Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety Jig

Greetings,

A few pictures at: http://picasaweb.google.com/e.apt.dudfield/MexicoMainland

I write to you from New England. I've decided to cut my trip short. Why? As Sir Francis Bacon said "Those that want friends to open themselves onto are cannibals of their own hearts." I've grown weary of all the solitary travel through remote places. And the constant passing through peoples lives - always forming friendships and leaving - was too much for me. Perhaps in the future I shall continue with a good partner, but for now I look forward to settling down in New England. But how, you might ask, did I get from La Paz to New England?

I left La Paz for the Mexican mainland on a ferry. It was a large modern boat, carrying many dozens of cars of trucks, sleeping berths and a cafeteria. I sat on one of the enclosed upper decks and watched Baja shrink while movies played at maximum volume. The ferry arrived after dark and I managed to find a small hotel in the port town. There, a small room with a flickering light awaited me. And I watched the paint peeling off the walls and the cockroaches skitter across the floor.

For the next few days, I cycled inland across flat, farming country. The people here seemed much more genuinely friendly away from the tourist supported economy of Baja. And in many of the towns had a history of several hundred years old. I stayed in several towns with narrow cobblestone streets that surrounded old Spanish churches.

But soon enough, the road approached the Sierra Madre mountains and I took the detour off the pavement. It changed from packed dirt to washboard dirt to a rocky path with 2 wheel ruts. At one point, the road led directly into the a river. Eventually a small ferry,  patched together by old pieces of machinery and driftwood brought me up river through a canyon. At this point, my map departed from reality and ceased to show a road in the direction I was traveling. But, spurred on by conversations with the single men returning home from the U.S., I had faith in the small road. It led through a narrow canyon, huge cliffs rising on either side, to the small town of La Reforma.

Here, as has often been the case in remote Mexican towns, I was first approached by a few curious men. Then the children wandered over. And soon I was surrounded by a large group - the children poking at my bike and laughing, the men asking me many many questions. Where was I going? Where had I come from? Why was I traveling in this way? After a hour of struggling to answer the men's questions and amazing the children with my gear, I was offered food and a place to sleep.

The next day, refreshed by the hospitality and piles of food, I followed the road up. It quickly became too rocky and steep for me to ride on a loaded touring bike. So I began to push the bike. For several days I followed it, occasionally meeting a man on horseback or foot, occasionally traveling through towns too small to have a store. The road led a twisted path up many thousands of feet and plunged several hundred feet back down to small streams or gullys. As I ascended, the temperature began to drop. At first it was pleasantly cold. Then it became downright cold. At night the water bottles froze and frost covered everything. By the time I reached Chihuahua, the freezing rain and snow had begun.

After several days of the rough travel, I had my most impressive crash of the trip. I had reached a point where the roads had begun to improve, becoming packed dirt again. While descending one hill, I hit a patch of loose gravel and went into a sideways slide. My back wheel hit a large rock, buckled into a potato chip and sent me aloft. I flew for a bit, first using the palms of my hands as landing gear and then bouncing and rolling. The bike slammed sideways into the ground, bending various components and landed upside down, ready to be serviced. After jumping up and walking in circles to clear my head, I patched up my cuts and began to work on the bike. Several hours later I had changed the wheel from potato chip into wavy O and was able to ride gingerly ahead.

The bike and I limped along until we reached the tourist infested town of Creel near El Barranca del Cobre (Copper Canyon). Here I rested for a day and formalized the decision I had been gnawing over for the past month. After so many days of riding alone, seeing very few people, and always seeming to settle down into an empty tent or hotel room, I was weary of travel. I found myself not looking forward to the next adventure, the next short friendship, or the next tourist area. I longed to unpack and stay unpacked for months at a time.

So, instead of turning south towards Mexico city, I continued north to Chihuahua. I stripped my bike down, gave away the damaged parts, caught a bus to El Paso and then flew home. And now I'm preparing to move up to Burlington, VT and not move for a long while.

In the end, despite its shortening, I feel the trip was a success. I've watched the land change slowly under my wheels. I've meet many people and learned from them. I've had adventures, formed strong memories and learned many things about myself. And I've beat the urge to travel out of me, at least for a while.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Eric

The Peace

Buenas!

