48,722 Feet of Climbing on the Blue Ridge Parkway… The 10,000-Mile Bike Trek

September 5, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 36 Comments

Every turn in the road on the Blue Ridge Parkway brings gorgeous views. Some are in distant vistas but many are up close and personal, like these two trees.

Every turn in the road on the Blue Ridge Parkway brings gorgeous views into sight. Some are in distant vistas but many are up close and personal, like these two trees.

There are two primary directions on the Blue Ridge Parkway: up and down. It’s a good thing I had gotten used to this idea while crossing the Cumberland Plateau and the Smokies because as soon as I passed the entrance sign to the Parkway, I started climbing. I quickly got used to the idea that I would be granny-gear-crawling my way up a mountain for 3-4 hours followed by a glorious 30-minute downhill run, followed by another 3-4 hours of climbing. If it wasn’t always like that, it certainly felt like it.

I took this graphic from the book by Elizabeth and Charlie Skinner featured below.

I took this graph from the book by Elizabeth and Charlie Skinner featured below. It represents about half of my first day of cycling the Parkway, starting at the Southern Terminus on the right. I thought it did a good job of summarizing my perspective on the climb.

The elevation change reflected by these ups and downs is impressive. In one week I would climb 48,722 feet and drop a similar amount, having an elevation gain and loss of over 97,000 feet! (I was amused by the Parkway’s specific claim of elevation gain right down to 22 feet. It definitely represents a biker or hiker’s perspective. Those 22 feet are important.)

It could have been worse. Remember, in my last post, I mentioned that the Appalachians were much higher in their youth. Think 40,000 feet tall (12,192 Meters), 10,000 feet higher than Mt. Everest. The air would have been a bit thin up on top for cycling but can you imagine the downhill run! Wheeeeeeeeeeeee!

Other than the ups and downs, or maybe because of them (grin), the Blue Ridge Parkway is one of the premier destinations for bicyclists in the US. Like the Natchez Trace, there is great beauty and no commercial traffic. An added plus for the Blue Ridge is that the speed limit for vehicles is even lower than the Trace, 45 MPH (72.4 K) as compared to 55 MPH (88.5 K).

The number of T-shirts, scarves, patches, bumper strips and other memorabilia you can buy that feature bicycling on the Parkway speaks to its popularity today. There are also detailed brochures, maps and books to help you plan your trip, not to mention the Internet. It wasn’t always so. In 1989, the National Park Service gave me a mimeographed sheet. I didn’t see another bicycle tourist until I was close to the end of my 469-mile trip in Virginia.

The mimeographed sheet on bicycling the Blue Ridge Highway that the National Park Service handed out to me in 1989.

This information packed book by Elizabeth and Charlie Skinner is the type of information you can find today on cycling the Parkway.

The final segment of the Parkway was finished in 1987, only two years earlier than my trip. Its inception dates back to the 1930s, however, when a number of people including Franklin Roosevelt and Senator Harry F. Byrd of Virginia decided that a parkway connecting Shenandoah National Park in Virginia with the Great Smoky Mountain National Park in North Carolina was a good idea. (Byrd, BTW, served in the US Senate from 1933 to 1965. His son succeeded him in his seat and held the position until 1982, giving the Byrds 50 continuous years in the Senate.)

My next four posts will cover my journey over the Blue Ridge Highway and be more in the nature of photographic essays. Photos will be from the trip Peggy and I took this spring. Today, I am covering the section between Cherokee and Ashville, North Carolina. Next Blog: A creature comes to visit me in the night.

When biking the Blue Ridge Parkway, you can start in the north, in the south, or at several points along the way. Wherever, you will be greeted by this sign.

The Blue Ridge Mountains provide numerous opportunities to pull off the road and admire the scenery. Plot was an early pioneer who became famous for breeding bear hunting dogs. Once, according to legend, his dogs cornered a bear in a small cave. Lott went in after the bear with his knife. He won the encounter but the bear clawed him extensively. It was the last time Lott went after a bear with his knife.

The Blue Ridge Mountains provide numerous opportunities to pull off the road and admire the scenery. Plott was an early pioneer who became famous for breeding bear hunting dogs. Once, according to legend, his dogs cornered a bear in a small cave. Lott went in after the bear with his knife. He won the encounter but learned that chasing after bears with a knife is not a good idea.

On the higer parts of the Parkway, flowers were just starting to come out.

On the higher parts of the Parkway, flowers were just starting to bloom.

This photo reflects how the Blue Ridge Mountains obtained their name.

I like this photo because it reflects for me how blue ridge after blue ridge after blue ridge gave the Blue Ridge Mountains their name.

A tunnel of trees along the Blue Ridge Parkway leafing out in early spring green. Dogwood is blooming along the left side.

Some of the canyons along the Parkway were filled with blooming dogwood.

And highway tunnels. There are 26 along the Blue Ridge Parkway ranging in length from 150 feet to 1434 feet.

