Begging for a Jail Cell

Jail time. Johnny Cash sang about it, Waylon Jennings lived it, and I was begging for it. Although I had committed no crime against humanity, I found myself standing in a police station waiting for a jail cell. Outside the station the night was dark and cool. I had already been talking with the police for what seemed like an hour and yet my jail cell was not forthcoming. Now, it’s not every day that one begs to be placed in jail, so an explanation seems necessary.

My story begins in the waning hours of dusk, which found me descending from the forested mountains on a bicycle. By the time I reached the historic mining town of Bisbee, in southern Arizona it was pitch black. The only camping available was a graveled RV campground, which had an appeal factor of zero. A talk with the locals was a necessity. I road my bike along what seemed to be Main Street and stopped on the plaza.

My first encounter was with a woman selling jewelry to tourists at a small mobile stand. Explaining that I was traveling by bicycle and in need of a place to camp, I asked for suggestions. She gave me somewhat vague directions to a dirt road that lead to a hill overlooking the town. Thanking her, I made my way to the swinging doors.

As I went outside into the night a man looking to be in his mid-twenties approached me. He had overheard the conversation and urgently recommended against camping on the aforementioned hill. He explained that the hill was regularly used for religious rituals that included cat sacrifices. I harbor a well-earned dislike for felines, yet being awoken to the sounds of a sacrificial cat ritual is not my idea of a good time. The man recommended that I camp along a certain side road, and gave me directions. I gratefully thanked him for the warning and for suggesting a better alternative.

The sky had been dark for well over an hour before I reached the road the man had recommended. After about a mile I started searching the shadows for a secluded camping spot. Soon I came to a sign that abruptly ended my searching. It simply read: Prison area, do not pick up hitchhikers. So after hours of darkness I was still without a place to sleep.

Having spent the last few weeks traveling the backroads of America I was adapt at finding places to camp, but now I was at a total loss. I wearily rode in the darkness to the local police station and explained my situation to the dispatcher on the intercom outside the building. She let me inside and we talked across the bulletproof glass. My situation was worsened by the fact that Bisbee is within fifty miles of the U.S./Mexico border, where illegal immigration and drug running is a huge concern. She explained that illegal immigrants were relatively harmless; they might approach me for some food and water. Of course, drug runners were a whole other story.

So now I found myself seated in a hard plastic chair waiting while she talked on the radio with the patrol officer on duty. Tired and desperate for a place to sleep I begged for a jail cell for the night. They simply didn’t know what to do with me. After about an hour they told me that I could camp on the high school’s athletic field. Back on my bicycle it took only a few minutes to reach the high school. Seeing that it was a clear night I simply laid out my sleeping bag in the center of the high school track field, made a quick dinner, and went to bed exhausted.

As I awoke in morning I felt the strange sensation that I was being watched. Raising my head ever so slightly, I discovered that I was at center-stage for the morning walkers. About half a dozen of them were circling me on the track getting their morning exercise. I was so embarrassed! Yet I needed to eat so I cooked and ate a quick bowl of oatmeal as they circled me. Then without the protective walls of my tarp I had to change into my cycling clothes in the tight confines of my mummy sleeping bag; which was not an easy task! I left my track field spotlight and hoped no one would notice my red face of embarrassment. Now, years later I simply laugh at the thought of my awkward predicament and the night I spent begging for a jail cell in Bisbee, Arizona.

Cyclists' Prayer

May the wind always be upon your back.

May the sun constantly shine upon your face.

May the uphills be short and the downhills be long.

May the pavement always be smooth.

May the water be cool and the food abundant.

May there always be another adventure around the next bend.

May you be free and fully alive.

The Epic Ride

Over the course of my cycling adventures there has been a multitude of long hard rides that stretched the limits of my physical and mental endurance. Climbs like the Going to the Sun Highway, Trailridge Road, and Mt. Evans are just a sampling. One a few occasions I have surpassed the hundred mile mark, with the longest being 124 miles. But when discussing epic bike rides there is one that stands out amongst the rest. It is not the longest or the one with the most altitude gain, but it is the epic ride.

