Bike Trek

Are aliens for real? What about UFOs? I found this charming character in a diorama at the Roswell UFO Museum.

Are aliens for real? What about UFOs? I found this charming character in a diorama at the Roswell UFO Museum.

 

“While working with a camera crew supervising flight testing of advanced aircraft at Edward’s Air Force Base, California, the camera crew filmed the landing of a strange disc object that flew in over their heads and landed on a dry lake nearby. A camera crewman approached the saucer, it rose up above the area and flew off at a speed faster than any known aircraft.”

—NASA astronaut, L. Gordon Cooper.

 

I was getting tough, no doubt about it. In four days I had biked from Springerville, Arizona to Roswell, New Mexico. The first three days, I had crossed the Rockies and half of New Mexico, checking out Pie Town, the VLA, and the location of the world’s first atomic bomb blast. On day four, I had cycled up into the Capitan Mountains and found the gravesite of Smokey Bear. But my day wasn’t over. Twelve miles down the road was the community of Lincoln that had been the center of New Mexico’s infamous Lincoln County War in 1878.

My intention was to call it a day in Lincoln and go in search of Billy the Kid, or at least his ghost. He’s said to haunt the area. But I really couldn’t find any place I wanted to camp so I just kept pedaling— another 57 miles. For much of the afternoon, I travelled along the Rio Hondo River with its small ranches, pine trees and cottonwoods, a welcome break from the dry deserts I’d been crossing. Dusk found me flying down a hill into Roswell. I was bushed, it had been a 90-mile day across another mountain range, but I couldn’t help scanning the skies for UFOs. The area is known for being the crash of a flying saucer in 1947, an incident that is still debated today. I had seen one once. I wanted to see another.

The UFO/or weather balloon crash site was on the other side of this mountain.

The UFO/or weather balloon crash site is on the other side of this mountain.

So today’s post is about desperadoes and little green men. There’s a lot to cover. I’d best get to it. I’ve blogged about Billy the Kid before. Here’s what I had to say:

Henry McCarty, aka Kid Antrim, aka William Henry Bonney, aka Billy the Kid initiated his life of crime in Silver City during the 1870s stealing butter from the local ranchers. And then he got serious; he was caught with a bag of stolen Chinese laundry. His buddy Sombrero Jack had given it to him to hide.  The local sheriff decided to lock Billy up for a couple of days as a lesson that crime doesn’t pay but the Kid escaped through the chimney.

Two years later, at 16, he killed his first man. Five years and some 11-21 murders after that (depending on press reports), he would be shot down by Sheriff Pat Garret. Billy liked to twirl his guns and enjoyed the polka— a fun guy.

There wasn’t much fun involved in the Lincoln County War; lots of people got killed. It’s the age-old story about the new guys riding into town and trying to dethrone the old guys. The ‘old’ guys in this case were Lawrence Murphy and James Dolan. Arriving in the early 1870s, Murphy and Dolan had built large ranches and Lincoln’s only dry goods store and bank. They controlled the law and were able to set prices to maximize profits. Corrupt friends higher up in New Mexico politics had enabled them to gain lucrative contracts selling beef to the US Army. They made lots of money; they didn’t want to share.

Enter from stage left, John Turnstall, a wealthy Englishman, and Alexander McSween, a lawyer. Backed by John Chisum, one of the largest cattle barons of the Old West (he had a herd of 100,000 cattle), they set out to obtain what Murphy and Dolan had. So they established cattle herds and built a dry goods store and bank in Lincoln. Soon they were taking business away from Murphy and Dolan, an intolerable situation. Dolan challenged Turnstall to a gunfight which Turnstall avoided. Instead, he hired Billy the Kid, someone eminently qualified to fight his gun battles for him.

This is a copy of the only known photo of Billy the Kid. It's found in what was once Murphy and Dolan's dry goods store and headquarters in Lincoln, NM. Later it would become Sheriff Pat Garret's Office. Billy would escape from here by killing two deputy sheriffs.

This is a copy of the only known photo of Billy the Kid. It’s found in what was once Murphy and Dolan’s dry goods store and headquarters in Lincoln, NM. Later it would become Sheriff Pat Garret’s Office. Billy would escape from here by killing two of Garret’s deputies.

Being thwarted, Murphy turned to the local law, his law, Sheriff William Brady. Faster than you can say trumped-up charges, three deputies were out on the trail of Turnbull. Naturally they had to shoot and kill him. This irritated Billy no small amount and the war was on. Then things really got complicated with competing bands of outlaws and lawmen, local cattlemen, the US Army, two New Mexico governors, and the President of the Unite States involved. Ultimately the Kid and McSween were killed along with 16 or so other folks including Sheriff Brady. Murphy and Dolan ended up bankrupt. McSween’s widow seemed to end up owning much of the stuff. There must be a moral of some kind here.

Murphy's sharpshooters used this tower in the Lincoln County War. It was originally used for protection against marauding Apaches.

Murphy’s sharpshooters used this tower in the Lincoln County War. It was originally used for protection against marauding Apaches.

A letter of appeal that Billy wrote to Governor Lew Wallace who had been appointed to clean up the mess in Lincoln County and the corruption in New Mexico's government. What interested me was how neat, and how well written the letter was.

A letter of appeal that Billy wrote to Governor Lew Wallace who had been appointed to clean up the mess in Lincoln County and the corruption in New Mexico’s government. What interested me was how neat, and how well written the letter was.I doubt you will find penmanship like that in our schools today.

Peggy and I found these red peppers in Lincoln. They made it onto my blog because I thing there is an unwritten law in New Mexico that anyone who blogs about the state has to include a shot of red peppers.

Peggy and I found these red peppers in Lincoln. They made it onto my blog because there is an unwritten law in New Mexico that anyone who blogs about the state has to include a shot of red peppers.

This rock is here because I found it near Lincoln along Highway 380. I think Billy would have liked it.

This rock is here because I found it along NM Highway 380 near Lincoln. I think Billy would have liked it, or shot it.

My road shot for the day. I really enjoyed the trees and green grass I found riding along the Rio Hondo River. This may look dry and barren to you. Believe me, it wasn't.

My road photo for the day. I really enjoyed the trees and green grass I found riding along the Rio Hondo River. This may look dry and barren to you. I thought I was in Eden.

Now, on to little green men.

A little green man contemplates what to do about earth while standing on the streets of Roswell.

A little green man contemplates what to do about earth while standing on the streets of Roswell. Don’t worry; the sign on the right says he’s under 24 hour video surveillance.

It was 1968. I was standing outside on my small porch in Sacramento, California, innocently minding my own business and sipping scotch when aliens entered my life. A round, disk-like object flew into a cloud going in one direction, and then flew out going another, accelerating at an unbelievable speed. It was only seconds of my life, but ever since, I have been interested in UFOs.

My flying saucer looked a lot like this, except it was clearer.

My flying saucer looked a lot like this, except it was clearer. (From a photo in the UFO museum.)

You might imagine my excitement as I approached Roswell. The story of the 1947 crash of an unidentified flying object near Roswell has been the subject of numerous news stories over the years. A local rancher had found mysterious debris on his property and turned it over to the military. At first the military reported that a UFO had crashed. As a media storm gathered, the military quickly changed its story and said it was a weather balloon. Meanwhile, tales of dead alien bodies being found begin to circulate.  A nurse reputedly said she had seen the aliens and drew a picture. Everything, it was claimed, had been shipped off to Area 51 in Nevada.

It was the grist for dozens of sci-fi movies, books and TV shows— and one of the greatest conspiracy theories of all times. It continues to rage, refusing to die. And probably never will as long as people continue to see disk-like objects zipping across the sky.

