Listening to the Land

 Obviously (or maybe not so obviously), a big part of being a bicycle tourist is the land you bicycle through: seeing it, feeling it, getting to know it. In some places the relationship is easy; in others, it is challenging.

Our trip down the coast was my introduction to this lesson. The up and down hills, the gentle morning fog were gentle reminders of where we were. There was water everywhere: for washing drinking and the morning soaking of tents and sleeping bags.

When we turned east, the land changed and so did our trip. Water became not scarce, but used, taken up. Aqueducts and irrigation, fenced off lots and NO TRESSPASSING signs. The San Joquain Valley is a richly agricultural region and there was no getting around it. Its the heart, the bread and butter of the American Industrial Agricultural Complex. Pistachios, almonds, citrus, tomatoes, avocados, garlic, cotton..., the list goes on and on. This place feeds the United States of America. We filled our bellies on fresh fruit, 10 for $1 artichokes, and Mexican pastries.

Then we got to Yosemite and the land was less gentle with its communication. We went from sea level to 10,00ft in under a week. The sheer granite cliffs and geologic enormousness of the valley are hard to put into words, but the message was clear. We woke up with ice on our tents at 4,000ft. The water was the tastiest, cleanest, coldest water I think I have ever had (sorry Vermont). The water fell from the rocks, 3,000ft above your ahead. It burst from the ground in bubbling springs.

Over 9,945ft Tioga Pass things changed again. The contrast between the wet western Sierra and the dry eastern Sierra was abrupt and striking. It wasn't quite desert (yet), but the mountains cast a long rain shadow. The mountainous lakes of June Lake and Mammoth were breathtaking. The whole area was literally alive: Mono Lake is a million year old lake with some of the youngest mountains in the world. Some volcanic upwellings are as young as 350 years old. I have spent time with older trees.

There were hot springs scattered across the land here and the land told us to soak in them. We spent 2 days going from spring to spring, camping right next to one near Mammoth. Water hot enough to burn was diverted into so many pools, along so many streams and you could see the life that came from it, smell the vibrance of it.

In Big Pine, we passed the oldest living things on the planet, the Bristle Cone Pines, with some survivors over 3000 years old.

In Lone Pine, we saw Mt Whitney, the tallest mountain in the lower 48 states. Its 14,500ft peak didn't stand out among the other 14,000 footers, but the range as a whole was impressive. In the east, its sometimes difficult to tell where the valley ends and the mountain begins, but here it is crystal clear.

From Lone Pine, we went further east and the land lost all sense of subtly. 50 miles in and we found ourselves in the Panamint Valley. It was 100 degrees by noon and not a lick of natural shade to be found. Water here? Non-existant. Ross and I each had to pack 12 extra pounds of water before we left, and we were lucky we did. Rather than climb the 4000ft pass in the midday scorch, the land made other plans for us. We turned in early that night and set the alarm for 2:30am. By 3, we were on the road. The moonlit desert was serene and quiet and still 70 degrees. 3 hours later at 6am, we had gone 14 miles and gained 4000ft of elevation. It was still dark when we began our descent.

The next 18 miles took us 40 minutes, down 5000 ft, below sea level. This was our next big stop after Yosemite, the Valley of Life, as its known by the Shoshone. It is called by white man Death Valley and its not hard to understand why. The biggest National Park in the lower 48 is a place of indescribable beauty and danger: scorpions, rattlesnakes, utter lack of moisture, 5ft thick salt beds and 120 degree heat. The land here speaks firmly and directly. It is not loud or overstated, but quiet and strong. The colors of the mountains, the plant life sprouts from apparent nothingness, the brutal, belligerent, overwhelming heat are beautiful conundrums to a casual observer lacking the fine details.

The white man stuck with his motif: places like Stovepipe Wells, Furnace Creek and Badwater Basin, the lowest point in the western hemisphere, are intimidating destinations. With less than 2 inches of precipitation per year and 150 inches of evaporation per year, its no wonder our culture does not do well here. Those that called it the Valley of Life are now confined to mere acres of their original homeland.

Again, we had to wake up in the wee hours to scurry over the mountains before the sun awoke to send its fiery breath onto the valley. This time, it was 80 degrees. At 3am.

We made it out alive, but changed. The languages and words and emotions that California has graced us with in this past month have been more varied than our own, over-complicated grammar. From tallest to biggest trees, oldest trees to youngest mountains, highest mountains to lowest valleys, California's superlatives are a dramatic list of vacation destinations. Seeing them from the seat of my bicycle has been other-worldly: all of this has been so close this whole time, yet so far.

Leaving Death Valley this morning, I biked my 2000^th mile. I spent that mile with no other human, Ross was ahead of me a ways. At 6:30am, the sun had not yet risen and, 3000ft above the hottest place in the U.S., it was 55 degrees. I was by myself but not alone. I spent the moment with the dawn-lit Amargosa mountains and the high desert beneath them. An orange glow spread across the scene as I stopped to just breathe. 2000 may be just a number, but that was an incredibly special moment.

And so I leave California behind. Nevada calls: the hijinks of Las Vegas, the Valley of Fire. More pictures are up, but don't expect to find enlightenment. You'll have to go yourself to find that.