Back when I lived in Leadville, Colorado my favorite ride was always the one to Minturn and back. Since Leadville is located at over ten thousand feet above sea level you really have to go down before you can climb. This particular ride, which I had done a few times before, certainly involved a lot of descents and ascents. As I left my back alley apartment off of Harrison Street the sky was a luminescent blue, with only a few clouds. There was a slight chill in the air, but that was to be expected because it was only March and winter still maintained a pretty solid grip on this mountain town. To protect myself against the cold I added leg and arm warmers to my cycling outfit.

I headed north out of town and soon turned onto Highway 24 heading towards Minturn, thirty-two miles distant. After a short chilling downhill descent I rode the open terrain of the upper Arkansas River Valley. Soon the climb towards Tennessee Pass began. It’s not really a hard climb because it lacks both gradient and length, but it is incredibly scenic. After about three miles I am immersed in a canopy of pines lining the road and soon summit the top of the pass. Clicking the gears I begin the descent, which includes three really tight switchbacks which always serve as a test to my bike handling skills. The next five miles is a blur and rush of wind as I fly down the mountainside. The sense of exhilaration is incredible and I pedal constantly to stave off the cold. Reaching the bottom of the mountain I pass the empty fields of historic Camp Hail, where the men of the infamous Tenth Mountain Division trained for combat in World War II. For the next few miles it’s undulating terrain with a short descent and some nice tight switchbacks. Just before the mountain hamlet of Redcliff the pain and climbing begin in earnest. For three miles the steep road clings to the red-colored mountainside. The ride across the green arched bridge is breathtaking and always gets my adrenaline and happy thoughts pumping. I love this climb! I always feel a mix of fear and awe. Getting out of the saddle I struggle to maintain a semblance of momentum up this beast of a climb. My face becomes a combination of concentration and pain. Is that the top? Of course not! I always get confused about where the summit is. Finally I reach it and begin another five mile descent to the outskirts of Minturn. I stop at a gas station to fill up with water and snacks, but get back on the bike as soon as possible to avoid allowing my muscles to cramp up.

Now comes the harder part of my journey. Leaving the town of Minturn it’s five miles of climbing. Right from the beginning a series of switchbacks leaves me craning my neck to see around the corner hundreds of feet above me and that isn’t even the top! Keeping a steady pace I work my way to the top while enjoying the scenery in the valley below. Before I reach the top the sky becomes threatening and a few raindrops warn of impending doom. If it rains the descent to Redcliff will be treacherous, almost outright suicide. Luckily the roads are still dry as I reach the summit and descend the exhilarating technical turns to the valley road. My quick analysis of the weather is very grim indeed, but I hold the power to getting home. Riding along the valley the rain begins again, and this time it’s with vigor. In short succession my jersey, shoes, and finally shorts become sodden with moisture. The temperature has also dropped a few degrees and visibility is rapidly diminishing.

I’m going as fast as I possibly can to get out of the rain and cold and to simply stay warm. As the rain persists I curse my misfortune. As I pass Camp Hale the yellow sign marking five miles to the summit disappears in the wet mist. Soon the cold rain becomes white snow flakes. This is really going to be interesting, positively epic. The road goes up and I have no choice but to follow. Fortunately the exertion from riding my bike up a mountain allows some traces of warmth to permeate my body. Only a few cars pass and without stopping disappear into the snowy mist. I am torn between flagging down a ride and continuing to suffer in this quiet tranquil climb. The whiteness that surrounds me traps me in my own small world. I’m in what athletes call the zone and the adrenaline is pumping seemly effortlessly through my body. I can’t shift me gears or use my brakes and haven’t been able to do so for some time now because the bike is laden with ice.