Roswell loves its aliens and the UFO story. It’s cash in the bank; it draws thousands of tourists annually. When Peggy and I went through there retracing my bike route in April, we wandered around town taking photos of businesses that displayed alien-related themes. We also spent a couple of hours at the UFO Museum, which is dedicated to uncovering the truth about the crash, and continuing to propagate the UFO story. It’s all fun. BTW, if you want a silly but fun R-rated movie that ties aliens, Roswell, and Area 51 together, Peggy and I recommend “Paul.” You might also want to check out my blog: Area 51— Where Alien Conspiracy Theories Continue to Breed Like Rabbits.

I've always wondered about the food served at McDs.

I’ve always wondered about the food served at McDs.

It isn't required, but Peggy and I found numerous businesses in Roswell with alien themes. This was a print shop.

It isn’t required, but Peggy and I found numerous businesses in Roswell with alien themes. This was a print shop.

As expected, you could find cute T-shirts...

As expected, you can find cute T-shirts…

Fun signs...

Fun signs…

And other alien stuff.

And other alien stuff.

The UFO Museum is filled with interesting facts and speculation about the UFO crash.

The UFO Museum is filled with interesting facts and speculation about the UFO crash.

This news story was based on the original release from the US Army, before it begin claiming a weather balloon had crashed.

This news story was based on the original release from the US Army, before it claimed a weather balloon had crashed.

I'll conclude today's post with this cartoon I found in the museum (grin).

This cartoon was the last thing I found in the museum. I left smiling.

NEXT BLOG: On to Texas. I am surprised I am not still bicycling across it.

Dun Gon, an Atom Bomb, and Smokey Bear… The 10,000 Mile Bike Trek

A Smokey the Bear poster

A Smokey the Bear poster with Smokey not looking nearly as cutesy as usual.

 

Smokey the Bear, Smokey the Bear— Prowlin’ and growlin’ and sniffin’ the air— He can find a fire before it starts to flame— That is why they call him Smokey— That is how he got his name. —Smokey the Bear song I learned in 4th grade

 

I said goodbye to the Plains of Saint Augustin with its Very Large Array and began my descent toward the Rio Grande, a river steeped in history. At first the road behaved. I continued to pedal across high desert plains which led me to breakfast in the sleepy town of Magdalena.

Once, it had been roaring. In the late 1800s, a railroad had snaked its way up the canyon from Socorro and the cowboys had come whooping into town, driving large herds of cattle to be loaded on rail cars and shipped off to distant markets. When the railroad left, much of the town’s livelihood left with it. Today, Magdalena still bills itself as a trailhead town… that and a gateway to the stars.

Somewhere on the other side of town, the highway dropped out from under me. It was a yee-haw! moment. Or maybe I should call it a Dun Gon! moment. Back in its heyday, Magdalena had been a famous rodeo town hosting some of the top bronco and bull riders of the time. Dun Gon was a priceless commodity to the rodeo world, a horse that was almost impossible to ride. He would start with a series of bone jarring jumps and then shoot for the sky, twisting as he went. Riders who dared to climb on were ‘dun gon.’ They took flying lessons that always ended in crashes.

I understood the feeling as my bike shot down the mountain with me desperately pulling on the reins. “Whoa, boy!” Fortunately, I kept in my saddle and shortly afterwards found myself in Socorro. I would have hung out in the town but the Rio Grande was calling.  My destination was the town of San Antonio (New Mexico), about 11 miles down Interstate 25.

I joined a small road that paralleled the freeway and wondered if it had once been part of the historic El Camino Real de Tierra Adentro (The Royal Road of the Interior Land), that followed the Rio Grande near Socorro. The Spaniards had used the El Camino Real as a major trade route between Mexico City and Santa Fe, New Mexico starting in 1598, some 22 years before the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock, and some 32 years before my ancestors first set foot on North America.

At one point, the road shot off to the west, a direction I didn’t want to go. I was left with the options of following it, pedaling back toward Socorro or climbing over the freeway fence. I reluctantly went for the fence, concerned that a highway patrolman might catch me high-centered on the barbed wire, an ouchy position to be in. I worry about things like that.  I made it over fine except for the 3, 872 stickers that lodged in my socks. That could be a slight exaggeration, by one or two.

The road I was following jogged off to the right and I decided to climb over the fence and continue down I-25, not thinking about how many stickers were waiting for me.

The road I was following jogged off to the right and I decided to climb over the fence and continue down I-25, not thinking about how many stickers were waiting for me.

I was soon chomping down on a hamburger in San Antonio. It tasted so good, I went for a second— the advantage of burning 6000 calories a day. Since it was a balmy spring afternoon, I went for a walk that took me through town and over to the Rio Grande River. Its water was brown and sluggish. I had seen it dashing and clear when backpacking up near its headwaters in the San Juan Mountains of Colorado, but dams and farming had taken their toll. Not too far away in Texas, I thought to myself, people from Mexico were swimming through its muddy water, dreaming of a better life for themselves and their children. Now, we’ve built walls to prevent that.

The Rio Grand looking north from the Highway 380 bridge near San Antonio, NM

The Rio Grande looking north from the Highway 380 bridge near San Antonio, NM. A sand/mud bar occupies the middle of the river.

The Rio Grande looking south from the bridge.

The Rio Grande looking south from the bridge.

Mosquitos, who don’t care about such things, drove me back toward my tent.

The next day I climbed on Highway 380 out of San Antonio, the road that would take me across New Mexico and much of Texas. There was a brief ascent out of the Rio Grand Valley and then the country opened up again to forever vistas. Far off to the southeast, the low Oscura Mountains could be seen hanging on the horizon.

In between was the Jornada del Muerto (journey of death) Valley. Early Spaniards had named the valley when they chose a shortcut across it for the El Camino Real. Intense heat, lack of water and irritated Apaches had been responsible for the designation. I was making something of a habit out of bicycling across such places. I quickly found the heat and lack of water, but fortunately, no irritated Apaches.

Crossing the desert toward Carrizozo heading east.

Crossing the desert toward Carrizozo heading east. The first thoughts of a bicyclist would probably be ‘Wow, that looks like a long ways.” His second thoughts, “But there is a good shoulder to ride on.”

I do not believe that civilization will be wiped out in a war fought with the atomic bomb. Perhaps two-thirds of the people of the earth will be killed. –Albert Einstein

On Monday, July 16, 1945 at 5:29:45 in the morning Mountain Time, a fourth reason was added for naming the desert valley, Jornada del Muerto— the world’s first atomic bomb was set off on the edge of it. A bad genie was let out of a bag that to this day still haunts our existence.

The circumstances surrounding the test seem strange, even primitive considering the results. Four days before, scientists were still assembling the plutonium core of what they called the gadget in the bedroom of a nearby ranch house the military had confiscated (not that the rancher would have wanted to be anywhere near). On the day of the test, a surplus forest service fire tower was recruited for holding the bomb. As they raised ‘the gadget’ into position, mattresses were stacked under the tower in case it fell.

Nobody knew for sure what the results would be. The Los Alamos scientists, who had been responsible for creating the bomb, took bets on how powerful it would be. The Nobel Prize winning scientist Enrico Fermi, known as the father of the nuclear age, was willing to bet anyone that the bomb would wipe out all life on earth, or at least take out New Mexico. And yet, on the day of the test, the scientists were hunkered down in bunkers a few miles away to see what they had wrought. Robert Oppenheimer named the site Trinity. He could have chosen Armageddon.

I paused on my bike trip at a wayside to commemorate the site. I looked out across the valley to where the bomb had lit up the early morning sky, contemplated the death and destruction it led to, and shared a few moments of silence with the desert.

Looking out across the desert toward the Trinity bomb site.

Looking out across the desert toward the Trinity bomb site.

I spent the night in Carrizozo before cycling up into the Capitan Mountains the next day. I was sweating my way up into the high country when I came across a sign that proclaimed Smokey the Bear had been found nearby as a cub in 1950. His mom had sent him up a tree to protect him from a rampaging forest fire. Someone had shot a hole in the sign, a common occurrence out west. An irreverent thought about the right to arm bears passed through my mind.

