Biking Across America (9 page)

Las Vegas is one of the fastest growing cities in America. Someone had the foresight (or lack thereof) to build a huge city with its mega resorts in a desert. Deserts are generally dry areas. It would not seem to be the smartest place to pursue building a city. Nevertheless, they did. Las Vegas is running out of water and is looking for other aquifers to suck dry. A two-billion-dollar pipeline from Baker to Las Vegas is on the drawing board and is now a hot issue for the locals. Las Vegas wants to funnel sixteen billion gallons of water a year from Baker's water table.

This water war is now being waged between the two towns; in the future, access to water has the potential to become a volatile political issue. Look out, Great Lakes! They may be coming for you next.

At eight o'clock the next morning, we arrived in Baker to an unwelcoming reception. The lady running the Silver Jack Inn would not allow us to check in. This was the first time during our night rides that we encountered this restriction. The lady was rigid and unbending. One by one, our group attempted to negotiate with
the obstinate proprietor. “I need to cook breakfast for my guests. Then I need to clean rooms,” she said. “The earliest you can check in is two o'clock, like the sign says.”

I thought perhaps my charm might convince the stubborn lady to take pity on us tired bikers. After all, hadn't I been an intense student of the female psyche during all those years of negotiating the minefield of workplace femininity? I invited my new friend Cynthia McKinney along to observe my tactics of persuasion and to perhaps learn a few things herself.

Apparently, I hadn't learned enough. I struck out against the cantankerous lady. My charm never stood a chance against her pitiless, cold heart. I proceeded to lecture her on the merits of hospitality, declaring she was the most stubborn, bullheaded, headstrong person I had ever met and this was no way to run a business. I then suggested she have a pleasant day and bid her adieu. Yes, I did regret my attitude later and asked God to forgive me. I may have botched an appointment he had planned for me.

All this time, Cynthia stood nearby, observing my futile attempts at persuasion. But she did not follow me when I left the small lobby and joined the rest of the group outside. We sat and pondered our dilemma. But still no Cynthia appeared. Ten minutes passed, and she finally emerged from the front door with a smile and keys to our rooms.

I was astounded and shocked.

“Cynthia, how . . . What . . . What did you do?”

With a sly grin, she replied, “Not much, really. I just stood there by the register and didn't say much. Our grumpy lady asked what I was still doing there, and I told her I would stand there until she let us check in.” The lady realized Cynthia really meant to stand there in front of her desk as long as was necessary.

Grumpy Lady and I had met someone more stubborn than both of us. A powerful lesson soaked through my fatigued brain: actions
do indeed speak louder than words. While I had railed against the poor service and unfriendly attitude, Cynthia had silently taken a stand. No yelling, just persistence and a refusal to give up and go away had saved the day. How I admired Cynthia's determination that morning.

That day, Cynthia and I spoke at length about the irony of our meeting: two people whose views were so different, thrown together in the desert, becoming friends. I spoke of God's love and again voiced my belief that God had a role for her to play in bringing civility back to government. Love triumphs over all. We talked of love, hate, politics, grief, healing, and our personal beliefs. And I reminded her that I would be available as a campaign advisor should she decide to run for office again.

At ten o'clock that evening, I was again pedaling east. No longer on the official Loneliest Road, I nevertheless was starting an eighty-five-mile stretch with no services.

In just a few miles, I reached a brightly lit sign that read, “Welcome to Utah.” It was a toll sign of sorts, since it cost me one hour of time when I crossed over the Utah line. That hour had been gifted to me previously while flying over Utah on my way to Seattle. I gladly returned it, since it meant being one time zone closer to home.

The highway I followed now changed to Utah Route 21. This was the road I would pedal all night to Milford, Utah.

Lights flashed in the distance. It appeared that I would be caught in a thunderstorm. But, curiously, there was no thunder. I soon realized I was witnessing the amazing phenomenon called the northern lights. For hours, brilliant flares lit the horizon. It was the Fourth of July, witnessed from a bicycle seat.

Several hours passed before the Peace Train caught up with me. Most of the group passed me and disappeared, but Annie and I rode side-by-side for an hour, engrossed in conversation. I really
knew little about my fellow bikers; I was only a hobo on this train. On this road to Milford, in the darkness of night, Annie gave me more insight into the group.

She had been raised in a large Catholic family and had chosen a lifestyle that her family opposed. I spoke about God's love for her and the saving grace of Jesus.

There were two twentysomething men in the group; one absolutely knew God didn't exist and the other thought it might be possible there was a God, but he didn't really care. I was baffled. How could one view those northern lights flaring in the distance and not believe in a higher power?