I’m a good way up the climb, maybe three of the five miles and know that I can reach the top in relative safety. But as the snow continues to fall and my bike become increasingly clogged with ice I begin to seriously worry about the descent off Tennessee Pass. I’ll just have to wait and see what fate will befall me at the top. The switchbacks signal that the top is quick approaching. Coming out of the final switchback I sprint out the last hundred yards, mainly from force of habit. To my great relief the snow has stopped falling and I can at least be assured a clear descent. Although I want to continue without delay to maintain what semblance of warmth I have, I am forced to stopped and dislodge the ice from my bike. My chain and cassettes are jammed full of ice, but with a little convincing it relinquishes its hold. I also scrap along the down tube to free my shift and brake cables. Fortunately I will be able to use my brakes on the descent and this is a good thing.

As for myself, my clothes and body are chilled and soaking, but my spirits are soaring from the conquering the snowy ascent. Beginning the descent my body begins to visibly shake and I strain even harder to reach the bottom. It only takes a few minutes, but I am seriously cold. As a reach the valley floor I am relieved that the wind has not arrived in full force to prolong my struggle to reach the warmth of home. As one would assume with a town that rests so high above sea level the last portion is uphill. This last mile long climb serves as a sadistic form of punishment against one cyclist who seeks to reach the small town of Leadville. Today is no different, but I force my cold exhausted legs to spin the cranks one after the other. The climb is over and it’s only about a mile to my apartment. I make a pitiful attempt to break the twenty-five mile speed limit, but the day’s ordeal has sapped all the strength and warmth from my body.

I fumble with the keys outside my apartment and then rush into the blast of warm air. Setting my bike against the wall I rush into the bathroom for a quick warm shower before jumping under the warm covers of my bed. I’m still shaking, but the warm and cozy featherbed, combined with fleece pants and jacket eventually return my body to normal. As a drift off into a tired well-deserved sleep my mind wanders back to the ride. Thank goodness it’s over with. That’s one story not to tell Mom, but what a great one to tell my friends. One things for sure, that was one incredibly epic ride!

The Golden Rule Store & Fried Chicken

It was a hot sultry day and I was looking at a map at an intersection near Kemmerer, Wyoming. I had spent the greater part of the day exploring Fossil Butte National Monument, a place filled with fossils and geologic history. Like many other units in the national park system, this monument had a junior ranger program, but Fossil Butte had the added bonus of a souvenir patch for completing the requirements. Being a collector of patches I completed the tasks to earn my patch and bought the standard patch as well.

Now straddling my bicycle at the intersection I was tired and a bit dehydrated. I had spent the night in a small town park located beside the railroad tracks. All might have been well, but a few trains passed by during the night and the sprinklers forced me to take up a strategic position behind a protective tree. Throughout the day the winds had blown hard counteracting my progress forward and the dry weather had left my mouth parched. Thus as I looked at the map I knew I needed to take a short side trip into Kemmerer because my route south was deserted for a good stretch.

Wearily pedaling the six miles into the tough struggling western town I searched for a grocery store to stock up on supplies. The downtown area was like so many others through the West; small and quaint. In my tired state I would have taken little note, except that I saw a storefront that caught my attention. A sign over the door read “Golden Rule Store: The Original J.C. Penney Store”. Now I don’t take much interest in fashion, but having heard a little about J.C. Penney, the man, I was interested. The store was opening in 1902, a hundred years ago. In 1913 the name of this store and twenty others was changed to its current name. I wanted to go inside just to look around, but unfortunately the store was closed. I was so tired and disappointed that I forgot take a photograph of the store for my sisters and bragging rights.
Continuing through the town I found the grocery store and bought some basic necessities. Outside the store I was drinking some cold chocolate milk and looking through the phonebook for a campground when a man approached me. He asked me if that was my bicycle all loaded down with gear. I replied that it was and asked him about camping in the area. He informed me that south of town was all public land and all I had to do was pull off the road and set up camp. Then without another word he handed me some fried chicken and left.