It was near here where Smokey the Bear was found as a cub and I found the sign with a bullet hole.

It was near here where Smokey the Bear was found as a cub and I found the sign with a bullet hole.

Smokey had been shipped off to the National Zoo in Washington DC and gone on to become a national, even international symbol, for the prevention of forest fires. It is said that he developed quite a taste for peanut butter sandwiches and received so much mail that the US Postal Service gave him his own zip code. I visited him once in Washington. When he passed on to bear heaven in 1976, his remains were shipped back to the small town of Capitan. I ate breakfast at a restaurant near his grave site and paid my respects. You can visit the grave today. Bring a peanut butter sandwich.

This small statue of a bear cub climbing a tree is at Smokey's grave site.

This small statue of a bear cub climbing a tree is at Smokey’s grave site.

Dozens of posters were created of Smokey for fire prevention campaigns. This one emphasizes the burns Smokey had received from the fire.

Dozens of posters were created of Smokey for fire prevention campaigns. This one emphasizes the burns Smokey had received from the fire.

Smokey as an adult. This sign is located at his memorial.

Smokey as an adult. This sign is located at his memorial.

Smokey the Bear Restaurant is located next to the memorial site and is full to the brim with Smokey the Bear memorabilia.

Smokey the Bear Restaurant is located next to the memorial site and is full to the brim with Smokey the Bear memorabilia.

NEXT BLOG: We visit Lincoln, NM, where Billy the Kid and his six-shooter once ruled and then head on down to Roswell, site of the 1947 UFO crash. It is hard to find a more alien-oriented town.

Note: To those of you just joining this blog, I am writing a series of posts about a 10,000 mile solo bicycle trip I took around North America in 1989. The majority of photos were recently taken when my wife, Peggy, and I retraced the route, a trip we have just completed.

The Very Large Array and Messages from Space… A Bike Trek Special

The radio telescopes of the Very Large Array are situated on the eastern edge of the Continental Divide, 60 miles east of Socorro, New Mexico.

The radio telescopes of the Very Large Array are situated on the eastern edge of the Continental Divide, 50 miles west of Socorro, New Mexico. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

 

Perhaps we’ve never been visited by aliens because they have looked upon Earth and decided there’s no sign of intelligent life. -Neil deGrasse Tyson

 

July is just around the corner. And that means the Mekemson household will soon be watching Independence Day. Again. Peggy has her favorites. Some movies, like Willow, I swear we have watched 30 times. And I don’t know if I can count how many times August Rush, the movie about the little boy who finds his parents through music, has appeared on our TV screen. Each viewing guarantees Peggy will get out her Martin and strum it.

Peggy snuggles up to a sundial at the VLA, counting down the hours until she can watch "Independence Day" again.

Peggy snuggles up to a sundial at the VLA, counting down the weeks until she can watch “Independence Day” again.

A close up of the sundial featuring both of us in the mirror. Sort of a selfie...

A close up of the sundial featuring both of us in the mirror… and an alien. Sort of a selfie.

But Independence Day has a special twist. July 5th is Peggy’s Birthday and the movie kicks off her Birthday Week, during which “whatever Peggy wants, Peggy gets.” (Remember Whatever Lola Wants?) If it appears she is a little spoiled, well yes. But Peggy has earned it— and she spoils me, too.

You’ve probably seen Independence Day. Nasty aliens invade the world with the intent of wiping out humanity and sucking up all of the earth’s goodies. The movie starts with a scientist in a lab whiling away the wee hours of the morning practicing his golf game by sinking putts in a glass. Suddenly the computer screen that monitors messages from outer space goes bonkers. And everything changes.

Here’s the point of my little detour into the world of Science Fiction: The scientist is working at the Very Large Array of radio telescopes in New Mexico, which is the subject of today’s post. An even more famous movie including the VLA is in the Jodie Foster flick, Contact, based on the book written by Carl Sagan where humanity first meets up with aliens. SETI, the search for extra terrestrial intelligence, is a subject that has fired the imagination of much of the world’s population, a fact that Hollywood has taken to heart, and the bank.

The scientists at VLA have mixed feelings about the movie depiction of their giant radio telescopes being used in the search for aliens. On the one hand, movies increase public awareness about the facility, and this awareness can be translated into increased funding. On the other hand, the VLA is used for hard science. Instead of searching for little green men, it is used for unlocking the secrets of quasars, pulsars, black holes, the sun, the Milky Way Galaxy, and numerous other astronomical phenomena including the very beginning of the Universe. Not bad, even if they aren’t talking to ET on the side.

Besides, as one astrophysicist at the facility told Peggy and me, if an alien civilization has mastered the difficulties involved in traveling/communicating over the vastness of time and space, they would be to us like we are to ants. Why bother with checking in or stopping for a visit. The tongue-in-cheek quote at the top from the astronomer and popularizer of science, Neil deGrasse Tyson, reflects this perspective.

In my last post, I passed by VLA as I zipped down New Mexico 60 from Pie Town and the Continental Divide heading east on my bike. I vowed I would be back, which was a vow Peggy and I kept as we retraced my route through the area. We were lucky. We arrived on the first Sunday in April, which just happened to be VLA’s annual open house. The red carpet was rolled out.

Peggy and I lucked out in our April visit to VLA. It was the facilities annual open house. People were taken on tours by scientists who use the radio telescopes for probing the Universe.

Peggy and I lucked out in our April visit to VLA. People were taken on tours by scientists who use the radio telescopes for probing the Universe. A visitors center and self-guided walking tour are available for people who come at other times. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Scientists were everywhere— answering questions, leading tours and being friendly. I suspect it was a command performance required by the higher-ups. Most scientists prefer to be locked away in their labs discovering things. A young post-doc from India, who is using the VLA to probe back several billion years to the beginning of time, took Peggy, me and several others on a tour of the facility.

But first I chatted with Diego Montoya, the Mayor of Magdalena, a town just down the road from the VLA. Diego wasn’t at the event in his official role, however, he was there because he had a speaking part as a third grader in Contact. As I pointed out, the VLA recognizes the importance of publicity to its well-being. Magdalena recognizes the importance of VLA as a tourist draw.

Diego Montoya

Diego Montoya looking very much like a mayor of a Western town.

When I rode my bike by the VLA in 1989, the 27 huge radio telescopes were spread out for over 22 miles of the San Augustin Plains. When we visited a couple of months ago, it was under a mile. Given that each antenna weighs 230 tons and comes with a dish that is 82 feet in diameter, moving them is something of a challenge, to say the least. How is it accomplished? Slowly and carefully (grin). A railroad track system shaped in the form of a Y has been designed for the effort. Each arm of the Y is 13 miles long. Special trains with the power to lift and move the telescopes have been designed for the job.

Each of the radio telescopes at the Very Large Array in New Mexico is massive, weighing

Each of the radio telescopes at the Very Large Array in New Mexico is massive, weighing in at 230 tons.

The dish is 82 feet in diameter.

The dish is 82 feet in diameter. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

This sculpture at the VLA represents the Y of the track configuration.

This sculpture at the VLA represents the Y of the track configuration.

This photo shows the rails that the radio telescopes travel on. Once the telescope arrives at it preset positions it is bolted down and plugged in to the power and fiber optic cable system.

This photo shows the rails that the radio telescopes travel on. Once the telescope arrives at its preset position, it is bolted down and plugged in to the power and fiber optic cable system. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Four different locations are utilized on the tracks to provide for different types of observations with the telescopes, which rotate through the locations every 16 months. Since the 27 telescopes work together as one unit, they are the equivalent of a telescope with a 22-mile diameter when extended to their farthest point! That’s like the mother of all telescopes.