 

Pictures - http://picasaweb.google.com/e.apt.dudfield/Baja

 

I have reached La Paz, the first real Mexican city of my trip. Being out of the desert is a relief and I've checked myself into a small hotel for a few days to recover.

 

After leaving San Felipe, the road stretched out flat and smooth for 50 miles. Then suddenly, the pavement ended and the washboard and sand began. The rough road lasted for 4 days. I bumped along and watched the desert stretch out. Lots of cactus, sand, rocks and sky. And when I stopped riding, the sound of bags rattling and tires on dirt would be replaced by wind. Occasionally something exciting would happen - a truck practicing for the Baja 1000 would roar past or I would find a rattlesnake sunbathing in the road. Burned out cars occasionally lined the road and unmarked roads would branch out into the far-away hills.

 

On the fourth day, I was physically and mentally exhausted by the constant bumping and lack of anything cool. But by then, I had reached the pavement. It was a joy to drink much cold soda and eat restaurant meals again. I flew south on the pavement, stopped only by the bored solders at military checkpoints and the rancher and salt town of Guerro Negro.

 

The morning after Gurrero Nego, a shape began to take shape further up the road. At first I wondered if it was was a cow about to crushed by the fuel trucks that rush up and down the road. Riding hard, I eventually drew closer and saw that it was two bicyclists. Pedal and Claudia, two Swiss women, were heading south and invited me to ride with them. I did and was very glad to exchange the night sounds of coyote and wind moving over rock for laughter and their guttural wind-chimy swiss-german.

 

We rode together for more than a week, passing through the oasis towns of southern Baja. Instead of the shack towns of the north, these towns were filled with old adobe homes arranged along cobblestone streets. Old churches stood watch, build by missionaries 250 years ago. And the road ran close to the oceans. White sandy beaches, blue-green water, island rising dramatically out of the water - the stuff of postcards.

 

Not having learned my lesson earlier, I headed back into the desert to explore the remains of missions. The pleasant company of the Swiss was replaced by solitude and piss-warm water that tasted of chlorine. These roads were worse and I had to push my bike through long expanses of sand. I found several types of sand - the light dirty sand that covers everything in a fine layer of dust, the dark riverbed sand that grabs the wheels like wet cement, and the everyday beach sand that seems solid until it grabs the bike and dumps everything on the ground. I began to feel like Sisyphus, only the sun changing as it moved across the sky

 

These remote roads ran past small family farms. These ranchos provided food and water and company of a sort. When I approached, the conversation and laughter of those out front would stop and everyone would stare curiously at the dirty gringo and his bike. In my halting Spanish I would ask to buy food and water. Then the questions would begin. They would ask about my bike, my trip, my home. Children would crowd round and poke at the bike. This would usually continue until I ran out of Spanish words and grow tired of talking.

 

Eventually I escaped the sand and reached pavement again. Then La Paz and the comfortable hotel with it's courtyard full of esthetically arranged junk. Snorkeling, beaches and rest.

 

Con carino,

 

Eric

--
Eric Apt-Dudfield
e.apt.dudfield@gmail.com

Sick and Well Again.

Buenas!

 

After a tumultuous introduction, I have fully begun my ride into Mexico. I am spending a day in San Felipe. It is a fast growing tourist and port town on the Sea of Cortez.

 

About two weeks ago, I left San Diego. I was glad to leave behind the constant loud party that was my hostel. I rode east out of the city, up into the desert hills and to the border crossing of Tecate. Instead of the gigantic mess that is Tijuna, my introduction was much more relaxed. Still, many changes were apparent in the first fifty feet across the border. The streets felt more cramped and crowded with people. Noise and music came from all sides. And not a gringo in sight, only Mexicans.

 

I headed south from Tecate through the rocky desert. The highway roads are much narrower here. The white line runs right along the edge of the pavement. The sides are also covered in trash and the smell of burning trash greets the nose each morning. I can also see a covering of smog that drifts over the valley towns each morning.

 

Now that the prices are cheaper, I stop to eat often at restaurants along the way. Lots of fried food - quesadillas, tacos, burritos - served by the mostly friendly families that own them. The idea of chain stores seem foreign to this place and every small business is independently owned.

