Route: 80E in from Arizona to Hwy 9E to 338N (took wrong turn which ultimately saved me from running out of gas) to I-10E to 146S to Hwy 9E to 11N (stayed in Rockhound S.P.). 11S to 9E to I-10E (El Paso, TX) to 54N to Oliver Lee S.P. 54N to Alamogordo to 70S to Whitesands National Monument. Back 70N to 54S to I-10 out of New Mexico, into Tejas.
“The fool wanders, a wise man travels.”
-Thomas Fuller
“I travel and I get lost, wisely foolish.”
-Daniel Rutter
They have undoubtedly got my back. The guardians that follow me once again save me from an inevitably inconvenient and potentially dangerous situation. Cruising up Hwy 80 from Arizona leads me to Hwy 9, a wide-open, flat, desolate road that surprises me when it crosses the Continental Divide as it mimics the Mexican border. The map reads perfectly.
Towns along the route are distant and sporadically placed, but the spans between them are nothing that would leave me aching for anything more than small drink of petrol. Or so I thought. Mere dots on a map, these safe-havens are primarily a few dilapidated houses, seemingly abandoned in disrepair, vulturing around what used to be a lively desert crossroads. Now as dead as the baked and jerkied road kill that take up temporary residence, the life from the towns is no more and has returned to the desert. Thoughts of what these kinds of towns used to be like in their prime turn in the space between my ears as the turn to continue my correct route along the border whizzes by. I’m as oblivious to the missed fork as Carrot Top is of my existence, but the situation proves fortuitous and predestined. 338N leads me directly to a gas station, just as Betty’s tank becomes as dry as the dust she’s been riding through. Had the correct turn been made, I would have ridden deeper into the desert and rolled to a stop in fits of sputters and conks as the last drops of fuel are consumed by the Harley’s engine. No hope of a filling station and not much more hope of a passerby would have left me stranded as night washed over and put a serious dent in my mental well-being. The three that ride with me are looking out for me today in this rock laden no man’s land, I firmly believe this. Recognizing the potential disaster and the rescue that averted it, I throw my thank you to the wind with hopes that my appreciation is carried along and floats down onto the right places.
Darkness is preparing, once again, to claw and clamber over the desert mountain landscape and nestle for the night on the roads that I ride. Already noticing an abundance of road kill in New Mexico, the decision to push to the nearest state park and throw down camp for the night is an easy one. The Harley’s two wheels meticulously navigate the gravel drive around the campsites waiting for a clear spot to drop her kickstand. The campground is standing room only and I find myself late to the party once again, as RVs have already eaten the best appetizers and the keg is nearly dry. A quick trip over to the camp host, George from Pennsylvania, followed by some friendly chatter and a deal is brokered. Chawing on a mouthful of tobaccy, he quickly offers up a piece of unclaimed property off the side of the main road for a mere eight bucks and payment comes with a smile, knowing state parks need help, there is no problem in paying to sleep in the breakdown lane. Ease replaces tension, knowing there is a place to set up my ever-vanishing footprint, and I kick it into first gear to roll over to the make-shift site. Not bad for a Steelers’ fan. Thanks George. Now if an Eagle’s fan and a Steelers’ fan can get along and work together so cordially, the issues and conflicts of our world leaders should be able to be tackled with grace and poise.
Unfurl the tent, fit and extend the collapsible poles, make sure the corners are taught, stake it to the ground and layover and clip in the rain-fly. A process that will undoubtedly reserve a permanent table in my brain, setting up the tent is only momentarily interrupted as a park ranger pulls up alongside and rolls down his window. Perfect. Great. I’m going to jail for squishing a cactus or rare desert flower. Thanks George. Conditioned response takes over at the sight of the ranger and my skin goes cold, eyes narrow, voice becomes lower, muscles tense and I prepare to do battle.
“Good evening, sir”
“Good evening” (cautiously)
“How are you doing tonight?”