The telescopes can do their job because they are extremely sensitive to radio waves, the longest waves on the electromagnetic spectrum. And how sensitive do they have to be? Consider this: Cosmic radio waves are a billion, billion, million times weaker than a cell phone signal. (Pretty hard to call home with that ET. Mom would need really big ears.) This sensitivity creates special problems. A cell phone used on the premises sounds like a very large scream (VLS?). Even the remotes for car doors create spikes on the VLA’s measuring equipment. One reason for choosing the San Augustin Plains is because of its remoteness from all things civilized. I can attest to that. The other is that it is so darn flat, which I quickly discovered bicycling across it. My floating down the Rockies came to a dramatic halt, at least for a dozen or so miles.

Messages received by the radio telescopes are sent at light speeds over fiber optic cables to the central processing unit where one of the world’s fastest computers processes the data at 16 quadrillion calculations per second— the equivalent of every person on earth (all six billion of us), doing one calculation per second on a calculator for a month, nonstop. The data is then packaged up and sent out to scientists from all over the world. Scientists compete for time on the VLA by submitting proposals. Their slots may be for an hour or days. After a year, they agree they will release their findings to the public. In terms of scientific data, the VLA has paid its way many times over.

The massive computer room is closed to the public but we did tour the monitoring room. The Array is monitored 24/7 by scientists in case of any problems. This chart shows spikes caused by incoming radio waves.

The massive computer room is closed to the public but we did tour the monitoring room. The Array is monitored 24/7 by scientists in case of any problems. This chart shows data being received from the radio telescopes. I wonder what an extraterrestrial message would look like!

The message from outer space to my readers is that if you get anywhere near the VLA, include it on your itinerary. Even if you only stare at the telescopes, it is a fascinating place, and there is a good visitors center chock full of info. Who knows, maybe even ET will call while you are there. Two final photos:

Radio Telescopes and repair facility at VLA in New Mexico

The large facility in the back is used for repair and maintenance on the radio telescopes.

We took this shot as we were leaving.

I took this shot as we were leaving.

THE NEXT BLOG: Once again you will join Peggy and me as we continue to retrace my bike route. We will stop off at the Trinity site where the world’s first atomic bomb was exploded, visit Smokey the Bear’s birthplace and grave, and end up in Lincoln County where six guns once ruled and Billy the Kid roamed— all of that before we drop into Roswell and its weird world of UFOs.

Bicycling 70 Miles Up the Rocky Mountains for a Piece of Pie… The 10,000 Mile Bike Trek

1 Cherry Pie at Pie Town

And how far will a long distance bicyclist go for a piece of pie? Quite a ways if you throw in the whole pie. Check out the little hearts in the crust. They were a special touch from the Pie Lady of Pie Town.

 

May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, and dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds. – Edward Abbey

 

The Rocky Mountains were waiting for me. I wasn’t particularly concerned. By this point in my journey, I had learned that the way to get through the day was to get up, climb on my bike, and start peddling. Life was pretty simple.

I am not as familiar with the Rocky Mountains as I am with the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California. But I have driven back and forth back across their 3000-mile spine several times. More importantly, I have sampled their beauty on foot in Canada, Montana, Colorado, Wyoming and New Mexico.

My first ever backpack trip was near Lake Louise in Banff National Park. It was 1969. I had read Colin Fletcher’s “The Complete Walker” to learn about backpacking and then stopped by REI in Seattle (when it was REI’s first and only store) to buy my equipment. It was early in the season and I remember lying awake at night in my tent with the rain pouring down while I listened to large rocks and minor avalanches tumbling off the surrounding cliffs and wondered just what it was that had made me think backpacking would be fun. Later, I backpacked into the more remote Canadian Rocky’s with a geologist from the University of Arizona in search of some of the world’s oldest rocks. It was my job to help carry out the samples. Lucky me.

Once, while backpacking in Montana’s Glacier National Park, I was treated to listening to Peggy sing numerous repeats of “99 bottles of beer on the wall” at the top of her lungs. We were hiking through brush and kept finding massive piles of steaming grizzly poop.

I backpacked by myself following “crooked, winding, lonesome and dangerous” trails in the Wind River Mountains of Wyoming and the Gila Wilderness of New Mexico. In the Wind River’s, a not-dangerous marmot nibbled on my shoe— with my foot in it. At first I was amused, but his sharp, chisel-like teeth led me to shoo him back to eating flowers. Slightly more dangerous, a cow elk played tag with me in the Gila Wilderness. That game ended with her charging and sliding to a stop five-feet away. Elks are big animals, even from a distance. Up close, this girl looked and sounded like a steam locomotive.

With the exception of Peggy singing to the bears, which was yet to come, I thought of these Rocky Mountain experiences as I checked out my map during my layover day in Springerville.  I would be following New Mexico 60 for most of the trip across the mountains, which was a road I had never travelled. I didn’t know what to expect in terms of a climb but it was easy to see that services were few and far between— nothing new there.

I also noted that the distance to the top was further than I thought, closer to 70 miles than 50. Whether steep or not, the climb would be long. The good news: A small community named Pie Town was located on the Continental Divide. A town with that name would have pie to sell, right? Visions of a large slice of hot apple pie with a generous scoop of vanilla ice cream made me drool like a Pavlovian dog.

2 Looking east toward the Rocky's from Springerville, AZ

The view from my campground in Springerville, looking eastward toward the Rockies. The mountains didn’t look as steep as the towering giants further to the north.

The time came to climb on my bike, as it inevitably did, and I was out at 6:00 AM. I grabbed breakfast in Springerville. Pickings looked slim along the way. My day unfolded with three surprises. First, the climb was not difficult. There were even a few decent downhills. I am not, however, a fan of downhills when I am climbing a pass. Lost elevation has to be regained! I think there is a basic law of physics involved.

3 Climbing up the Rocky's on US 60 on the west side

As expected, there were ups as I climbed toward the Continental divide.

5 Highway 60 in New Mexico

But there were also downs as I made my way toward the distant mountains and Pie Town.

I replenished my water in the small town of Quemado and passed by a couple of wide spots in the road that may have had booming businesses once, but that was ancient history. Beyond that, there was nothing, nada.  I began to hallucinate pie. I would eat two pieces of apple pie with ice cream and then switch to cherry pie with ice cream. Maybe there would even be the prize of all prizes: coconut cream pie, no ice cream required. I had loved that as a youth. I worked as a janitor cleaning the Episcopal Church in Placerville on Saturdays when I was 12. They paid me four dollars. Afterwards I would make a beeline to the Golden Chain Restaurant for a cup of coffee and a piece of coconut cream pie. It cost me a buck, one-fourth of my weekly salary. Talk about an addiction…

My second surprise came as a rude shock. The pie shop in Pie Town was out of business. The owner had retired. There would be no apple, cherry, or coconut cream pie for Curt. I whined loudly at the pie gods and was met with silence. There was nothing to do but climb on my bike and start down the mountain. But there is more to this story.

Several years later I passed though Pie Town again and an open sign pulled me into the Pie-O-Neer Restaurant. I was greeted by its delightful owner, Kathy Knapp. Kathy and her mom, Mary, had driven through the town in the mid-90s and her mom had found it a travesty that a town with the name of Pie Town had no pies to sell. So Kathy, an advertising executive from Dallas, had purchased the restaurant and she and her mom had gone into business. I told my tale of woe to Kathy. As I left, she presented me with a piece of coconut cream pie in a to-go box, for free. “This is for when you biked through and didn’t get any pie,” Kathy told me. Had I not already been married to Peggy, I might have fallen in love.

Peggy and I stopped by again in April as we retraced my bike route. Kathy was as bubbly as ever. Her restaurant is now famous and Kathy is something of a celebrity. Numerous newspaper articles, Sunset Magazine, national TV news, and an award-winning documentary have featured the Pie-O-Neer Pie Shop. People drive for hundreds of miles to sample the delicious pastry. Kathy and her business partner, Stanley King, posed for a photo and then Kathy insisted on coming out and having her photo taken with us and the van. As for pie, Peggy and I ate more than we should have. There will be no more said on the subject.

