Part Two: The Gate

I turned right on my bike and Trina turned left in the truck. In moments she was out of sight and I was on my own. I saw no one for the rest of the day.

From 2010 Summer

I rode up a rough ridge in the hot sun. Then the sky hazed out and the light diffused as I dropped into a small canyon. I rode upward as the rushing water burbled downward. The track surface was loose and chunky, and there were times when I had to push the steep parts. I rode ever upward as the day burned into evening. I was moving slowly enough to notice bright velvet ants roaming beneath.

From 2010 Summer

From 2010 Summer

From 2010 Summer

As I arrived at the critical point, a little-used track turned off, just in the direction I had hoped. It pulled me up out of the canyon and onto a high slope as the last burst of sunlight burned brightly. I raced the light, seeking the expected edge, the possible path...

I came to a breathless stop where the world fell away, dropping into a deep bowl of shadows. The last glow of day lit the shining snow of the mountains beyond, and burned red into the canyon rim. The thin line of the river below mirrored the silvery sky. This was it. The place I had hoped I would arrive.

From 2010 Summer

From 2010 Summer

And there, where the darkness was gathering below the rim... A line of a track, twisting downward, into the bowl and toward the river. The gate, it seemed, was open. I was free to carry on.

I camped on the rim, a dozen feet from the edge. But it's almost as if "camp" has become too complex a word to describe the simpleness of it. A bare spot of rock or dirt for the tiny stove. A bush, if available, to lean the bike against or to hang sweat-wet clothes. And a flat-ish place to lay down. Nothing more required. The view, even, was wasted until morning.

***

From 2010 Summer

The birds of the rim started their chorus long before sunrise. But I saw no reason to get up before the sunlight hit me in the eye. The light showered out onto the pinnacles and spires of the canyon. Soon I had eaten and had packed up, ready to ride.

From 2010 Summer

From 2010 Summer

I dove down the rubbled road, my bike twitching against rocks as I snaked down the tight switchbacks. My rattling eyes were locked onto the track, so I stopped frequently to take in the view. Layer after layer of cliff and slope, red to grey tones of rock and dirt, green shrubs and the punctuation of showy flowers, The snowy peaks where I was heading dropped away behind the immediacy of the canyon cliffs. Roll, stop, view. Roll, stop, view.

From 2010 Summer

Soon I was on the lush riverbank on a gravel road, heading upriver to the bridge and the small funky desert town, or, half-town. There's a beat up and abandoned tavern that, heck, might still be open now and then. Tacked together houses and trailers surrounded by squalor and seedy trees. But also modest homes that show years of life and care, rigorous vegetable gardens, small in-home businesses that never made it or are still making it, and it's hard to tell which.

The people in this damp spot in the dry canyons seem to have carved out lives that exist within the strictures of the remoteness and the resources. A vision of the West that was never really envisioned, but which evolved over time. But that's only half the story.

I stopped, as I often have, at the small diner. Another breakfast and a chocolate shake. A friendly chat with the two rugged men who were running the place for the morning. Then I rode across the bridge and past a strange plastic version of the West, stamped out and set down in the canyon scenery. A vision that promises and satisfies with a faux-dobe front containing all the trappings and comforts that an American shopping mall and hotel is expected to provide.

I leave you to cypher which side of town is considered a success. I'm sure I don't understand all the intricacies involved. But I had to avert my eyes as I passed.

From 2010 Summer

I turned up a canyon and began to climb. The sometimes-dry creek in the bottom was running cool and wet. I soaked my shirt and helmet and pedaled my way up the winding gravel road. Hours slipped by as desert pinyon and juniper gave way to ponderosa pine and oak brush. The flowers changed styles and color. Ponderosa gave way to lodgepole and aspen trees and wide mountain meadows. The blue sky changed to afternoon haze.

From 2010 Summer

The edge of spring was just touching the shoulder of the mountains. Meadows were green, but many flowers had yet to bloom. Aspen trees were just leafing out in a vibrancy of bright green. Oak brush was budding.

From 2010 Summer

I stopped for the night in a meadow filled will fallen aspen logs. Rinsed myself off in a trickle of water. Tiny flowers carpeted the ground. A vole rustled the dry leaves under a bush. Deer grazed past. A gopher threw fresh, dark brown dirt out of its hole. Songbirds cried their night cries. Woodpeckers beat out rhythm on echoing trees. An owl flew across the meadow into the twilight. Clumsy beetles crashed into the tops of grasses and flower stems after emerging from burrows in the ground into the last light of day.

The haze of the afternoon built into a grey night sky. No stars, but warm enough. I cooked my meal and listened to the quiet that was never quite quiet.

--Greg