Ice Road Suckers

Double Down

By the time we hit the first corner on the downhill, it was too late. Curse words and nervous laughter were the fodder of the moment.
We both ended up skeleton luging down the road, at the same time.
Laughter ensues. The hard earned head-wind battered climb to the summit would be rewarded by nerve fraying survival mode bobsledable downhills that more often than not would have to be walked out.

Backing up the bus a bit -
Coach and I decided to go on a little adventure. He's been jonesing for some backcountry ski adventures but that ain't in the cards due to this Liberal Agenda Winter, much different than the Totalitarian Stalin Siberian Wonder Winter of last year. I've been riding almost daily as the singletrack that I couldn't touch till April last year is high and dry, and bird season is over.

So we ended up becoming Ice Road Suckers.

First off, I de-sissified the Fargo -

Put the 29er tires back on, stripped it of all it's gleaming asphalt atonements from the Escape to Mexico tour.  No more bells and skinny tires and fenders and other city shit. 

In other words -

*Life lesson - There's always Slapshot if you need inspiration for awesome.

Secondly, Coach rocked the singlespeed 26er. 

Coach took Slammer of the Year -  about six separate times. I thought I was going to have to drag him out (thankfully it would be easy on the ice, body bag that mofo) but he's tougher than Mickey from Snatch. Kid's made of coffin nails. 

He did rock this sweet tyvek jerk-et he found in the free pile at the Reno Bike Project. It was swiss cheese by the time we got home.

Lots o' slip 'n slide.

The only dry part of the downhill.

Clown baby.

Bootleg

Some places the snow was soft, and you could dip your pedals into it. Looks like a well hung bear walked through here.

It was a good 47 miles.

Well earned.

Can't wait to get myself a Pugsley...

Parting Shot

Hope you had a great bird season. Here's to the next one.

I have this near my desk to keep my mind in the right place.

From Guns and Ammo, December 1970

Gene Hills "Parting Shot" column.

Sing me the old songs.

Tell me the stories of times gone by.

I want to spend an evening or so with you to 

hear about your dogs.

I want to see your guns.

I want to read your favorite books.

I want to warm my hands in front of your 

fire and try your pipe tobacco and taste

your whisky.

I want to see the old brown pictures you've 

always saved.

The pictures of the stern-faced men wearing

hip boots and brown overalls with rusty

wool caps pulled down over their eyes.

The pictures of men who wore neckties and

soft flannel shirts and breeches and leggings

standing by braces of stiff-necked,

rib-sprung pointers with the quail wagons

behind them.

I want to see yourself in a blue work shirt

buttoned at the neck, with your kitchen

haircut and your .22 and that big-eyed pup.

Do you remember all the names?

Tell me them.

Talk to me about the horses.

Talk to me about the dogs.

And the L.C. Smith, the Parker, the Baker,

the Lefever and the Ansley H. Fox.

Tell me about the cold and the wind and the

sea and the river and the kettle pond.

Fill my mind with pictures of your prairies,

your swamps, your sedge fields, your

mountains and your endless plains.

Tell me too, about the times you didn't shoot

for some sweet secret reason of your own.

I want to hear the stories about Charley and

Jimmy and Ed.

Could they build a fire?

Did they get lost?

Could they track?

Make me laugh with the stories about the day

Irv never got a shot and old Belle brought 

him a quail, still warm, she'd found and

put in his hand.

Let me hold the puppy on my lap.

Let me scratch the old dogs belly while she

warms her backside by the fire.

Fill my glass again and pass me the wooden

bowl with the apples in it.

Talk to me about the bee tree cutting.

Tell me how deep the ice pond was.

Show me how you call ducks.

Tell me how you make a rabbit stew.

Who was the best shot you ever saw?

Who always got his buck?

What's your favorite excuse of all the ones

you've heard?

Why is it, do you suppose, that men have

stopped telling lies the way they used to do?

Take me with you to the places with the names 

I like.

Take me to the Superstition Mountains

where the white wing and mourning doves

come in flights like feathered clouds.

Take me along the gentle curvings of the

Tombigbee.

Show me the big horn sheep that feed above the

Prophet River.

And the elk along the bank of the Yellowstone.

And the Badlands bear picking berries.

And the woodcock flighting to the Merrimack.

And the wild turkey in the Dismal Swamp.

Time does not exist where these things never change.

Listen... don't you hear the same quail call 

and the mallard stutters as the men in the

faded brown pictures?

Sing me the old songs.

Tell me the stories of times gone by.

Exploration

Your most trusted chukar buddy mumbled about it over a few pints of Icky. Saw a good grip of birds on his failed muley trip this fall. His reminiscent mind still fixated on blowing a prime shot on a wall hanger. More pints consumed. Plans hatched. Leave work early on Friday. Truck loaded. Dogs spazzed - they always know, sometimes before you do. 

The long drives to the unknown reaches of the basin are always filled with great conversation - catching up, calling out, giving shit, taking shit, and usually an all around social health check up on your best friends. Found out one of mine is getting married. Poor bastard.

Camp is a mild affair. No wall tent, just the back of the truck with a damn good bag and a heavy tarp. 

First light allows you the first sizing up. Those hills stare back and never blink. 

Glassing the hills in October will not prepare you for climbing them in January. Lots of vertical. Lots of dog carrying. Should have brought climbing shoes. We're both young men in great shape, but this country has a way of humbling anyone. 