6 Pie-O-Neer Pies in Pietown New Mexico

Good news, the pie shop was open.

7 The pie bar at pie town

What a find: 12 different types of pie! All cut up and ready to eat. But how to choose? That was the question.

8 Kathy Knapp and Stan at Pie Town

Kathy Knapp, the Pie Lady, and her business partner, Stan King. Stan’s T-shirt showed a bit of geekiness with its ‘piece of pie symbols.’

Geeks and Pie Town

A note from the QueLab of Albuquerque, a gathering place for geeks, displayed even more geekiness.

10 Restroom sign at Pie Town

At least this message in the restroom was plain and simple.

11 Kathy Knapp the Pie Lady

Peggy, Kathy and I standing behind Quivera the Van. I am holding onto Blue, the bike I travelled 10,000 miles on.

But back to bicycling. What a romp! I had forty plus miles of downhill in front of me. I bicycled past a museum featuring windmills, through Ponderosa Pine forests, and by massive rocks with strange faces. I hardly touched my brakes. A cool wind caressed my face.  All too soon I left the forests behind and returned to the high plains desert. Then something magical happened, I came on my third surprise: A collection of huge radio telescopes scattered across the Plains of San Augustin and pointed toward the sky. A thought buried in the nether regions of my brain came skipping to the surface: VLA, the Very Large Array. Naturally, I had read about them; the huge telescopes enabled scientists to explore the universe using radio waves, unlocking secrets withheld from optical telescopes. But I didn’t have a clue that they were located on my route. I looked on in wonder, wanting to see more.

12 Windmill

Windmills are a common sight in the arid west. A windmill museum sits next to the Pie-O-Neer restaurant.

13 Off the summit on New Mexico Highway 60

Downhill for 40 plus miles— a bicyclist’s dream.

Ponderosa pines on New Mexico Highway 70

I bicycled through Ponderosa Pine forests…

15 Rock Face on New Mexico Highway 60

And past massive rocks. I never have any trouble spotting faces in rocks. Is it because I have an active imagination, or am I just weird? No, don’t answer that. BTW, this guy looked friendly.

VLA telescopes in late afternoon

Imagine coming on these in a high plains desert and not having a clue what they were. I’d start thinking aliens.

Dusk was approaching, however, and I needed a home for the night. I told the VLA I would be back and biked on. A few more miles brought me to a small camping area. As I was unpacking my tent, I was struck by another thought. Aided by a great downhill, I had biked over 100 miles and crossed the Rocky Mountains, all in one day! It was my first ever 100-mile day.

Highway 60 in New Mexico near the VLA

As I biked toward camp, the setting sun turned the grass a golden color.

NEXT POST: A blog special on the Very Large Array. Peggy and I were lucky to arrive at the VLA when the facility was hosting its annual open house. A scientist took us on a tour that allowed us to see the giant telescopes and the massive amount of computer power that allows astronomers and astrophysicists from around the world to study the universe back to the very beginning of time.

A Very Scary Night in Winslow… The 10,000 Mile Bike Trek

This cafe in Seligman, Arizona on Route 66 has a special significance for bicyclists whose view of road kill is often up close.

This cafe in Seligman, Arizona on Route 66 has a special significance for bicyclists whose view of road kill is often up close.

I recognized there were inherent risks when I decided to undertake my bike trip. I would be traveling for 10,000 miles on 1¼ inch tires through all types of terrain and weather conditions. The roads would range from smooth and modern, to filled with pot holes, to dirt. Some came with wide shoulders to ride on, others with none. Everything from 18-wheelers to drunk drivers would be passing me, and some frighteningly close. I would be traveling over some of the most remote roads in North America. And, I would be by myself. (I might also note here that it was the era before cell phones.)

I accepted these risks willingly; it is the nature of adventures. Besides, I was an experienced bicyclist and camper, carried appropriate clothing and equipment, and didn’t take unnecessary chances. I am not a thrill seeker. When I camped out beside the road, for example, I hid. When the weather was particularly severe, I headed for shelter. On steep downhills, I didn’t say, “Wow, let’s see how fast I can go!”  (Okay, there were a few times.) There was ample challenge in what I was doing; I didn’t need to wave my finger at fate.

Most days reminded me of my mortality in some way or the other. A truck would brush by me; I’d pick up a flat in a tight situation, a drenching rain would hit when I was miles from nowhere, a big dog would decide I’d make a nice dinner. But these went with the territory and didn’t particularly worry me. Anybody who does a bit of cycling has experienced them. Occasionally, however, something would get my heart beating like a rock drummer on steroids. One such event took place in Winslow, Arizona. But I wasn’t ‘standing on a corner,’ in Winslow as in the Eagle’s song “Taking It Easy”; I was happily zonked out in bed. The story is coming up at the end of this post. First, I had to get there.

As I rejoined Route 66 from my camp at the Grand Canyon Caverns, dark clouds threatened on the horizon. There were showers about, and I was hoping to dodge them. Although deserts don’t get a lot of rain (the definition is under 10 inches a year), when it rains, it can pour— so to speak, and there is nothing to absorb the water. This is a bad time to be camped out in a gully. Or be bicycling, as far as that goes. Thunder and lightning frequently accompany the storms and you and your metal lighting-rod bike may be the tallest thing around. Fortunately, the storms hit elsewhere and the most exciting thing I did on my morning ride into Seligman was watch the long freight trains of the Santa Fe Railroad cross the desert.

You have a lot more time to worry about storms in the desert! You can see them from a long ways off.

You have a lot more time to worry about storms in the desert! You can see them from a long ways off.

Trains provided me with a from of companionship on my journey, or at least a distraction. I usually climbed off my bike and watched them pass.

Trains provided me with a form of companionship on my journey, or at least a distraction. I usually climbed off my bike and watched them pass.

Breakfast provided an opportunity to look around the small town. I am pretty sure there is not another community on Route 66 that is so dedicated to making money off the fact. It was in 1989 and it still is today. Consider the photos that Peggy and I recently took when we drove through the town retracing my bike trip:

I don't think this store could have worked in more Route 66 signs. How many can you count?

I don’t think this store could have worked in more Route 66 signs. How many can you count?

Here's another example of Seligman merchants struggling to make a profit off of their Route 66 heritage.

Here’s another example of Seligman merchants struggling to make a profit off of their Route 66 heritage.

This bar featured what I can only assume were supposed to be ladies of the evening.

This bar featured what I can only assume were supposed to be ladies of the evening.

I understood the girls but what was with the Lord of the Rings type character staring out the window?

I understood the girls but what was with the Lord of the Rings type character staring out the window? And what did he have in mind doing with his hand?

Historic Route 66 travelled on for another 20 or so miles before dropping me on to Interstate 40. If you were around in 1989, you may have heard my sigh. I left one of America’s bluest highways to one of its busiest, chock full of big rigs travelling as fast as the speed limits allowed— and faster.  Fortunately, there was a decent shoulder. Five miles of freeway travel brought me to Ash Fork, another town that once served Route 66 travelers. Unlike, Seligman, Ash Fork has another claim to fame: The Flagstone Capital of the USA. If all of the rocks piled around the town are any indication, it is probably true. I spent the night. The next morning found me out on the freeway again. It was my only route to Winslow.

The railroad tracks came closer to the road just outside of Seligman. This happens to be one of the busiest freight lines in America. When I traveled through it was the Santa Fe Railroad of Aitchison, Topeka and Santa Fe fame. Now it is part of the Burlington North Santa Fe Railroad one by Warren Buffet.