“Fine” (anticipating a verbal throw down that makes UFC look like Smurfs)
“Just saw you setting up your tent and figured I’d unlock the bathroom at the
visitor’s center for you. Normally we lock it, but since you’re camping right here, I figured it be easier for you to use this one throughout the night.”
“Oh wow, thank you, that’s very nice of you, I appreciate that.”
Touché, nice park ranger. You win this round. I don’t know what your angle is, but I’ll be watching you like a hawk. Like a hawk I say.
The last few remnants of the day’s sunshine highlighted the minimal territory that Rockhound state park occupied, but as the sky turns black, the space around me begins to triple in size and it feels like I’ve been put in the dinghy and cast out to float in the desert, far from the main ship, and in coyote infested waters. The coyotes begin to circle and grow louder, with snarls, yelps and earsplitting howls that make my blood run cold. Clutching my knife and bear spray like a well-worn wobbie, the carnivorous din grows wearisome after 30 uninterrupted minutes of continuous programming and the blood flows back into my knuckles while annoyance commandeers the fear. Sleep comes, no effort required, immediately after I snuggle into my sleeping bag.
Ok. This is the desert, I get it. The variance between high and low temps is understood, as is the fact that it’s February, but COME ON! Another arctic desert morning, that only Tauntauns would feel comfortable in, numbs my fingers during the deconstruction of a camp that has been up for less than 10 hours. Frozen finger tips during my morning chores are simply a diluted foretelling of the ride to be. The start to my travels is an early one and Betty roars into gear just as the new sun crowns between two mountain peaks. I’m not happy.
This is cold, deceptively so, proving that temperature is not determined by sunny skies and beautiful conditions. Riding through November in Wisco should have prepared me for this. It did not. Every 25-35 minutes, the intolerable cold and pain in my fingers forces an unwanted pit-stop. Pressing my chaps and boots to the mufflers warms them up to a comfortable point and allows me to thaw my claws on the toasty leather without burning my hands to a charred mess. A trick just figured out now, I’m delighted by my cleverness and give myself a well deserved high-five, which neither hand can feel. It’s a tactic that will be employed over the next several chilly morning rides, and yes, I’m really proud of myself.Highway 54 etches a straight line through the Fort Bliss missile range. The distorted contrast between the fort’s name and its purpose do not escape me, nor does the exit sign, after the successful completion of the 60 or so mile adventure. The sign reads:
“Now Leaving Fort Bliss. Hasta la Vista.”
Of course the Arnold accented version immediately sounds in my skull and laughter bounces around inside my helmet. Then, contemplating which of three culprits will have the most damage on my shivers and timber; riding fully-exposed through a missile range, the prolific use of a laptop or 25,000 miles of successive vibrating motorcycle, my laughter blows itself out of the helmet, no longer able to be contained.
The road beneath the bike shifts and transforms immediately as the signs that mark each county line come into view. Just like the miles behind me, the roads come and go, sometimes riddled with potholes and sometimes smooth, new, black asphalt with freshly painted, glowing yellow lines that provokes pleasurable grins every time I bump up onto the surface for a ride that feels like gliding on a cloud. The highway changes suddenly, without a county line sign and up ahead is a border patrol check point. There will be many more to come, but this one proves a valuable lesson. When passing through a B.P. checkpoint and asked if you are an American citizen, an answer of “Si” is not among the list of recommended or wise responses. The checkpoint is at a inconvenient place and the line is long, forcing a slow idle. Fuel is running low, gas stations are sparse, but worries of being marooned on this desert trail are plentiful. The arrow points straight down to E as I head out of the check point, straight north on the only road through this missile range. Luckily, there is a station that provides relief for the second close-call in as many days and I head to K-mart to buy a 1 gallon gas can.