The two group leaders were both Unitarian Universalists. This is perhaps the most liberal church in America. You don't have to believe in God, or you can believe in as many gods as you wish. Many members worship many different gods. I wondered if they would need appointments to be judged by all their different gods on judgment day. The church also doesn't believe in hell, so perhaps that issue would be moot. I am happy to know that one day I will be judged by only one God, the God who is in control of the northern lights, who had created everything I passed through, and who claims me as his son.

Not a single car had passed us, and while Annie was still with me I took a break, stretched out on the warm road surface, and allowed myself a short nap. It would be nine hours that night before any vehicle appeared on Utah Route 21.

The earliest glint of dawn and I arrived on Frisco Summit at the same time. Although fatigued to the bone, I paused to take in the scene. Empty plains stretched out below me. Those plains rolled into more mountain ranges with undulating waves of peaks and slopes beyond. The views were majestic, but I wondered how many more climbs there were for these legs, these lungs, and that one part of my anatomy that was never comfortable . . .

Slowly I mounted my bike and pushed off the mountaintop for the fifteen-mile downhill ride to Milford, Utah, our stop for that day.

There would be one more night ride, from Milford to Cedar City, Utah. It would only be a fifty-seven-mile stretch, so the Peace Train would not leave until four o'clock in the morning. At three-thirty, the clouds hid the moon as I pedaled out of Milford toward the next little town, Minersville, fifteen miles away. We would be leaving Route 21 in Minersville, so I had been careful to get proper directions for our planned route.

At five o'clock, I arrived in Minersville. I wanted to find the new route, but it was still dark and I was soon totally lost. What a relief to finally see the lights of the Peace Train bobbing along the dark highway. They soon joined me in my confusion. We meandered the streets, unable to find Route 130, which would lead us over the last mountain and into Cedar City. One member of the group realized he had a GPS on his phone, and by the miracle of modern technology we finally escaped Minersville and headed toward Cedar City.

A long stretch upward brought us to a mountaintop several hours later. From there we could see our destination thirty miles away, a city lying in a long valley ringed with mountains. I-15 runs through Cedar City, and in the distance I could see the bridge I would cross over the interstate.

Little yellow sunflowers along the roadside brightened the journey. These little buttons of golden joy were also useful in determining wind direction, bending before the winds sweeping through the mountains. Along the last five miles to Cedar City, the pretty flowers bowed low in my direction as a strong headwind tried to blow me back to Nevada.

I was riding deep into Mormon country. One thing Mormons have in common with my Amish friends back home is meticulously
manicured properties. Every home had lush green lawns, with sprinklers flowing freely. Fields were also irrigated and newly cut hay lay ready for baling. Any areas that were not irrigated were arid and brown. I guessed that Cedar City had decided to use their own water before Las Vegas could send a pipeline in their direction.

I crossed the bridge over I-15 and found Main Street, running through downtown Cedar City. The Peace Train had booked small cabins at a nearby KOA, but it was time for me to strike out on my own again. Their company as I crossed the desert had been an answer to prayer, but now I was headed into the unknown, once again alone.

After a sad good-bye to my friends, I headed down Main Street and rewarded myself with a night at a lovely Best Western Hotel. I checked in at ten o'clock in the morning, and no rooms were cleaned. Seeing how tired I was, the manager helped to clean a room for me. I appreciated the kindness, even more so since I had experienced such a lack of compassion from that lady in Baker.

I did laundry and again surveyed my panniers and sent home everything I thought was not absolutely essential. I managed to lighten my load by another five pounds.

There was only one fitting way to celebrate the conclusion of my night rides across the desert. Next door, a steakhouse promised thick, juicy steaks. I accepted the invitation. A good, thick slab of beef was just the antidote for the weariness of the road.

I had been on that bicycle seat for twenty-seven days. Tomorrow was still a mystery; only God knew what waited for me down the road. But for tonight, all was well with my world.

I
pushed my bike out into the darkness on Main Street. It was four o'clock in the morning. A shadowy figure loomed up out of the darkness, giving me a brief moment of alarm before I realized it was a life-sized statue. Several prominent citizens of the area had been immortalized in bronze and stood along the sidewalk, watching silently as I pedaled down the empty street.

I searched for Center Street, where Route 14 headed east toward what would be my hardest climb thus far. The top of Black Mountain rises to an elevation of 10,375 feet, and for days I had been dreading this stretch of road. I'd be climbing for almost twenty-six miles, headed toward Cedar Breaks National Monument. I told myself it was just a matter of moving forward and tackling what lay ahead. Often in life we encounter problems the size of mountains and we anticipate great difficulty, but once we tackle these obstacles we realize they are not insurmountable.