The railroad tracks came closer to the road just outside of Seligman. This happens to be one of the busiest freight lines in America. When I traveled through it was the Santa Fe Railroad of Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe fame. Now it is part of the Burlington North Santa Fe Railroad owned by Warren Buffet.

Do you remember the days of the Burma Shave signs posted along the highways of America. This would have been five different signs stretched out over a mile or so. The chick he wed— Let out a whoop— Felt his chin— And Flew the coop— Burma Shave. New signs with similar humor are now posted along Route 66 in Arizona promoting humor.

Do you remember the days of the Burma Shave signs posted along the highways of America? This would have been five different signs stretched out over a mile or so. The chick he wed— Let out a whoop— Felt his chin— And Flew the coop— Burma Shave. New signs with similar humor are now posted along Route 66 in Arizona promoting safety.

So much for my peaceful road. Route 66 dumped me on to Interstate 40.

So much for my peaceful road. Route 66 dumped me on to Interstate 40.

Fortunately it wasn't far. I came to Ash Fork just up the road, which is quite proud of its association with flagstone.

Fortunately it wasn’t far. I came to Ash Fork just up the road, which is quite proud of its association with flagstone. The small campground where I stayed was located somewhere on the other side of the rocks. There was also my kind of motel off to the right.

Ash Fork is also an historic Route 66 town as indicated by this sign.

Ash Fork is also an historic Route 66 town as indicated by this sign.

Climbing was the order of the day, all the way to Flagstaff, one of my favorite Arizona towns. Nestled in the pines beneath the towering San Francisco Mountains, it features decent restaurants, coffee, bookstores, and campgrounds… everything I needed to keep me rolling down the road. I’ve stopped there many times, both on my way east and west and on my way north and south to the Grand Canyon and Sedona. I enjoyed myself so much that evening, I didn’t get out until two the next day. Fortunately, the 50 plus miles to Winslow on I-40 were mainly downhill or flat so I arrived before dark. My only disappointment was that I didn’t have time to stop off and see the huge meteor crater along the route. (Peggy and I stopped to check it out. It’s impressive.)

It was a steady climb out of Ash Fork to Flagstaff. But it had its rewards. I came on the first pine trees I had seen since I left Greenhorn Pass. I was so excited that I got off my bike and did a dance. Then I had to pee. You know how that goes...

It was a steady climb out of Ash Fork to Flagstaff. But it had its rewards. I came on the first pine trees I had seen since I left Greenhorn Pass. I was so excited that I got off my bike and did a dance. Then I had to pee. You know how that goes…

A storm rages over the San Francisco Mountains. Hopi legend has it that their Kachina gods wander the mountains during storms. Apparently they don't like to be disturbed. Nasty things can happen to the unweary human.

A storm rages over the San Francisco Mountains. Hopi legend has it that their Kachina gods wander the mountains during storms. Apparently they don’t like to be disturbed. Nasty things can happen to the unwary human. I camped up there once and was quite careful.

Another view of the San Francisco Mountains— this time from the east. Flagstaff nestles at their base.

Another view of the San Francisco Mountains— this time from the east. Flagstaff nestles at their base.

I missed seeing the Arizona meteor Crater on my bike trip so Peggy and I stopped by there a few weeks ago as I retrace my route. It is a very impressive hole in the ground.

I missed seeing the Arizona meteor Crater on my bike trip so Peggy and I stopped by there a few weeks ago as I retrace my route. It is a very impressive hole in the ground.

Because of its similarity to craters on the moon, the Arizona Crater was used of early astronaut traIning.

Because of its similarity to craters on the moon, the Arizona Crater was used of early astronaut traIning. And no, I wasn’t ‘on’ the boiler plate. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

But now to Winslow and my story. Since it was late, I didn’t have a lot of time to search for lodging and I did what I rarely do… stopped at a motel with a huge sign proclaiming it was “American Owned.” It’s not that an American owned the motel that bothered me; it’s the prejudice that it likely reflected. Anyway, a very, very old lady was behind the desk. She stared at me and demanded to know what I wanted. (My showing up on a bicycle made me very suspicious, I’m sure.) “A room?” I hazarded a guess. “It’s $20 up front.” The emphasis was on ‘up front.’ The price was right and I handed over the cash. She seemed surprised but checked me in, a process that went on and on. Finally, she showed me the key. “There is a five-dollar deposit,” she announced, holding onto the key. I was becoming a bit ouchy but turned over the money.

Twenty-dollars was too much for the room. It was small, poorly lit, and came with a television that may have worked when “I Love Lucy” was a hit. It smelled like 50-years of tobacco smoke. The bed seemed hardly made, if at all. I wondered what kind of vermin it might contain. I checked. I also decided that my bike would be much safer inside. Exhaustion alone drove me to bed and asleep.

It was around one a.m. when I awoke with a start as I heard a key being inserted into the door and the door knob begin to turn. I sat up so fast I left my brains behind. A dark form was looming in the doorway. It screamed. I screamed back, primeval.

“What in the fuck are you doing in my bed?” he yelled!

“What in the fuck are you doing in my room?” I yelled right back.

“I am getting the manager,” he shouted in parting. I breathed a sigh of relief— too soon, as it turned out. The manager must have heard the ruckus because he was there faster than I could put on my pants, foaming at the mouth.

“What are you doing in this room,” he demanded. “I am calling the police.”

“An old woman checked me in and gave me a key,” I jumped in to deflect a 911 call.

“Oh,” he responded, deflated. “Mother.” As if that explained it all. “Her sight is gone and her memory is worse. I left her here when I had to run to the grocery store.”

That was it for an apology, but I was allowed to stay in the room and the police weren’t called.  Small compensation, to say the least. No offer was made to return my money. It was a while before I fell back asleep and I was out early. New adventures were waiting.

The Winslow visitor center. Once again, the connection with Route 66 is emphasized. This was once a store that sold Navajo blankets and jewelry. Many such stores were located along historic Route 66 in Arizona and New Mexico.

The Winslow Visitor Center. Once again, the connection with Route 66 is emphasized. This was once a store that sold Navajo blankets and jewelry. Many such stores were located along historic Route 66 in Arizona and New Mexico.

Downtown Winslow as it looks today, pretty much as it looked in 1989 and 1949.

Downtown Winslow as it looks today, pretty much as it looked in 1989 and 1949.

NEXT BLOG: On to the edge of the Rocky Mountains.

Route 66: A Journey Back in Time… The 10,000 Mile Bike Trek

While historic Route 66 travels through six states and numerous climate zones, I always think of it as being in the desert, a prejudice I developed from reading my grandfather's Arizona Highways as a child.

While historic Route 66 travels through eight states and numerous climate zones, I always think of it as being in the desert, a prejudice I developed from reading my Grandfather’s “Arizona Highways” as a child. This photo I took a couple of years ago near Oatman, Arizona would have been the same 60 years ago.

 

Nostalgia: Pleasure and sadness that is caused by remembering something from the past and wishing that you could experience it again. — Merriam-Webster Dictionary

Route 66 represents nostalgia in mythic proportions. It harkens back to an earlier era— back before the hustle and bustle of modern-day freeways, back before the advent of McDs, BKs, and numerous other fast food restaurants, and back before cell phones insisted that we keep in contact with anyone and everyone all the time, even when on the open road.

It is a blue highway incarnate, and, as I am sure you have figured out, I am a blue highway kind of guy.  When I was planning my bike trip, I designed it to follow some of the loneliest, bluest roads in the US and Canada. Of course there were compromises, Las Vegas being a glaring example. And there were times when my only option was to climb onto a freeway. As I followed busy Boulder Highway up and out of Las Vegas, however, it was Route 66 and North America’s other historic byways that I was dreaming of.

