Unexpected Bombs, the Prayer-Warrior, and a Snowman

My zippers didn’t line up. My sleeping bag had a left-sided zipper and my bivy sack had a right-sided zipper. And when I woke up and had to super-duper-pee in the darkness, I couldn’t figure out how to get out of it all.

I tried and failed a few times and thrashed around and finally figured it out. It was cold so I covered my bedding up again to try to keep some heat in there while I was gone. The sand was soft on my bare feet so I was happy and afterward, I tossed myself back into my still-warm bag.

It was a leisurely morning. Breakfast of salami and cheese, nuts and prunes. They’ll help you poop, Jennie says.

A bomb went off in the distance. Surprised, we looked across the long valley to the very end where a plume of brown dirt made its way clear up into the air. The Land of Unexpected Bombs.

We struggled getting our bikes and all our gear back up the gravel all the way to the pavement. An RV came up from the campground behind us. I turned away and covered my face as dust swirled around.

It came to a stop and an older fellow jumped out of the RV and raced up to us. You already worked so hard you deserve a treat, he said.

We do? Sweat trickled into my eye. I rubbed my eye in a circle with my dirty old glove.

He produced two sweating bottles of cold water.

‘It’s cold’, I said to Jennie.

‘Yay’, she said back.

After a bit, Jennie pointed at some rocks by the side of the road. But when the rocks stood up they were Big Horned Sheep. Stop-Jennie-Stop, I said, but she already had.

We straddled our bikes and watched. There were twelve of them? Fifteen? Little babies velcroed to the cliff. Their mommas leading the way straight up impossible footholds. Dad keeping his eye on us. Wary.

Big rigs swooshing past us in our Zen moment. Our bikes swaying from their wind. Our souls unbothered by their passing.

Did they even see the sheep? Did they have one passing glance from the passenger who says, ‘hey Jim. there’s big horned sheep.’ And Jim says, ‘oh I missed it.’ And then they go back to talking about what Aunt Sarah said at the party on Friday that embarrassed poor so-and-so.

And all the while these majestic creatures step-step-stepped in their impossible way and I thought I’d like to be a sheep. With giant curly horns and a pretty face and much better balance.

Boom went another bomb.

A white truck stopped ahead of us, and I wondered what he was up to. As we got closer, he held out two water bottles. Twice in a day? His name was Vic and he was a photographer and the fill-in Justice of the Peace when other judges were gone. Like a substitute teacher, Jennie says, and everyone gets in trouble.

Today’s free fishing day for kids in the reservoir up there, he says, pointing way-way up the mountain. Wanna go?

Sure. Of course we did. So we loaded our bicycles and my trailer into his truck and headed up a windy dirt road, clinging to the cliffs Sheep-Style and I thought of how quickly the universe can give you what you want.

He told us everything. How they’ve made bombs here for every war since WWII. How ‘Constitutionalists’ in the area don’t believe they need driver’s licenses and say he doesn’t have jurisdiction over them when he sentences them to jail. And how his son has contracts with Trump Jr. and the owner of Caterpillar and works in Mongolia killing exotic animals and getting paid hefty sums taking other people to kill exotic animals.

After a long time, it seemed like we had to be near the top. Scrubby trees and sage and desert flowers, and then scrubby trees and sage and desert flowers. A man came around the corner with a long gray beard. Pushing a baby in a stroller down the dirt road.

Hey Vic, he says. We’re going Extreme Strolling. His face splits in a kind, grizzled sort of way and his eyes twinkle. The baby gurgles in her sleep and turns her face the other way.

One more corner and a parking lot jammed with pickup after pickup – all new and nice and shiny. Kids everywhere.

The reservoir – stocked by the Army with tiger trout. Didn’t want terrorists poisoning it, so it got harder to get up here after 911, Vic says. I pictured bad guys in a big shiny truck driving up that long, windy, dusty road just to poison that little old reservoir.

Kids running around shrieking and yipping in the woods while sunburned, burly Dads were still fishing with little pink fishing poles with butterflies on them. Not willing to give up on the fish yet. And then the Army gave us sandwiches and it was time to leave.

Vic told us about yellow flowers called St. Anthony’s Sword and wild purple flowers that smelled of death. He spotted some and stopped the truck and they just smelled like marijuana to us, but he sure hated them so we scrunched up our faces and said ‘ew’ a lot and got back in the truck.

He said he’ll never leave this place. Said he has too much sand in his shoes. We wondered about the appeal.

Another bomb went off.

We rode into town and stopped at McDonald’s for milkshakes and fries. We washed our hands and faces and stuck our heads under the Dyson hand dryer.

Tony, the sketchy self-proclaimed Prayer-Warrior at McDonald’s, gave us his prayer-warrior-business-card and wanted our names so he could pray for us on our trip. Jennie lied about my name but couldn’t come up with one for herself fast enough, so we were Joanna and Jenny.

We rode off through the wide valleys and mountains of marbled rye. The shoulders were wide and smooth and we listened to the rumbling of the coming cars and the spirits in the breeze and felt powerful and alone in the universe.

Bike issues. Jennie watched a YouTube video on her phone and fixed the derailleur on my bike. Another cyclist came along, slathered in thick white sunscreen. The Summertime Abominable Snowman. Headed from Colorado to San Francisco and then Anchorage. I think you missed a spot, Jennie said, pointing at a small dot – the only flesh actually showing through his paste.

Oh, he said, as though it truly needed fixing. He declared that we had too much gear, as every purist likes to say to everyone else doing the same thing as them. He hinted that his deprivation tolerance must be higher than ours, and therefore he must be better than us in some meaningful way. Every ounce counts, he said, when doing a long-distance cycling trip.

Shut up Snowman, I thought.

I looked at my trailer with a cooler in it. It’s actually a brilliant idea. Keeps food from getting mushed, everything fits in it, I don’t have to wear anything on my back. Waterproof, dirt proof, insulated, and I love it.

He had a backpack on his back. Like, a backpacking backpack. It probably would’ve fit in my cooler, so why was he being so judgy. I tried not to be judgy right back at him.

Everyone has a deep reason for why they do this, he said, wistfully looking into the distance as only early 20-somethings do. All full of mystery and drama.

I don’t, Jennie said. I don’t at all. Jo said ‘let’s go’ and here we are.

His eyes re-focused and he made some lofty excuse why he needed to push on. For he had many miles yet to travel before the sun laid itself to rest for the day.

We set up our sun umbrellas in a little pull-out and found that if we laid down on the ground and folded up our legs just so, we fit into the shade spot. We talked about death and dying and ate a whole bag of pistachios.

We got water at a rest area and finally found a dirt road with a cattle guard marking a break in the fence. We rode just past the telephone poles and found a nice empty dirt spot and laid our food out on our bivy sacks since we were too tired to cook. We couldn’t find the knife so Jennie and I took turns biting a hunk off the salami and then the cheese until that was too weird and we ate some gluten free cookies instead.

Jennie was asleep in six-and-a-half seconds.

The quiet desert sky peeled back the heat of the day and lay down on top of me. It breathed out my name in a cool sigh.

54 miles