Steep canyon walls crowded close to both sides of the roadway. The fingernail moon hid behind the cliffs and made brief
appearances whenever the road turned. A creek rushed along beside me. Occasionally, an approaching pickup truck sent reverberations through the canyon, the headlights casting eerie beams up the towering walls. After riding hundreds of miles through open desert, I now felt comforted, cradled between the canyon walls.

As the darkness lifted, the colors and views of cliffs and canyons tempered the extreme work of climbing. Morning light glinted off rock faces of browns and golds and pinks. A profusion of wildflowers graced the roadway; I picked bluebells, lupines, and larkspurs and stuck them on my handlebars, enjoying the cheerful colors fluttering before me.

At a small parking area on Highway 143, I paused to take in the panoramic view. A deep crevasse opened before me, an amphitheater of color. Extreme erosion by wind and water had exposed layers of shale, limestone, and sandstone. Spires and cliffs glistened in reds and yellows.

I reached the highest point of my route that day and then savored the next ten miles, a sweet ride downhill through the Dixie National Forest. I floated past green mountain meadows interspersed with gnarled bristlecone pine and the white bark of aspen. In the distance, Panguitch Lake sparkled in the late morning sun.

At the Bears' Den Café across from Panguitch Lake, a delicious bowl of southwestern beef vegetable soup revived my tired body. The morning's steep climbs were behind me. I reminded myself of something I had discovered on my hike of the Appalachian Trail: most of my worries never materialized. The unknown often scares and worries us, but most of our fears never come to fruition. A vivid picture filed away in my brain is of the plaque that hung behind my uncle's chair. He was dying of cancer at a young age, but that sign asked, “Why worry, when you can pray?” I determined to pray instead of worry when I saw difficulties looming ahead.

The remaining fifteen miles into Panguitch, Utah, rolled by quickly. It had taken six hours to do those first twenty-six miles and less than three hours to ride the last thirty-two miles. I liked that regimen: riding hard in the morning and coasting through the afternoon, but my days seldom played out so perfectly.

Panguitch is a little town in the heart of Mormon country. I was again welcomed by the sprinkler brigade scattering the precious resource over lush green lawns. Any vacant lots deprived of water were dried and parched.

It was early afternoon and I was looking forward to a soak and a long rest. Much to my frustration, an intransigent housekeeper did not realize the urgency of my afternoon plans. I had already checked in when the front desk clerk told me the room had not yet been made up. The housekeeper was adamant; check-in was not until two o'clock, and she refused to clean the room for an early occupant.

Two can play that game
, I surmised, and I stretched out on the lobby couch, my tired body redolent with all the aromas produced by a strenuous day. The front desk clerk was immediately on the phone, trying to persuade the housekeeper it would be in her best interest to quickly clean my room. He won the war of words; in short order, I had my soak.

My plan was for an early start the following day, but all of my plans were about to be washed away.

On the road again at four o'clock in the morning, I took Route 89 to Highway 12, one of the most scenic routes in America. That road would take me through Bryce Canyon National Park all the way to the town of Escalante, just outside the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument.

I had the road to myself. Just a sliver of moon shone in the sky, and the headlight attached to my handlebars threw a small
circle of light on the roadway ahead. As I neared the turnoff for Route 12, I detected another light on the horizon. It reminded me of the northern lights that had fascinated me that first night in Utah. These, however, were southern lights. And the light show was lightning flashing in the dark sky.

I had been very fortunate during my first month on the road. No thunderstorms had overtaken me. Other than those ocean mists along the coast, I had not been drenched by precipitation. I hoped this storm was moving in the opposite direction.

I was traveling through Red Canyon, where the Red Canyon bike path runs parallel to the highway. Many bicycle accidents on this stretch of highway had led to the construction of the bike path. I alternated between road driving and trail riding for several miles. When the trail veered away from the road, I'd lift my bike over the rocks and sagebrush and get back on the highway.

These dark, early morning rides were filled with loneliness, and the first rays of sunlight always lifted my spirit. As the first light of dawn sparkled on the red canyon walls, my mind drifted back to another time when I had traveled this road with my wife and family. Had I known then how drastically our lives would change, I would have savored every moment we had together. Instead, I had too often been so focused on goals that the journey sometimes became a distraction. Life is all about seizing
today
. We need to plan for the future, but not at the expense of missing all the joys and blessings in our lives today.

If it was a lonely and nostalgic morning, it was also a morning filled with awe. Towering cliffs of gold and brown inspired me. It was as if I were traveling through a grand cathedral. This cathedral, however, was not built by human hands. This was a celestial temple.