I worked my way up to Railroad Pass, which marks the dividing line between Las Vegas/Henderson and Boulder City. It had been a long haul out of Vegas so breakfast at the Railroad Casino seemed in order. The casino has been there forever and lacks the glamor of its Las Vegas cousins. It even came with an old-fashioned café. I ordered one of my favorites: sausage, two eggs over medium, hash browns, whole wheat toast and coffee. It cost four bucks. I left with a happy tummy and a smile on my face, retrieved my bike from the post it was locked to, and headed for Hoover Dam, keeping an eye out for the Desert Big Horned Sheep that hang out in the mountains above the highway.

Boulder Highway as it looks today... not much different than it looked in 1989.

Boulder Highway as it looks today… not much different from it looked in 1989.

“Watch the road, Curt!” I admonished me. Do you talk to yourself? I always have. Riding on a bike for six months by myself made me much more fluent, or maybe the word is verbose.

There is a fun story about the Big Horn Sheep in the area that I related in an earlier blog but is worth repeating here. A small park is located just off the road that bypasses Boulder City to Hoover Dam. The bright green grass beckons to the sheep up on the mountainside during Nevada’s hot, dry summers and down they come. I’ve stopped by a couple of times to photograph them. An acquaintance of my friend Ken Lake lives across the road from the park and related this tale.

The path the sheep follow down to the park passes right by a house that has a shiny, aluminum garage door. One day the herd ram noticed another large ram in the door— staring back at him, challenging him. Here was competition for his lovely ewes! This wasn’t to be allowed, of course, so he reared up and charged the door full tilt, crashing into it with his mighty horns. But the other ram was still standing, albeit a bit beat up. So he charged again and then again. The door was trashed. Apparently the owner had a hard time persuading his insurance agent how the damage was caused.

The herd ram determining whether my taking his photo was something he should be objecting to.

The herd ram determining whether my taking his photo was something he should be objecting to.

Peggy and I have a similar problem at our home in Oregon. The big tom turkeys that live in the forest like to parade their harems through our yard. The largest of the toms has discovered the turkey that lives in the bumper of our Toyota Tacoma pickup. He is not happy. I’ve seem him stand in front of the bumper for thirty minutes at a time, fluffing out his feathers, sticking out his neck in a loud gobble, and pecking the bumper. The other turkey fluffs his feathers, sticks out his neck and pecks right back. All of this would just be humorous except the big tom goes looking for the other turkey. He flies up, lands in the pickup bed… and poops. Admittedly, turkey poop isn’t as traumatic as having your garage door trashed, but it is copious and messy. The tom and I have had several discussions about my love of roast turkey.

I was yet unaware of the Big Horn Sheep and a long way off from owning a wilderness retreat in Oregon when I cycled by the park on my bike trip. I made my way down to Lake Mead and crossed over Hoover Dam. Looking out over the lake and the distant drop on the far side from a bicycle was quite an experience. If I were to cross the dam today on my bike, TSA would stop me at its check point and make me empty out my panniers to determine whether I was a mad bomber. Why else would someone bike across the dam— and up the other side?

The climb out was hot and steep, filled with hairpin turns, autos and large RVs. I sweated all of them, so to speak. Reaching the top, I was faced with another challenge, miles and miles of sizzling, desolate desert with minimal facilities. My kind of country.

A high four multi-lane bridge has replaced crossing over Hoover Dam when traveling between Nevada and Arizona. This shot looks down on the old highway I was following after climbing out of the canyon.

A high, multi-lane bridge has replaced crossing over Hoover Dam when traveling between Nevada and Arizona. This shot looks down on the old highway I was following after climbing out of the canyon.

A bit farther up the road looking south. Dante would have found this site suitable for his concept of hell.

A bit farther up the road looking south. This photo could have served as an illustration for Dante’s Inferno.

I biked on, catching far off views of the Colorado River and then picking out a distant mountain to bike toward. As I reached my goal, the sun began to set, and warm breezes turned slightly cool. It was time to search for a home. Unfortunately, a sturdy fence blocked easy access to the desert. I wasn’t particularly interested in being caught climbing over. There are a lot of guns in Nevada. A kindly dirt road came to my rescue. I took advantage of a break in traffic and zipped down it and into a dry gulch, the perfect hiding place— as long as it didn’t rain and the local rattlesnake was elsewhere. I fired up my backpacking stove, made a cup of coffee, added a dash of 151 proof rum, and downed a granola bar. Life was good. Coyote music lulled me to sleep.

Looking down on the Colorado River from a viewpoint on the Las Vegas-Kingman road.

Looking down on the Colorado River from a viewpoint on the Las Vegas-Kingman road.

I used this mountain as a marker to determine my progress.

I used this distinctive mountain as a marker to determine my progress.

Looking out toward my home for the night.

Looking out toward my home for the night. Not bad, eh? Or is it that 151 proof rum improves how everything looks?

I was up early in the morning and out before the traffic. Fifty-miles later I was in Kingman, Arizona, a town bursting with pride about its Route 66 heritage, and hoping to harvest a bundle of tourist dollars because of it. I grabbed a room in a beat up old motel that claimed Route 66 vintage and prices. Following a much-needed shower, I headed out to follow the road through the town and absorb some of its ambience.

Kingman, Arizona is quite proud of its connection to Route 66. Two different museums in town feature Route 66 themes.

Kingman, Arizona is quite proud of its connection to Route 66. Two different museums in town feature Route 66 themes.

A number of murals depict a romanticized view of travel on the highway.

A number of murals depict a romanticized view of travel on the highway.

When I talk about the inexpensive motels I found along my bike route, this is what Peggy assumes they looked like.

When I talk about the inexpensive motels I found along my bike route, this is what Peggy assumes they looked like.

A beautiful desert sunset as seen from Route 66 in Kingman.

A desert sunset as seen from Route 66 in Kingman.

The next day found me absorbing much more as I left the town behind and made my way east on what was once one of America’s main cross-country routes. Today it is a quiet road. The majority of the people traveling east and west are zipping by on Interstate 40, rushing toward whatever destination/destiny awaits them.

When I think of Route 66, I think desert. When I was a small boy, I was enthralled by my grandfather’s subscription to “Arizona Highways.” It often featured Route 66, and it featured deserts. My first acquaintance with the highway was when I was driving west from Atlanta in 1968 and followed portions of it through Arizona, including the one I was biking on.

My route for the day took me on a gentle climb up through arid lands with views of mesas along the way. Occasional creeks were teaming with life that was seeking the desert’s most treasured commodity, water. I passed by ramshackle old buildings that had seen their heyday in the 40s and 50s. I waved at the few cars that passed me, either locals going about their business, or romantics like me, seeking a taste of a bygone era. A train whistle receding into the distance fit right in. I ended my day at the Grand Canyon Caverns, a tourist attraction of the early Route 66 that still pulls in visitors today.

Route 66 above Kingman.

Route 66 above Kingman.

A mesa above the highway. Traveling over the mets and beyond will bring you to the Grand Canyon.

A mesa above the highway. Traveling over the mesa and beyond will bring you to the Grand Canyon.

An old building that served as a gas station and garage during the heyday of Route 66. The gas pumps had been updated, but even they were no longer in use. I rendered the photo in black and white to represent the era.

An old building that served as a gas station and garage during the heyday of Route 66. The gas pumps had been updated, but even they were no longer in use. I rendered the photo in black and white to represent the era.

My campground for the evening with a typical Route 66 sign.

My campground for the evening with a typical Route 66 sign.

The campground/motel and caverns also featured dinosaurs. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

The campground/motel and caverns also featured dinosaurs. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

The restaurant featured Betty Boop.

The restaurant featured Betty Boop.

And this map showing historic Route 66.

And this map showing historic Route 66. The arrow points to the Grand Canyon Caverns.

Sunshine lights up dark clouds that were promising rain at the campground.

Sunshine on the juniper trees provides an interesting contrast to the dark clouds that were promising rain at the campground.

Sunset at the Grand Canyons Cavern Campground.

I’ll conclude this post with sunset at the Grand Canyons Cavern Campground.