Aerosteps hover above the landscape like a seasoned account executive awaiting a deliverable, a protective cloud doing their best to ensure security for the homeland. An unmanned, albino blimp, tethered to a post, aerosteps are used to detect low-flying aircraft to help dissuade drug cartels, terrorists or any other form of illegal activity from trying to “fly under the radar” over the border and into the U.S. Used only on days where the wind is light or non-existent, it’s yet another step our government provides to give us all a feeling of ease so that we may sleep safely in our beds at night. The world down here is a dark contrast to the relatively sheltered atmosphere of the Midwest. Perpetual efforts of homeland security, military personnel, border patrol and the numerous other agencies exist in a public secret, so that millions of American’s daily lives may go on uninterrupted.The ride this far is an interesting one. Most of the wildlife seen has been on the side of the road and not moving very fast. On the short ride from Rockhound to Oliver Lee state park, a road runner in the middle of the lane nearly misses becoming a temporary part of the Muscle’s headlamp. A defining half second all that separates the road runner’s trademarked “meep meep” from being permanently silenced and me being a glowing idol in the sinister eye’s of Wyle E. Coyote. Alas, I, as the coyote so many times before me, is thwarted and the roadrunner lives to “meep” another day. Aside from an actual coyote crossing the road in front of me and a jackrabbit in the desert, the only other wildlife I’ve seen are the plentiful blue-haired arrveers. Often travelling in pairs, they emerge from their white, fiberglass cocoons at dusk, to witness the sunset with their favorite prey in hand – the cocktail. Checking into Oliver Lee state park, once again delivers me to the flocks of the blue-hairs and I start to wonder if the elusive tentcamper has been placed on the endangered species list.
Oliver Lee state park is an absolute gem. Rolling through the winding road and across the cattle-guard, I find a campground nestled at the base where two towering mountains meet. The beauty of the park, as well as the beauty of the forecast (no rain), sweeps me up in a wave of happiness and camp is set up in the site with the best sunrise view. Campers past leave remnants of firewood in their pits and an easy pile in my camp is formed. YES! Finally, I get to have a campfire tonight. Until now, all state parks have banned them due to safety precautions. Getting there early with camp set up, I decide to waste some gas and head to Whitesands National Monument.I ride into Whitesands to find the park closed for the next three hours.
The potential harm that could befall the tourists due to fallout from the missile testing apparently outweighs the need for revenue. Who knew? Taking the opportunity to charge my phone, I plug into a soda machine outlet, hide the phone and go into the visitor’s center. A movie has just started, projecting the history of the park and the formation of the white sand dunes on a small screen surrounded by carpeted seats that disruptively squeak when one moves the slightest bit. The movie takes up some time, as does the waiting for my phone to charge. Given that Whitesands is just the right amount of mileage away from the park I’m camping at, so leaving is not really an option, I’ll wait it out for two and a half hours. The “all clear” comes over the radio and the gates fling open to a conga line of RVs, vans and SUVs. I’m the only one on two wheels, I’ll soon find out why.
The tour is short, but what lacks in acreage is more than made up for in astonishing beauty. Formed when the lake bed is filled and then dries quickly, gypsum crystals pop up from the lake bed and slowly erode into sand. The wind pushes this white sand across the desert flow, forming dunes and ultimately Whitesands National Monument. The dunes are breathtaking and the overtaking landscape and my uniform make me feel like I’m in a sci-fi movie. The paved road ends with that termination brings a first experience for Betty and me; driving on unpaved roads. Tenuous at first, the gypsum underlay has been firmly compacted by the myriad of travelers before me and it’s an easy ride with much to see. A common viewing area is littered with vehicles of all kinds and a couple from Illinois, Dick and Maren offer to take my picture on the bike with the ivory backdrop. 
In turn, they get their own picture together with the blanched dunes behind them and some small talk brings a recommendation of Chisos Basin, in Texas’ Big Bend National park for camping. It’s a suggestion that I will take, and with thank yous said, the ride continues. The tour of Whitesands over, the starter’s gun clacks out as I once again race the sunset to get back to the campground to witness the nightly fire in the sky. While the sun is backstage preparing for the show, I scrounge up some more firewood and the camp host generously offers up 3 prime chunks of timber for the collection. The sun sinks into the mountains on the other side of a wide valley and I am surrounded by 300 degrees of sunset.