Overjoyed at the turn of events I quickly finished my milk, packed up my supplies, and hit the road. In the waning light of dusk I passed the intersection and continued on. The razor straight road stretched towards the horizon with only sagebrush, sand, and open spaces in sight. I pulled off at one of the numerous side dirt tracks leading to nowhere and set up camp on the other side of the wire fence only a short distance from the road. Then I quickly pulled out the fried chicken and had myself a feast of this great delicacy, which was finished off by chocolate chip cookies. Full and refreshed the weariness of the day urged me into the comfort of my sleeping bag. I fell asleep to the howling of distant coyotes calling across the night time skies.

Journey to the Pacific

From atop the crest of the Costal Range I gazed back at the flat lands towards Vancouver, Oregon. It was as if the mist had parted to create this incredible vista of the lush countryside. Straddling my bike on the side of the road I tried to take in the beautiful view gained by timeless hours of pedaling up the steep hill. The camera was left in its pouch because such a view would be impossible to capture on film. I took one last long gaze at the view and then mounted the bicycle and pedaled down the other side.

I had picked this route because it was the quickest way to the Pacific Ocean and was designated by AAA as a scenic route. During my childhood the family had often visited the Great Lakes surrounding my home state of Michigan. Their chilling waters and gentle waves created a sense of awe in my youth and I always wondered how far it was to the other side and what lay there. Although I starred into the distance with great concentration I could never see to the other side of these big waters. A few summers my family took vacations to the salty waters of the Atlantic. One of my scariest childhood memories was swallowing mouthfuls of the bitter salt water after my floating tube was overturned by a wave. When I was fourteen the family took a five week vacation along the southeastern seaboard. I lived in a swimsuit and t-shirt the whole time. The place that stood out for me was Cape Hatteras, North Carolina. During the day I reveled in the gigantic ten foot waves pounding the surf. During the hot muggy nights I laid in my tent, unable to sleep, listening to the waves breaking on the sandy beach.

Now five years later, I was traveling by bicycle down the West Coast, heading west towards the Pacific Ocean for the first time. I had already been on the road for about seven weeks and along the way experienced many ups and downs. Now I was within one or two days of the mighty waters of the Pacific. My emotions were stirred, much like those of Lewis and Clark on their Corps of Discovery. As I crested the hill and cruised down the other side I entered another national forest. The road weaved through the lush costal forests and the time passed with little notice. The road and the primitive campsites were unoccupied and this only deepened my sense of solitude. The forest seemed to close around me and the ancient trees seemed to take little notice of my passing. I had the road and this tremendous beauty all to myself, and I reveled in this knowledge. As darkness approached I stopped at one of the campgrounds and chose a spot beside the creek. After setting up my tarp and eating a simple meal I nestled within the warmth of my fluffy down sleeping bag and drifted to sleep.

A few times during the night a hooting owl woke me. Its eerie sound added to the mystic feel of the place with its moss laden trees towering above and the softly babbling brook. In the morning I prepared my breakfast consisting of oatmeal and two bagels. As usual I sneaked in a few cookies to satisfy my sweet tooth. After a short time on the road I came to a fork in the road. The northern fork was longer and only partially paved. The southern route was shorter and paved the entire length, but the bridge was under construction and so this road was closed. This forced me to take the longer northern route and this was a hard pill to swallow because I was very anxious to reach the ocean. I cycled a few miles to the end of the pavement and then walked my bike along the gravel dirt road. It soon became very clear that it would take a very long time to walk the remaining ten miles, which was a very discouraging feeling. A few minutes later a pickup truck with two hunters approached from the opposite direction. When they reached me they stopped to talk. I asked them about the road ahead and they must have seen the discouragement on my face because they quickly told me that the other route was passable. As they pulled away I turned my bike around and headed back to the fork in the road. I reached it and traveled down the road a few miles before I came to the bridge. At this state of construction the bridge consisted of two pillars on each side of the wide, shallow creek. I switched into my walking shoes and took the four panniers off my bicycle. Taking two of them in my arms I cautiously entered the chilling water. The rocks on the bottom were very slick, but I managed to make my way across successfully. I scrambled up the muddy bank and placed the panniers down. Then I returned for the other two panniers and finally the bicycle while two curious construction workers observed the comic scene.