Twin highway tunnels. There are 26 tunnels along the Blue Ridge Parkway ranging in length from 150 feet to 1434 feet. Bicycling through them can be a bit scary, especially the longer tunnels. Going through the 1434 feet Pine Mountain Tunnel, my light chose to die, leaving me in the pitch dark. I immediately climbed off my bike, blindly found the right side of the tunnel, and walked the bike until I could see again. As you can see, there is no shoulder. Fortunately no cars came along.

The lights from our van lit up the tunnel. Imagine your perspective from a bicycle. This was one time when I was ever so glad to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

The lights from our van lit up the tunnel. Imagine your perspective from a bicycle. Pushing my bike with no lights at all, I was ever so glad to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

I climbed to the highest elevation along the Parkway on my first day out. I celebrated by thinking ‘well, that’s behind me.’

More fun going down than up!

They call this outcrop the Devils Courthouse but I was hard put to see much that was devilish about it. Maybe on a foggy day…

Looking Glass Rock was once a giant pluton of molten volcano rock located far under the surface. Early morning light reflects off of the rock, giving it the name.

Looking Glass Rock on the right was once a giant pluton of molten volcano rock located far under the surface. Light reflects off of the rock, giving it the name. This time, the sun chose to light up the trees in the foreground instead.

I’ll conclude today’s section of the Blue Ridge Parkway with this impressive road cut.

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

June 28, 2016June 29, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 33 Comments

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.

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.

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.

Bicycling through Death Valley… The 10,000 Mile Bike Trek

May 10, 2016May 10, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 28 Comments

These gorgeous sand dunes are located next to Stove Pipe Wells.

Of the many reasons for cycling into Death Valley, these gorgeous sand dunes next to Stove Pipe Wells are among the top. Portions of Star Wars were filmed here.

I didn’t have to bicycle through Death Valley, but how could I resist. It is known as the hottest, driest, and lowest place in North America. It holds the world record for heat at 134° F, receives an average of less than two inches of rain a year, and is 282 feet below sea level at its lowest spot. It also happens to be drop-dead beautiful and is close to balmy in spring.

So I packed up my panniers at Isabella Lake and hit the road. Four days of moderate cycling were ahead of me before I arrived at Stove Pipe Wells in the heart of the Valley. At least I was hoping they would be moderate.

Day one was a three-beer day. It wasn’t overly difficult; it’s just that I made a novice mistake, one that can cost you dearly in the desert: I didn’t carry enough water. I know better. Over the years I have lectured hundreds of backpackers and bicyclists on the necessity of staying well-hydrated. Yellow pee is bad. (There is a newspaper at Burning Man in the Nevada Desert called “Piss Clear” to remind Burners of this fact.)

I was carrying two, one-liter bottles of water on my bike, close to a half-gallon. I should have been carrying four. By the time I had cycled 8-miles downhill to the town of Lake Isabella and then climbed for 35-miles and 3000 feet to the 5,250-foot Walker Pass, I had consumed all of it. I had drunk my last drop and was sucking on the nipple of my water bottle like a hungry baby sucks on a tit. Had screaming like a one-month old helped, I would have. What’s worse, not a drop was to be had before I reached my day’s destination at Inyokern. I had arrived in the great southwestern deserts of America where people are few and water is less.

Fortunately, it was only 15 miles and much of the way was downhill on a gentle 6% grade. I arrived at Inyokern, found a cheap motel, and consumed several glasses of its bad tasting water. Immediately afterwards, I headed for the restaurant across the road and had my three beers. Gulp, gulp, gulp. That night I was peeing clear, several times. The first thing I did the next morning was to go out and buy a two-liter back-up bottle of water and add 4.4 pounds to my bike. Here’s the thing, I never drank it; I never had to. But I carried it the next 9000 plus miles, as a reminder.

My next two days of cycling were typical desert cycling with nothing but me, rattlesnakes, scorpions, jackrabbits, mining operations— and the US military. Vast areas in the southern desert regions of California and Nevada have been set aside for practicing war and testing weapons. Leaving Inyokern, I biked through Ridgecrest, the site of the US Naval Air Weapons Station, which covers some 1,100,000 acres, an area the size of Rhode Island. It includes 329 miles of paved road and 1,108 miles of dirt roads, none of which were available to me. It did share the sound of jets flying overhead, however. One was so close it almost knocked me off my bike, so to speak. “The sound of freedom,” an air force pilot friend told me. Right.

I decided to spend my night in Trona, since my other option was camping out with the scorpions. Trona was founded as a company town to harvest its namesake mineral, trona, which you probably know as baking soda. Employees were paid in script that could only be used at the company store. (So much for shopping around for the best price.) Trona is still known as a mining town, rightfully so. And it is also known for having the only dirt football field in the US. Grass won’t grow there. The team is known as the Tornados. They should probably be called the Dust Devils. I saw several as I biked through the area.

I am not sure what particular mineral this huge white mound in Trona consisted of, but I don’t think it was baking soda.