 

Language has been, in some ways, very difficult and in other ways easy. It is easy to master the language of shopping. But for any kind of conversation about things that matter, I am lost. I can generally make myself understood but only after long pauses while I search through my tattered dictionary. And after a day of riding through the hot sun, communication is difficult.

 

After a few days along the cramped highways, I begun to choose the unpaved secondary roads. Cars are rare but the riding more difficult. Many of the roads are paved in sand and trying to ride through these parts is an excercise in frustration. The tires are jerked left and right and then the bike falls over into the sand. But being able to spend all day riding next to the beach and with only the mountains and the ocean for company is well worth a few falls.

 

I quickly realized that my tires weren't even close to correct for riding in these conditions. The thin tires were difficult to control and the tubes kept popping. So rather than continue south I hitched a conveniently appearing ride from several surfers. Unfortunately, sometime during the hitch Montezuma took his revenge. Upon reaching San Diego again, I spent the next several days curled up in bed. I was left week and demoralized.

 

Once I regained my strength, I made the necessary changes to my bike - wide tires with thorn-resistant tubes - and headed back into Mexico via Teacte. The border passed quickly and I decided to take a more remote route down the east side of Baja. Lots of long empty distances between towns huddled together against the desert. And in the hills, when the sun disappears temperatures drop below freezing. It was a welcome change to wake to a layer of frost and have what seem like snow drift down when I shook open the tent door. But freezing quickly turns to burning once the sun moves over the horizon.

 

Con carino,

 

Eric

 

 

 

--
Eric Apt-Dudfield
e.apt.dudfield@gmail.com

A Gringo's Paradise

Hello friends and family!

 

To those who provided such wonderful hospitality along this section - Thank you!

 

After two leisurely weeks, I find myself once again sitting at a hostel, this time in San Diego. While the last one had a feeling of solitary fog, this one is full of life and noise.

 

The first big town I reached after San Francisco was Santa Cruz. After a night of pleasant hospitality and a warm bed, I headed south through farm land. Fields of strawberries, artichokes, lettuce and almond trees filled the horizons. And as always, these fields were filled with Latino laborers who, efficiently working away, are at the center of the current immigration politics.

 

Afterwards, Monterrey and it's aquarium passed quickly. Filled with intelligent octopi, silver sardines that swim endlessly in circles, and even a small white shark it was an interesting complement to the larger marine life I would see along the coast. I watched humpback whales, huge even from a distance, jump and fall again into the sea. I saw sea otters compete for the 'cutest animal' award. And oddly, I saw a herd a zebra that roam the land around Hearst Castle.

 

Next, I came upon the raw beauty of big Sur. This section of central California is filled with small, coastal towns separated by long expanses of undeveloped coastline. Lots of picturesque sunsets and the last group of sequoia redwoods that I would encounter. Nearby I would also see the fascinating Victorian excesses of Hearst Castle.

 

Much of my time these past few weeks, other than riding leisurely 40 miles days, was spent either getting to know my fellow cyclists, catching up on my cycle maintenance skills or planning the rest of my ride. I camped with the same group of people for many days at a time. I brought Spokey into working shape and delved into the mystery's of spokes, chains and bearings. And I spent hours pouring over the Internet and guidebooks; drawing vague lines across between distant cities.

 

And lastly, new pictures at http://picasaweb.google.com/e.apt.dudfield/

 

Con Cariño,

 

Eric
--
Eric Apt-Dudfield
e.apt.dudfield@gmail.com

Stuck in San Francisco

New pictures at http://picasaweb.google.com/e.apt.dudfield

 

I've just finished a two week stay in San Francisco. It was the height of luxury with the wonderful hospitality of my brother and his family, a well-stocked kitchen, and the endless excitement of the city. After not moving for so long, everything rusted - my joints stiffened, my muscles grew slack, and a sedentary life seemed entirely preferable to living on a bicycle.

About a month ago I left British Colombia on a private ferry to Port Angles. I spent about a week riding around the Olympic Peninsula. Highlights included sleeping at the base of the world's largest Sitka Spruce (the sign didn't mention other planets) and an attempted shortcut through an Indian reservation that ended at a collapsed bridge. The beaches here were beautiful - empty of all but sand and warped logs.