After successfully crossed this obstacle my spirits lifted greatly. I quickly mounted my bike and continued towards the Pacific. In ten short miles or about an hour’s time the forests opened and before me lay the expansive ocean waters. What had begun as a sunny day was now overcast and cold. Draped in rain jacket, pants, and hat I marveled at the stormy gray waters that had taken me nineteen years to reach. In elation, I raised my arms above my head for a photograph. The Pacific, the mighty Pacific, I had reached it at last.

For the next few weeks it became my constant companion. I cycled along its coast with its numerous bays, hills, and inlets with wonder. I saw incredible sunsets with vibrant colors streaking across the heavens. I watched seals play and make their strange noises among the jagged rocks. I felt the despair of being soaked to the bone by relentless rains and marveled in the glorious sunshine. Near the end of my journey I passed over the magnificent Golden Gate Bridge to San Francisco. A few days later I flew back to Michigan, but I have will always remember my first sighting of the Pacific and this wondrous journey of my youth.

From the Beginning

The sky is quickly darkening and there is a cold when blowing. The terrain makes the mile and a half to my camp site seems endless. My body is exhausted and the panniers are digging into my shoulders and thighs. It has been an excellent day of cycling with breathtaking scenery and a simply monumental cinnamon roll. Throughout the day my spirits were soaring upon the greatest heights and even the strenuous exercise and cold weather could not dampen my happiness. But as the fog sets in the single thought in my mind is getting to camp, having dinner, and climbing into the warm confines of my sleeping bag. I’m alone and tired. I need some Chips Ahoy chocolate chip cookies to raise my flagging spirits and revive my energy. Looking ahead the dirt path disappears over the next hill and looking backwards the path leading to my current point stretches back to my childhood.

Since I was a young boy I dreamed of coming to the West and the mountains. Almost as soon as I learned to read I became fascinated with Native Americans, frontiersmen, wilderness, and mountains. Among my large collection of books, I still have my children’s book on Native American tribes in North American; illustrated with colorful pictures and stories. On one family vacation I snuck a book about wild animals into the pile for my parents to buy. I got in trouble when they discovered my deceit, but I got the book. As I grew older I read about the wild exploits of mountain men like Hugh Glass, who crawled hundreds of miles through the wilderness to an outpost after being mulled by a grizzly, Jim Bridger who struggled as an independent fur trapper, Kit Carson who guided Army troops throughout the Southwest. I also read about the adventures of Eric Ryback, who hiked the Pacific Crest Trail and Continental Divide Trail end to end, and Peter Jenkins and his adventures of discovering rural America during the seventies. My mind is filled with other stories of people cycling across America and around the world, hiking the Appalachian Trail, running the Iditarod dogsled race, climbing high mountains, and rafting the wild rivers. Every time I flip through the pages of my books, they take my back to my childhood and boyhood dreams.

I watched Davy Crocket kill a bear with only a grin and knife, fight and make peace with the Indians, storm the halls of Congress, and die swinging his beloved rifle Betsy atop the walls of the Alamo. In “Old Yeller” I saw the love between a growing boy and yeller dog; their struggle to survive on the frontier, and finally Travis being forced to shoot his own beloved rabid dog. Throughout the TV series, “Ponderosa” and “Little House on the Prairie” I watched families love and struggle in the growing frontier of the West. I watched John Wayne and Jimmy Stuart stare down outlaws in the dusty streets of Western towns, fight wars and befriend Indians, and struggle for survival and freedom against the odds. These men became my heroes and their stories became a part of me. I wore a coonskin cap and moccasins and acted out the stories in my books and movies.

In the woods near our house I roamed for hours at a time. I jumped the small creek, followed the faint dirt path, and hid behind the towering trees. In my imagination every stick became a gun, every tree was a possible hiding place for me or my foes, every sound was some mystery to investigate. One day I was Daniel Boone, another Davy Crockett, or some other frontiersman or mountain man. With stealth and patience I stalked my prey, hoping to bring meat back home. I crouched behind fallen logs and tall trees hiding from the enemy. I built forts in which to defend myself or become invisible. The woods were my playground, a place where I could go to and let myself and my imagination roam without boundaries. These are my cherished childhood memories.