My goal for the next day was to bike through the Panamint Valley to Highway 190, the primary route into Death Valley from the west, and then climb up and over the Panamint Mountain Range down to Stove Pipe Wells, where I would be meeting a friend the next day. It was close to 76 miles with zero services along the way, miles and miles of nothing except magnificently lonely desert and million dollar views. I left at seven and made it to Highway 190 around two. Hiding out behind a highway sign, the only shade I could find, I contemplated the road snaking up the mountain and thought, “NO.” I would be climbing close to 4,000 feet in 12 miles in the heat of a Death Valley afternoon. Panamint Springs, known for a good restaurant, its shade and cool water, was a mile or so in the other direction with a minimal climb. My decision was easy… and it was one of my better decisions on the trek.

The road out of Trona was so empty, I would have loved to come across a donkey.

The road out of Trona was so empty, I would have loved to come across a burro. You will see a lot of roads like this as Peggy and I follow my bike route through the Southwest.

A view of the road through the Panamint Valley.

Looking up at the Panamint Range, the mountains I had to bicycle over.

The sign that welcomes you to Death Valley today.

I was on the road at six the next morning. Within twenty minutes of starting my climb, I was out of the saddle in my lowest gear, travelling about three miles per hour. The climb to Town Pass was the most challenging climb of my journey. On the steepest parts, I would pedal 100 times and stop for a quick break. Only sheer stubbornness kept me on the bike and not walking. I was still irritated at having to walk through the snowstorm on Greenhorn Pass. The total climb took me four hours. I don’t think I could have done it the day before. What goes up, must come down, however, and there was a splendid downhill into Stovepipe Wells. The only challenge was that my bike wanted to go over 40 miles per hour. I told it no.

Climbing up this pass was one of the toughest climbs of my journey, much more tough than climbing over the Rockies.

Climbing up this pass was one of the toughest climbs of my journey, much tougher than climbing over the Rockies.

The road into Death Valley couldn’t match the 13% grade coming off of Green Horn Pass but it was definitely steeper than the 6% coming off of Walker Pass.

My friend joined me at noon and I allowed her to give me a ride over to Furnace Creek and Park Headquarters. I had earned a break. It was Easter weekend so we ended up camping with RVs in the overflow area. No matter, I slept solidly that night. The next morning, we biked down to Bad Water Basin and the lowest spot in Death Valley. It was all downhill, which sounds like a good thing, except we had to pedal, in low gear. That’s how strong the head winds were. The good thing was they almost blew us back up the mountain. We arrived back in camp and discovered that my beautiful, light weight and expensive Moss tent had disappeared. My stakes hadn’t withstood the wind. I found it a tenth of a mile away, pretty much trashed.

Still, I enjoyed Death Valley, as I always do, and I enjoyed the break in my solo journey my friend provided. The next morning, we attended a non-denominational Sunrise Easter service on top of a sand dune. I said my goodbyes, hopped on my bike, and headed for the glittering lights of Las Vegas.

Peggy and I took the above and following photos as we retrace my original 1989 bike trip. (We’ve now made it to Nova Scotia. Traveling by van is considerably faster than by bike! Eventually, my posts will catch up.) Our friends Ken and Leslie Lake joined us in Death Valley and Las Vegas.

Another view of the sand dunes next to Stovepipe Wells.

This is the same lot at Furnace Creek where my tent had flying lessons. Ken, Leslie, Peggy and I were about to enjoy afternoon snacks.

This is the same parking lot at Furnace Creek where my tent had flying lessons. Ken, Leslie, Peggy and I were about to enjoy afternoon snacks.

People who have never been to Death Valley think of it mainly in terms of heat and desolation. It is actually quite beautiful. This photo was taken in Twenty Mule Canyon.

Zabriskie Point is a short distance from Furnace Creek. I biked right by it on may way out. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Zabriskie Point is a short distance from Furnace Creek. I biked right by it on my way out. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Our friends Ken and Leslie Lake in Golden Canyon. Ken, too, has bicycled across the US.

Another view of Golden Canyon. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

We just missed the major display of flowers in Death Valley, but I caught these guys in Golden Canyon.

This gargoyle-like rock was on the edge of the Canyon.

Devil’s Golf Course is on the way to Bad Water. The Panamint Mountains are in the background.

Ken and Leslie, 282 Feet below sea level at the lowest point in North America.

We found this character at Furnace Creek demonstrating how to make arrowheads. For a moment, I though Santa Clause may have made a wrong turn.

I’ll conclude with this volunteer we found at Furnace Creek demonstrating how to make arrowheads. For a moment, I thought Santa Clause may have made a wrong turn.

NEXT BLOG: On to Las Vegas

Wandering through Time and Place

Exploring the world with Curtis and Peggy Mekemson

the ten thousand mile bike trek

48,722 Feet of Climbing on the Blue Ridge Parkway… The 10,000-Mile Bike Trek

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

Bicycling through Death Valley… The 10,000 Mile Bike Trek