 

In Washington and Oregon I would meet up many cyclists. The first were Bert and Dana, a friendly couple in their 40s with signs proclaiming "100 miles to the Gallon of Ben and Jerrie's" and "Change your life, Ride a Bicycle". Later I would meet the self-proclaimed Hobobikers whom I had meet in northern BC and would meet again in San Francisco. I would also ride with several friendly kiwis, a bike racer who put up with my many demands to stop for pie and beer, a Kentuckian who's love of southern living was a welcome change, and an Israeli woman trained in explosives who was part hippy and part hipster.

 

I would meet several kinds animals along the way. The barking of sea lions often rose through the fog and sounded like a dog kennel. Pelicans with their unique bill, graceful flying and ability to dive bomb fish became my new favorite bird. And raccoons found it delightful to wait until late at night and then harass me. Luckily, most of the raccoons I encountered lay unmoving on the side of the road.

 

In California I wandered among the giant redwoods, stopped at an old Russian fort and generally rode much too far each day in an effort to reach San Francisco. Northern California seems a unique place - the Redwoods are presented in a atmosphere part museum and part circus, marijuana makes up 40% of the economic activity in Mendocino County, and raw food and talk of one's "energy" are very hip.

 

My introduction to San Francisco happened to be in a police car. The route I was taking turned into a three lane highway and the shoulder suddenly disappeared. As I stopped to ponder this unfortunate turn of events, a patrol car pulled up behind me. He pointed out the obvious (I could not ride further down the highway) and the unfortunate (it was illegal for me to ride back the way I had come). Faced with this dilemma, the officer offered me a ride to the Golden Gate bridge. Only one condition was attached - he would need to handcuff me. So I speed over the last few miles to San Francisco handcuffed and behind a metal screen while the policeman asked me polite questions about my trip.

 

Now I'm staying in an empty hostel overlooking the ocean and steadily regaining my motivation for another 12,000 or so miles of bicycling.

Queen Victoria, I am dirty as a glass roof in a train station

Dear Reader,

I write to you from Victoria, BC. I've just come from breakfast at Floyd's - a hip, Elvis diner. I ordered the Mahoney - you get whatever the kitchen makes and then you flip the waitress for a double or nothing price. I wish I could say that I ate a free breakfast.

Two weeks ago I left Prince George with Dominic the tandem riding Brit. Like most of the English travelers I've met he is a gentleman, tough as nails and has a talent for understatement. We rode for a day together with his partner of the hour Cassie, who he charmed out of Prince George for a few days. It was a long days ride but pleasant - stopping to eat the best burger I've have in a while and swimming in the river. We rode until midnight in order to meet our previous host, Ryan the Jam Man.

Dominic continued on down the road while I went with Ryan to pick blueberries for a day. Ryan, a back roads native, and his crew then drove me deep into logging country Dukes of Hazard style. They then proceeded to unpack from their converted school bus a circus sized tent which looked capable of hurricane force winds. They also cooked wonderful meals on the electric stove and we camped in high style. The next day I picked fifteen pounds of blueberries and ate more berries than any man should.

The following day I was driven back out to the road and set out south on the back roads. Unsure what to expect I found myself traveling through Rancher land - large pastures and dry haying fields. Large numbers of crickets were camped out on the road and riding through them I felt as one does dividing a sea of crickets. They jumped out in all directions, some into my tires, some into my hair and a few made it out of the way. A days ride followed the top of a river canyon and occasionally the road plunged down 500 ft to cross the river. I ended up camping in a beautiful solitary riverside spot surrounded by towering dirt cliffs.

After struggling back out of the canyon I rode through the busy working class town of Williams Lake. Rather than taking the highway which curved around east, I headed directly south through reservation land. It quickly began to feel like the wilderness. The road became gravely, full of washboard ruts, and descended very steeply up and down. The temperature got much hotter and farmland turned into scrub brush and sage. The residents I met talked of the lack of work out in the poor reservation towns.

After four days I reached pavement, joyously smooth pavement, and followed the Sea to Sky Highway (RT99). Passing through the small towns things became quantified again. Damn hot became a high of 107 in the shade and damn steep became grades of 15%. My brain was baked and my body exhausted. On the steep paved downhills, when I could go faster than the cars, the smell of burning brakes predominated.

