Up until this point, we haven't really shot for any sort of endurance feat. Days have consisted of relatively low miles, with the focus aimed more towards comfort and optimal camp location. Today we woke up with wind at our backs and the next patch of trees roughly a hundred miles away. Our century ride plan is more to guarantee a gathering of trees than it is a desire to cover many miles. We set off from Tatum, New Mexico, roughly fifteen miles from the border of Texas.
We roll up and over the hills, with steady motion. Barb wire still lines every section of the road, yet will occasionally open with a cattle guard. Fields no longer grow cotton, peanuts or corn. Cattle still graze some of the ranges, but most are now barren and speckled with prickly cactus. We're now seeing more oil derricks than we saw in any part of Texas. Sometimes they're spaced only a few hundred yards apart. Big ones, small ones, large reserve tanks and many varieties of derrick design. We're told some will pump 15 barrels of crude oil per day, while others will easily put out 2,000. It's hard for people to know exactly what size and kind of field they have below until they start pumping.
We pedal on at a good clip, leaning on cattle guards during lunch as I lean my bike up against a cactus. The earth begins to show its reddish hues, with the various cactus greens sprouting out of it. Toppled shacks and homes occasionally accompany the side of the road. Left years ago and allowing the sun, wind and vandals to do their jobs. We pass by "bottomless lakes", which are actually less than a hundred feet deep. Cowboys from older times didn't have enough lariats to tie together and find the bottom.
We drop into Roswell, passing through a long stretch of dairy farms before we enter the city proper. The welcome sign informs us it was once the dairy capital of the world. It's now been crippled by tourism though, possibly having an effect on even the dairy industry. We locate three possible burrito places which we hope to get some cheap grub at. One after the next, each one is closed and boarded up. Everything is boarded up, aside from the occasional muffler shop. This trip has shown me that muffler shops are either the most resilient businesses or they're the most practical for laundering money. They only exist in the roughest areas, where nothing else has been able to survive. There's a main street, running north to west through town. Tacky 50s diners and establishments with aliens peering over entrance signs. Only two to three people can be seen walking the entire length of the street in either direction. Movie theater marquees say things like "They've been watching you...now come watch them."
It's fairly chilly and dark, but we're determined to reach our goal. We press on, feeling the cold suck into our joints. I'm not able to find the right temp and choose to deal with overheating in a rain shell rather than shivering without it. Reaching camp, we find a barb wire fence to have been built since the google satellite photo was taken. We travel to the next patch of trees only to find them also newly fenced-in since the closing of the cafe they're next to. Frustration sets in quite quickly, causing us to resort to more desperate measures. Miles of fence go by and eventually we've had enough. Tired of being fenced out of the most free country in the world. People put up these vast expanses of fence, shackled tight by gates, with the excuse of keeping animals in or danger out. It's a horrible excuse for most situations, lacking almost all merit in my opinion. Cattle guards keep cows in. There is no pressing danger which needs to be kept out in ranch and agricultural land of Texas or New Mexico. It's my belief that it exists in these areas because we're a society over-infatuated with the idea of holding something private. Comfort in the unnecessary buffer of safety which comes with it. The overly enforced belief of needing to protect something because it's mine and not yours. The standout statement being "mine and not yours." At times, I step back a bit and tell myself to cool down this, possibly overthought and unfair, opinion. I'm happy those moments pass though, leaving myself able to share that thousand-mile regions of this country don't allow you to remove yourself more than thirty feet from a road unless you have permission from an owner. I love this country and all it offers, but with all the freedoms and rights it provides, people have made regional prisons of the roads.
We're spent, cold, frustrated and our joints are starting to click. We hop a fence and hang our hammocks. I don't feel bad about doing so. I'd have plowed through it, had I done this trip on a steamroller. Wes puts on a pot of hot cocoa as we look out at the canyon we now hang in. After 111 miles, we've completed the first century ride of our lives, pushing 100 pounds of bicycle and gear. We sleep like fish out of water. Flopping around for the first few minutes, then still and solid for the rest of the night.
We climb for two days, making our way to the top of Apache Summit. Loose sand turns to reddish clay. Cacti give way to rabbit brush, which eventually transform into trees. Pine trees eventually line the road, producing a smell which reminds me of home. I love riding among the pines. Days of easy riding are hoped for while climbing through the mountains, but it's nothing compared to the longing for trees while riding through wide open spaces.