After a few slices of humble pie, we were satisfied in our curiosity. 

It's a fine itch to scratch.

Sofie is also a window licker. 

Home means Nevada.

The Great Basin has a hold on me. I'm proud to enjoy its desolate bounty.

Stage 3: The Thrill Of It All

  I've been home for a week, feeling naked starting over again from scratch.  The basic ingredients of this minimalist cake being a few pieces of baggage packed a few months ago in an irreverent daze; comprising of all my worldly material values and which are now stacked haphazardly in an otherwise empty bedroom.  We all sacrifice, we all accept the things we deem worthy of such acts in our own way.

  I had an absolutely wonderful time doing this. 3,000 miles of things I won't forget, things I'll dwell upon, and none of it wasted on an empty heart.  I gave it my all and then some, and gave it hell till the end.

No, I didn't make it to Argentina.  Am I upset?  Am I nauseous?  Am I going to disappear for a few months in isolated depression over this again?

No.

  I worked out my demons, for lack of a better term, and they are kept in their places: Always in the corners of my eyes till they can't be ignored any longer.  They're tired, but far from dead, my eyes far from shifting.

I believe the paradigm has shifted for me.  I'd hope that in my relentless evaluations and self-discoveries and growth rings and wrinkles over the past 5 years that the values I'd hold today would be far different than what was apparent when I hatched this scheme at 23.

A lot of travel and minimalistic living is self-discovery.  I discovered, recovered, and buried more things in 2 months than I have in years. Deprive yourself of nothing but what you need and you will find everything that you don't.

One of the things I noticed is this:
Touring on the road has become a bore to me.  The dangers faced on a rural highway are much in the same vein as those faced in a suburban white girls lonely bedroom.   I am not a fan of the populous, of civilization, order, contact.  These things prove themselves time and again as reliable undercurrents.  I felt gently pulled away from the things I find comfort in, like solitude, self-reliance, and uncertainty.  Undoubtedly you will find these things on the highway, just in a much more mild dose.

Any further adventures will be on a much different scale and flavor, and I hope you will join along.

I guess you can call it the roots of a progression.  In any case, I am glad for it.

Here are some more pictures from the journey, enjoy.

Ran over this poor bastard. Only creepy crawly I got a good shot of on the mainland, all the rest of them run too fast. He was about tea-cup size, his Olympic sprinter buddies were salad plate size.

Shade is awesome.

This dog was eating scraps out of a burning trash fire, some flames in its mouth. How far would you go for a meal?

First dorado on a fly. Yeah, I gripped and grinned, but who wouldn't after ten beers in the tropic sun and an ocean fish who ripped your trout rod to the edges of hell?

Captain Victor's tip. A bucket full o' bonito. 

Three seconds after hook-set, and I'm deep into backing town.

These guys are insanely powerful. Bringing a 10wt next time.

Captain Victor has some photog skills. He probably had a Marlboro Red in each hand as well.

Best beach camp sunrise ever.

Best beach camp sunrise ever part 2.

Fished here for an hour. Then I saw natives doing some crazy ceremony upstream. 

Hurricane damage. This tree was HUGE. That is a house on the right.

Stage 2: Tijuana to Puerto Vallarta

DISCLAIMER: This post is mainly photos for now, more verbiage later.. Mexican Internet Çafe´s have unusable keyboards. I could be here all day.

Baja is trying to kill you.

You´ll climb and descend some of the scariest roads you can imagine, with trucks whizzing by and shoulders that drop off into certain messy ends.

It´s really not that bad. People in Mexico are extremely friendly - offering you encouragement and honks, food and water, and always a place to stay.

I met Brian in Ensenada. We rode through Baja together, and from Mazatlan to Puerto Vallarta.

 Cooking dinner hidden in a wash near a weird town.

Camped near Catavina in a valley full of Cirio trees, saguaro, and amazing giant granite boulders.

 Giant Saguaro

Catavina

This lil´buddy flew into the breakfast joint in Catavina, I helped him find his way out.

It´s a big place.

Not much here but your thoughts.

Only shade for a couple hundred kilometers. It was awesome.

The long flat road from Guerro Negro.

Extinct volcano chain in the clouds.

 Jungle Jim has a brother in Mexico!

Chris Costas secret bar in Loreto.

Bahia de Concepcion

Robin and  I having a tan line contest.

Bike Train! Brian, Abe, Robin!

 So many roadside shrines and crosses in Mexico, always keeping you on your toes.

 Brian found some sweet ass shoes..

But they fit Robin way better. They were Cortez´s long lost magic shoes.

Beauty of a sunrise.

 Abe and Robin were packing surf boards, they rode from Tahoe to Oregon and down the coast through Baja. Studs.

 Abes sweet pride wheel.

 More of that beauty of a sunrise.

 Carlos was all about helping us, we camped at his farm.

 Carlos showing Abe where the surf´s at.

 Brian and I made it to La Paz!

The dirty ferry we were on for nearly 20 hours. Got sick from some food while on there, not super fun.

 The moon and the Sea of Cortez

 The mainland is green, lush, hot, and humid. This guy was mobbing with his sugar cane.

 Machaca = Breakfast of champions.

 The ole fashioned way.

 Tepic is beautiful.

Jungle on the way down to Puerto Vallarta.

Here are some random iPhone photos !