Mechanically I've had a few problems thus far. I've had only one flat due to a worn out back tire. I've broken six spokes (all on my back wheel) and gotten good at fixing and truing wheels. At one point, the stays holding the rear rack broke and suddenly the back rack was dragging along the road. Also, I've broken several pannier hooks and dragged my bags a good ways. I've found that duct tape, zip ties and a bit of patience will fix just about anything.

I spent an afternoon in Whistler, people watching. To make a Whistler, take a small mountain tourist town, add many millions of dollars and toss. The downtown is a crazy jumble of shops with streets running in all directions. I quickly had had enough of Whistler so I continued south to a cooler climate. Squamish quickly passed and, since I was in no mood to rock climb in the heat, so did I. Eventually I rolled into Vancouver.

Vancouver seems a big, clean city which is starting to struggle with the problems of growth. It's sensationalist paper, the Vancouver sun, proclaimed a "source of panhandlers and drug users" but other than the small red light district near my hostel everything seemed safe and morally clean. The hostel was a relief - full of soft beds, warm showers and friendly foreigners.

After Vancouver it was off to the Vancouver island. Here I would see a few stands of gigantic trees, get lost on the well kept logging roads, and eat dozens of pounds of blackberries. At one point a school bus full of middle aged Canadians stopped near where I was resting and twenty filed out. I was mobbed with friendly questions and then had piles of food thrust into my arms. Just as quickly as they arrived, they left in a cloud of dust. Bemused and happy, I ate through the sushi, fruit, cookies and chocolate. Eventually I circled back around to Victoria. Soon I shall return by ferry to Port Angles and the United States.

In about two weeks I'll be in San Francisco and checking general delivery. If you feel so inclined, I always enjoy cards saying "hi" and chocolate (cards made out of chocolate are the best). I'll be checking it around Sept 16th:
Eric Apt-Dudfield,
c/o General Delivery,
San Francisco, CA 94112.

And I've posted photos at:
http://picasaweb.google.com/e.apt.dudfield

I hope everyone is well!

Eric

All roads lead to Prince George

Greetings!

I'm staying with an eclectic group of people here in Prince George, BC. They are a mix of hip hippies, musicians and square businessmen, inventors. Prince George is proving to be like most places on the trip - getting there is the easy part, leaving is hard.

I left Whitehorse, YK three weeks ago and bicycled along the Alaska Highway. After a few days along the ALCAN, I turned onto the much nicer Cassiar Highway (RT 37). The Cassiar has mostly been made redundant by the ALCAN. It has a quite, intimate feeling. Trees grow right up to the pavement and trash and dead animals are rarely visible. Instead of the low-angle grading of the bigger ALCAN the Cassiar tends to follow the terrain. This means lots of short steep hills. It was quite fun to zoom down one side, pedal like mad to reach the top of the next hill and then repeat until exhausted.

The next few days were sunny and full of solitude. Except for the occasional RV or truck (who were forced to slow down by the narrow, twisty road) the road was quiet. A black bear and it's cubs wandered across the road and lots of mountain goats eyed me suspiciously as they crossed. The occasional bald eagle could also be heard. A few times, at rest stops, people invited into their RVs for tea or a meal. It was most interesting to see the inside of these things. They seem to match the personality of their owners. Thus, the ones I saw were small and homey.

I thought at this point I'd do a 'Day in the Life of Eric' for those who want more details. On this particular day I wake up at 6:30am by my bladder. I lay in the warm sleeping bag for a few minutes listening to the rain on the tent - a cold and rainy morning. Once out of my bag, sleep evaporates and I pack up. The sleeping bag goes into the panniers (bike bags). The tent comes down and is bungied to the back rack of the bicycle. After 1/2 hour of packing, I get on the bike and ride for a few miles before stopping in a big gravel lot. Breakfast is like most meals, I start with some sort of bulk grain (rice, oats or wheat), add some fat (oil or margarine), some sweetener (honey, sugar, chocolate) and a few spices. Today is cream of wheat with honey, milk, raisins and cinnamon. I sit on a cement piling, sheltered a bit from the wind, look out at the snowy mountains rising into the fog and try not to burn my tongue.