As I grew older, things changed, but I still had a passion for the West, mountains, and the people that roamed them. Around the age of fourteen I joined a local Boy Scout troop and quickly became immersed in camping and woodcraft. During this time I got my drivers license and was able to explore the local trails. I had many adventures hiking the Waterloo-Pinckney Trail and learned to become self-sufficient and self-reliant. At the age of seventeen, my Scout troop went on a backpacking trip to Isle Royale National Park, which is on Lake Superior in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. It was certainly a learning experience for me. Although many others had been involved in Scouts longer than me, I became the first person in my troop to earn the rank of Eagle Scout.

Although I was entranced by the beauty and history of the West and its mountains I never visited them in my childhood. My present adventure began about five weeks before when I cycled down the dirt road from my house in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Freshly graduated from college and not wanting to settle down I decided to travel. Originally I had planned to backpack in the Cascade Mountains of Washington, but the logistics seemed to be too complicated. Earlier in the summer I had taken a wonderful bicycle tour with a youth group and thus decided I would ride to the Cascades. During the month of August I bought I touring bicycle, panniers, and other necessary gear. Finally in mid-September of 2001 I set out. Over the next few weeks I cycled the quiet backroads of Michigan, Minnesota, Wisconsin, and North Dakota. By mid-October I was nearing the city of Minot, North Dakota which happens to be the geographic center of North America. It had been a long day of cycling in the cold, blustery wind and I was exhausted when I entered a cozy café south of Minot. The owner immediately noticed my cycling clothes and tired expression as I inquired about a place to camp for the night. He sat me down and had his wife cook up an excellent warm dinner of cheesy potato chowder and biscuits. As I ate we talked about my journey thus far and I discovered that he was originally from Montana. I asked him when I would catch my first glimpse of the snowy peaks of Glacier National Park. He mentioned some town and informed me that I could sleep in the town park. He even invited me back for breakfast in the morning. I will not soon forget the kindness of this kind couple. About a week later with miles of boring flat plains ahead and winter quickly approaching I hopped a train to Seattle, Washington.

When I arrived in the rainy city after a day on the train it was raining. I struggled to find my way out of the big city with its confusing, winding streets. It was a very stressful day, but finally I arrived at a state park for the night. The next morning I decided to head for Mt. Rainier. I could see it from miles away dominating all the surrounding mountains. The lush vegetation was certainly a change of pace from the dry grasses of the Midwest. It took me about two days of cycling, but finally I stood at the base of Mt. Rainier. At the last outpost I bought some food and the biggest and best cinnamon roll that I have ever tasted and then entered the park. I hung around the visitor center and then climbed on my bike and began the ascent. Along the way I passed incredible cascading waterfalls, entered the clouds, and viewed the valleys far below. After a few hours of climbing I reached the lodge at Paradise and called home to share the good news. Night was quickly approaching and so I ventured back out into the cold wind and put on additional layers for the descent. After a few short chilling miles of downhill I pulled of the road and gathered the necessary items for a night in the backcountry.

This brings me to my present position, along a trail in the wilds of Mt. Rainier National Park, fighting off the tiredness to reach camp. I finally arrive and select the best site. I quickly set up my camp and begin preparing a warm meal. While I wait for supper, I snack on my precious chocolate chip cookies. The warm meal is wonderful and helps to revive my energy. Darkness has settled in and I crawl into the soothing comfort of my sleeping bag. In the few moments before sleep sets in I think back on the wonderful scenery and adventures of the day. It has been a long time in coming, but I have finally arrived in the West and the mountains; the famous Mt Rainier of all places. The mountains can be harsh and unforgiving environment, but they are also wild and wonderful. This is where I belong; this is the place I call home.