Morning light also showed that an ominous ceiling covered this outdoor temple. Dark, angry clouds came slinking over the edges of the precipices. That early morning lightning had been a
harbinger of the storm that now intersected my path and threatened to dampen my mood.

I pedaled harder, faster, attempting to outrun the dark clouds chasing me. A sign promised a town three miles distant. The race was on. Fortunately, the three miles to the little town of Tropic were all downhill or level, and I dodged under a hotel canopy just as the deluge started. Next door was a restaurant, and I decided to sip something hot while waiting out the storm. I left my bike propped against the front of the hotel, unsecured and unattended.

Enjoying my coffee, I called my friend Ina back in Ohio, simply needing someone to listen to my lament about the weather. Instead of compassion for my plight, however, Ina was astounded that I had left my bike unattended.

“That's like leaving your child unattended. All your belongings are on that bike. Are you out of your mind?”

Perhaps. But there was a method to my madness. I carried neither a lock nor a cable with which to fasten a building to my ride. I chose to trust people. Most folks are still honest, I believed. In addition, I guessed that anyone intent on thievery would look at my bicycle standing there unlocked and conclude that the owner was nearby. As Ina said, no one in his right mind would leave a bicycle unattended. Earlier in my trip, I actually had hoped that someone would steal my ride. Then I could go home.

The storm gradually moved away and I was grateful that I had dodged a drenching. Soon I was on the road again. Eight miles farther lay a speck on the map called Henrieville. Here the road curved to the left and the surface became quite rough. The little yellow sunflowers danced on the roadside but carried a message of difficulty ahead, bowing deeply in my direction and warning of a headwind.

For the next several hours I fought not only the wind, but also the grade. I had one more climb of 7,600 feet. After that, the next twenty miles would be downhill into Escalante.

Off to my left was an area with rock formations of a bluish hue, a wilderness area called The Blues. I was also developing a bad case of the blues, both emotionally and overhead. The dark clouds realized I had escaped their wrath back in Tropic, and now they had chased me down once again. There would be no chance of dodging a drenching this time.

I quickly donned my raingear and stuffed my camera and phone into my panniers. I was about to find out if they were as waterproof as advertised. The rain came in torrents. Lightning flashed around me and thunder reverberated throughout The Blues. Without any kind of shelter, I lowered my head and slowly pushed my bike uphill. I still had a mile to the summit. Streams of water ran along the roadside, soaking my shoes. Passing vehicles added sprays of rainwater to my misery.

At last I shoved my bike to the summit. With a prayer for safety, I jumped on the bike and floated downhill, water spraying all about me. The storm stopped, but my problems persisted. The bike wheels showered me with water and dirt. My face was covered with fine grit. The rain suit blocked my view of my mirror, making it impossible to see anything behind me. My raingear was black, and the road had no shoulder. I asked God to protect me from any vehicles approaching from the rear.

There was one bit of good news, though. The little flowers had been given much to drink and now bobbed and waved in the opposite direction. The miles were all downhill and I had a tailwind. Gradually, the road surface began to dry and the fantail of moisture and grime decreased. Still, I coasted into Escalante with spirits at low tide.

All I wanted was to check into my room and dry out. I had booked a room in this town. It was a Saturday, and because Escalante was at the edge of these national parks, it had seemed prudent to make a reservation. The lady who made my reservation
had informed me that my bicycle would have to stay outside. No bikes in the rooms. I thought that was like saying my wife could stay with me, but the children would have to sleep on the sidewalk.

I rode into town under dark clouds. My shoes and socks were soaked and my spirits sagging. My first impression of Escalante was not favorable, and it would soon sink even lower. I arrived at the motel to find a sign stating that I would not be able to check in for another two hours. My disgruntled state of mind produced a few uncomplimentary remarks about the place; in an agitated conversation with myself, I remember using the word “fleabag” and making a comment on the lack of cleanliness.

I had passed another motel coming into town, and now I decided to see if they could accommodate me. The lady in charge was kind and helpful. She even loaned me a hair dryer to dry my shoes. In the two hours I would have spent waiting at the other motel, fuming and in a deteriorating mood, I instead dried out my shoes, took a soak, and fell asleep in the tub. I also called the first motel and informed the proprietor that she would be deprived of my presence that evening.

Later that evening, after a hearty meal, I took a stroll through the town. The sun was now shining and I viewed Escalante in an entirely different light. Quaint old buildings and art shops populated the town and wildflowers bordered the streets. I even spotted several ornate front porches that looked inviting. It really is amazing how our viewpoints can change when a situation becomes better illuminated.