Facing the epicenter of nature’s morphing artwork; I look straight off my left and right shoulder and stare directly into the amber fringes as they finally fade to black. Night brings with it campfire, beef stew, Canadian Club (what? Your dad drank it) and a peaceful slumber occupied by dreams of the next day’s hike through up the mountain gorge. The weather finally changes and brings a front carrying dry, warm, welcome conditions.7am presents itself courteously and slowly escorts me into a relaxing routine of coffee and oatmeal. Looking up at the mountain and excited for the hike that is about to happen, ample time is still taken and nothing is rushed. Breakfast finished and dishes washed, the visitors’ center provides welcome as well as fresh water for the camelback and a trailhead. The hike starts at 9.30 and by 9.40 the burning starts to set in the fairly vertical climb (not really). It’s been a while since my feet, legs and lungs have embarked on this type of exercise and I start to feel pretty good about myself after getting into a rhythm. The hike is supposed to be about 6 miles and is well plotted and groomed. Exertion pays off as the navigation of purposefully placed, stepped rocks carry me closer to my goal – an old stone cabin from the 1800s.
It feels like I’m making good time as my heavy breath becomes more paced, my legs burn and sweat drips down my sides. At this point, a Harley Davidson t-shirt doubles as a bandana and sunshade and I just know that I’m getting close. Have to be. This much pain does not come without reward. Wrongo bongo. A distance marker slaps me in the face with the astonishing number of .5 on it. Crap. Time to start jumping rope again. Superman, I am not. Achieving the cabin is now in question.Plowing on, the trail twists, turns and climbs forever higher, bringing me closer to the sun with every step. Multiple breaks and rests are taken for gorgeous, natural “photo ops.” Every drink from the camelback tastes like plastic and is a constant reminder of the line from The Goonies:
“It’s wet, ain’t it? Drink it.”
Realizing that the cabin is now out of the question, I perch myself on the top of the highest peak in the area and look across the canyon to the sister peak on the other side. Expecting a pivotal moment, with a Puma sitting on the other side, staring back in Mufasa-like pose and roar, the only sounds are the breeze and silence. Hakuna Matata, I’m still having fun. The threat of blisters prompts a quick retreat and my feet, legs and lungs invite the decline in terrain with open arms and the distance back flows twice as quickly.
Getting back to the visitors’ center sparks interest in spending another night, so I pay up and move camp. Not a fun task, but a known possibility when the initial set up happened. It’s park policy and my nomadic home is carried three sites down. The last few days of rain has left Betty one dirty Muscle. The trip to the car wash is spiced up by an RV that I cruise alongside for a bit. The entire passenger side of the vehicle is dedicated to a parrot and is adorned with sticks, perches, cuttlebones and bells. The driver’s travelling companion perched playfully in the shotgun seat. Only a glimpse of the types of characters I’ll meet of the next 5 months, I’m sure. Back at camp, another relaxing night ensues and I finish my first book of the trip. Genome by Matt Ridley. It’s been a bear of a book as it attempts to playfully map out the genome in 23 chapters, based on the 23 pairs of chromosomes that make it up. A tough, but fascinating read, it is a pleasure to finally be able to put it down after a nearly 6 month read time. I write an inscription inside the front cover, describing my travels, what this book has been a part of, and the request to pass it on. Also included is the blog of my URL with hopes that it will touch a stranger’s eyes that I might have the pleasure to meet one day. The next morning camp is packed, locked and loaded on the bike and the book is left on the counter in the men’s bathroom. Heading towards El Paso, riding the same way I came in and only seeing a sliver of New Mexico's unparalleled beauty leaves me wanting more.
Next stop, Texas.
“The bike may break me. The road may take me. I'll forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart”
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