We stop at a souvenir and snack shop along the way. After refueling our stomachs, we check out the "attraction" out front. Digger is bigger than any longhorn I've ever seen. He may not have the biggest horns, but his body seems to mimic the size of many cars. He's cooped up in a little pen, unable to graze freely with his pals we've seen, with plenty of space, off the side of the road. He stands in one spot and eats. That's all I see him do. I feel bad for him, but also have to get near to take a photo of his majestic size. As I draw closer, his hunkering body spins around in the most nimble pounce, staring me straight in the eye. Surely some kind of ninja cow. He kicks up dirt with his hoof while smashing his head and horns into the gate. Digger doesn't seem too enthused about my close presence. Wes asks the owner how she got the ring through his nose. She responds that she put it through his nose. He explains that he understands this, but wants to know how. She says she and her husband had to strap him to a tractor to hold him in place. Wes again uses hand movements to question the act of actually putting the ring in, but she responds with another strange answer. It's an interesting conversation. I feel bad for Digger, including the prodding and confinement he's endured. All I can do now is stand here and admire this majestic animal, which now resembles more of a beast than anything else. Digger is dangerous.
Apache Summit is 7,591 feet in elevation. Thousands of feet higher that any other summit we've reached. Standing at the top of the pass, looking west, the rest of the route is lower than our current position. We throw a thumbs up toward another milestone of the trip, then hop back on the steel steeds for a seemingly endless downhill. The Mescalero Apache Indian Reservation presents one of the most beautiful blends of colors I've ever seen. Dark green pine trees, mixed with deciduous trees on the brink of reaching their peak colors. Cacti slowly begin to reestablish themselves in the mix, creating a jumble of prickly spires, which reach through the yellow leaves of the trees. The sun is setting across the valley, dipping behind the next mountain range we'll cross. It looks as if we could be there within the hour, but it's really over fifty miles away. This moment, dropping over the pass and into this vast valley, makes me feel incredibly close to home. These are similar to the desert valleys, surrounded by mountain peaks, which I grew up exploring with my family. I know that from this point out, vast expanses of openness will no longer be stopped by the horizon, but instead by steep and towering mountains. Wes lets go of his brakes and zips by me, immersed in the vast colors and expanse in front of him. He's smiling ear-to-ear and putting off a vibe of excitement. This is what he's been looking forward to. The openness, colors, desert and never-ending sunsets.
Bob and Dawn are both characters, in every meaning of the statement. Both thoughtful intellectuals, they fuel each other's character by playing on the differences of the other. It's beautiful to see. Dawn is energetic, caring, and eager to give an opinion, especially on something Bob says. She's from Texas, but seems to be happy with getting away from there. Seemingly happy with, and proud of, the Texan hospitality and kindness, she's still able to laugh and smirk at some of the things which make it so unique. She's a guidance counselor up in the lofty heights of nearby Cloudcroft and is therefore very well-delivered with her words. She makes us the most delicious homemade salsa and guacamole I've ever munched on, while recounting the period of time in which the two of them met and eventually dated. Dawn claims she didn't think much of him when they first met, but she glances at him and smiles as she says it.
Bob is a well-educated and wise man of many young years. Both shine through in his recollection of years past, along with his views of the world and dedication to his career. He was born and raised in Boston, just as Wes was too. His mouth is as foul as anybody else from Boston and the two of them let it flow freely when chatting with each other. I'm not as good with facial recognition or literary figures, but Wes is able to describe him perfectly through the likes of another. He looks like Hemingway and talks in the way in which the author writes. Throughout the years, Bob walked an interesting line, tottering between the lines of proper education and bohemian encounters. Friendships with Hells Angels, developing and running outdoor rehabilitation programs, sitting through black market Uzi sales, going to school to get his masters, and conducting rehabilitation guidance for murders and rapists in prison. He tells us all kinds of stories and each one seems a little over-the-top. I believe every single one of them is true, but he surely likes to exaggerate a bit.
"Oh, bullshit!" Dawn yells from the kitchen, as Bob explains the route we should follow next. He grabs a map to prove his point, but it only shows that he is clearly wrong. I've been looking at this very route for weeks and know the correct route before the map even comes out.
"See, we're both right." he says as he roughly skims his finger over an area in order to prevent a clear understanding of the route.
"No no no. I'm right." she says with a laughing, yet determined tone, backed by a little extra volume.
He goes on to tell the next story.
"That's not true! I was even there for that. Bullshit!" she affirms on this one too.
The next story begins and she clears the air early on.
"Bob...I'm sitting right across the table. You have to make these stories at least somewhat accurate!" she exclaims through grins and rolled eyes.
"I can't even listen to this." as she gestures like she's plugging her ears.
The two of them live in a beautiful straw bale constructed home. Placed atop a long driveway, more treacherous than anything I've seen in Northern Idaho, sits their beautifully unique home. Constructed out of 600 straw bales, the outside walls are all over two feet thick. The bales are covered in a wire mesh, then plastered over with adobe. Walking out their back door, sits a beautiful view of the mountains leading up to Cloudcroft. Late at night, the lights up the valley extinguish, leaving a stunning view of the mountain shadows and distant stars. Their natural yard produces cacti of every shape, size and color. They created a beautiful home and we're grateful to have them share it with us for a night.
Now we ride into the true Southwest. The Southwest we pictured from afar and looked forward to reaching. Open desert, pointy mountain tops, cacti, turquoise, and rich culture.
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