Note: If you are new to this series, my wife Peggy and I are retracing my 1989 bike route, this time in our van. Most of the photos come from our present trip.

NEXT BLOG: I will feature the rest of my bike trip across Arizona, including a very scary one a.m. invasion of a motel room I was sleeping in.

 

From Death Valley to Las Vegas… The 10,000 Mile Bike Trek

A coyote ran along beside me for a short while as I rode out of Death Valley. Here's a shot of a Death Valley coyote saying , "Feed me!"

A coyote ran along beside me for a short while as I rode out of Death Valley. Here’s a shot of a Death Valley coyote saying , “Feed me!” (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

I struggled with what to title this blog; Death Valley to Las Vegas seemed so ordinary.  I played with titles like ‘from wild to whacky’ and “from the sublime to the stupendous” but gave up. How do you compare Death Valley with Las Vegas? Is it even possible?

I wasn’t thinking about Las Vegas when I cycled out of Furnace Creek. There was another hill to climb. Not bad, just long— maybe 20 miles, and low gear the whole way. I cycled past Zabriskie Point and Twenty Mule Canyon, slowly. There was plenty of time to appreciate the scenery.

A view of Twenty Mule Canyon as seen from Highway 190.

A view of Twenty Mule Canyon as seen from Highway 190.

Another view of the Canyon.

Another view of the Canyon.

At one point, a curious coyote trotted along beside me in the bushes. A few minutes persuaded him I wasn’t going to slip him a snack. Coyotes are animals of opportunity when it comes to meals. The National Park has a strict rule on not feeding them. One time, Peggy and I were coming into Death Valley from Beatty, Nevada and a coyote was sitting beside the road just outside of the boundary, looking hungry. We laughed and stopped to snap its photo. Did the wily fellow (remember Wile E. Coyote and the Road Runner) know that tourists were fair game before entering the park?

Eventually I crested the hill I had been climbing and cycled down to Death Valley Junction. Twenty or so people live in the area. The town population sign announces less. Beside it’s minimal population, the Junction’s claim to fame is an opera house. I didn’t hear any arias, not even ghostly ones, but I was able to refill my water bottles.  I made my own music by blowing into the bottles. Leaving town, out where no one but the jackrabbits could hear me, I belted out O sole meo.

From Death Valley Junction, it was a straight, very flat 20-mile ride into Amargosa Valley and Highway 95. Along the way, I passed into Nevada. My adventure had truly begun. No one was around to help me celebrate except a far-distant free range cow. Or maybe it was a burro. Whatever, I mooed at it.

Highway 373 leading into Amargosa Valley was straight and flat. See any cattle or burros?

Highway 373 leading into Amargosa Valley was straight and flat. See any cattle or burros?

Peggy and I found this large one along the highway as we retraced my bike route. It wasn't there when I biked through the area. I think I would have spotted it.

Peggy and I found this large cow along the highway as we retraced my bike route. It wasn’t there when I biked through the area. I think I would have spotted it.

Highway 95 is Nevada’s main (only) road connecting Reno, Carson City, and Las Vegas. I stopped at the junction and decided to call it a day. A small restaurant/casino promised food and entertainment. A rest stop provided bathroom facilities. A bar across the road pointed out I was in ET country. Area 51 was near by. What more could a lone cyclist ask for? I biked over to the restaurant, downed a chiliburger, and was entertained by a seasoned waitress. “Where you headed, Honey?” Afterwards, a friendly video poker machine paid for my dinner. As dusk approached, I found a hidden area behind the rest stop and took out my ground cloth, sleeping pad and sleeping bag. I went to sleep looking for flying saucers zipping across the sky.

ETs and Area 51 have become tourist attractions. This establishment is in Amigos Valley on Nevada Highway 95.

ETs and Area 51 have become tourist attractions in Southern Nevada. This establishment is in Amargosa Valley on Nevada Highway 95. The more you drink, the more aliens you see.

Area 51 in the Nevada Desert.

The actual Area 51 is a hundred or so miles across the desert. Peggy and I visited the area on one of our trips. I don’t think the government wants you on the site.

I was up early the next morning and on my way to the neon jungle— sin city. There really wasn’t much reason to hang out in the bushes behind the bathrooms, as I am sure you will agree. I did stop for a quick breakfast and chat with my favorite 70-plus waitress. “I see you are on your way dear. Can I ride along on the back?” “Only if you pedal, honey.” “Oh, I have something to peddle, alright. Is that what you have in mind?” I laughed and left a generous tip.

My video poker machine beckoned as I went out the door. It wanted its money back. “Not today,” I told it and patted it fondly.

Twenty-five miles or so down the road, I came on a bizarre sight for the middle of the desert: protesters. I thought maybe my lonely hours on the road were beginning to take their toll and I was seeing a mirage. But the protesters were real and they had a serious mission; they carried “Ban the Bomb” signs. Nevada’s nuclear test site was just off to the east and protests over America’s nuclear bomb testing program had been going on in the area for years. Seventy-five people had been arrested there the week before on Palm Sunday. Government records later revealed that over 37,000 people had participated in the test site protests with some 15,740 arrests made, including the likes of Carl Sagan, Kris Kristofferson, Martin Sheen, and Robert Blake.

As a child growing up in the 50s, I remember witnessing one of the first atom bomb tests in Nevada— from our home in the Sierra foothills! My brother, sister and I got up with our parents at some time in the wee hours in the morning and held a countdown. The whole southeastern sky lit up. Guests staying at hotels in Las Vegas actually got to see the tale-tale mushroom clouds from this and later tests. Strange entertainment indeed. I am sure the casinos protested; it took time away from gambling.

Peggy and I revisited the site a year ago. We took the exit off the road toward Mercury. Nothing was marked on the exit sign except “No Services.” A couple of hundred yards in, not visible from the freeway, a large sign demanded that we stop. Military property existed on the other side and all sorts of bad things would happen to us if we trespassed. No photographs were allowed. Suddenly a black SUV was parked next to us. We had no idea where it came from. A man in dark glasses and a suit, looking suspiciously like a character out of Men in Black, was demanding to know what we were doing and insisting that we turn around and get out of there. “We’re on our way,” I announced. As he drove off, I got out and took a photo of the sign, an admittedly small contribution to the protests of yore.

The sign at the Nevada Nuclear Bomb Test Sight.

The sign at the Nevada Nuclear Bomb Test Sight.

I didn’t make it to Las Vegas that night on my bike trip. It was well over 100 miles. My conditioning was coming along fine, but not that fine. The next day I cycled in, dodged insane traffic, found a KOA that wasn’t afraid of someone carrying a tent, and settled in for a layover day. My bike wanted a tune up and I wanted a day on the Strip.

While Las Vegas has changed extensively over they years, it has retained its purpose of separating you from your money. Early casinos, like the nugget, suggested you would be taking gold home.

While Las Vegas has changed extensively over they years, it has retained its purpose of separating you from your money. Early casinos, like the Nugget, suggested you would be taking gold home.

Another example. What's more symbolic of obtaining untold, unearned wealth than the Golden Goose.

Another example. What’s more symbolic of obtaining untold, unearned wealth than the Golden Goose?

Today's emphasis is more on Las Vegas being a resort destination, somewhere you might take the family. Like to Paris for example...

Today’s emphasis is more on Las Vegas being a resort destination, somewhere you might take the family. The strip now features such places as Paris…

Or Venice...

Venice…

And fantasy land.

And fantasy land.

Show girls have always been popular. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Show girls have always been popular. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

The city has always had a whacky side...

The city has always had a whacky side…

As demonstrated by this and the last photo.

As demonstrated by this and the last photo.

Note: All of the above photos were all taken during our present trip or on previous trips through the region. You may recognize some photos from earlier blogs I have posted.

NEXT BLOG: Join me as I make my way into Arizona and onto Historic Route 66.