After eating, I pack up the stove and tackle the increasing difficult hills. What started as small, roller coasters have turned into long, wet uphills slogs followed by short, cold downhills. I ride through the wind and rain for a few hours lost in thought before stopping at a rest area to have a morning snack (homemade granola and fruit). I eat about 5 meals a day to meet the 5000 calories burned. After the snack it's back onto the bicycle for a few more hours. When I reach the grocery store, I find that it no longer sells groceries. This is not unexpected as much of this section of highway is littered with abandoned, three building towns and the skeletons of old gas stations. I eat the last of my lunch food (peanut butter and nutella sandwiches) and take a detour to the closest town with groceries. The closest town happens to be a little tourist area on the Alaska/Canada border. I ride east into town, fighting a bit of a headwind. The road travels through lots of snowy mountains, past blue glaciers and follows a steep glacier fed creek down to the coast. Around late afternoon I pull into the small town sister towns of Stewart, Canada and Hyder, Alaska and buy a bunch of basic food.

As I've got a bit of time before night falls, I decide to check out the local tourist attraction - bears eating fish. It's a few miles out of town along a narrow dirt road. It doesn't take long for me to find a bear. In fact, coming around the corner I almost collide with a grizzly. Luckily, it isn't eating and, other then looking at me in a scary sort of way, doesn't seem much concerned. It walks off into the bushes. All my bear encounters end up like this. I don't cause trouble for the bear and the bear doesn't cause trouble for me. A few nervous miles later (I've been riding past the dead salmon that litter the road - apparently the bears often get distracted and drop them) I reach the tourist attraction. It turns out to be about 50 tourists. They are standing on a boardwalk watching a bored looking bald eagle pick out the eyes of a dead salmon. I watch the tourists watch the eagle for a few minutes and, a bit bored myself, decide to find a place to camp. I ride further up the road and turn down an abandoned 4x4 track. It leads to a large clearing next to a small stream. I unpack, set up camp, cook dinner, and read and write for a bit. I've ridden an average amount - about 75 miles. My pillow cover is a rabbet skin a wild haired lady gave me a few days before. It's very soft and soon I'm asleep. The end.

I spent a lazy day in Hyder and then rode back to the Cassiar. One night I camp with a Vancouver cyclist heading north. He is interesting and welcome company. Then I ride for a few more days to the end of the Cassiar. The next highway, the Yellowhead - Rt 16, heads east across Canada. I again find myself dodging dead animals, broken glass and trash. At one point a watch a bear nearly get hit by an 18 wheeler. A policeman tells me to take care because "this is the highway of death" although I never find out why. I start passing through large towns with large supermarkets. I start eating healthy looking fruit and vegetables again. I also stop in a small museum on the edge of Smithers, BC. The museum is contained entirely in a domed room with mountains painted on the walls. It contains every large mammal of the area - all stuffed and in action poses. Now I can say that I've seen every animal that can be seen - from the towering moose to the big-pawed lynx.

After leaving Smithers I meet my partner for the ride into Prince George. I've found that a quick look at the bike of a cyclist gives you clues to his or her personality. Billy, a retired Vietnam veteran who is "retired, retarded - whatever", has piles of stuff tied to his bike with string. As he proudly tells me, in between stopping to pick up stuff that has fallen off, he started biking at the age of 48. Now, at 62, he boasts that he is strong as ever. I find this to be true, as whenever I try to ride away without him he always manages to catch up. Unable to escape, I consign myself to his interesting and amusing company. I hear stories about Vietnam and his many (possibly imaginary) female conquests. We ride together until Prince George where we are accidentally separated.

Prince George seems a bustling metropolis. It's the biggest place (80,000 people) I've come across since Anchorage. In town I meet the friendly Ryan who invites me to stay with him and his friends. I also meet another British fellow who is riding from Alaska to Argentina. Dominic is doing his ride a bit different than most. He started alone on a tandem bicycle and is filming a documentary about the people he convinces to ride with him along the way. You can check out his web page at www.takeaseat.org and if anyone is near his route, he seems great fun to ride with.

Once again, no pictures. The camera, perhaps distraught by the previous loss of it's pictures, has suffered some kind of internal malfunction. I'll be buying a new one today.

Until next time,

Eric