in praise of the overnighter
stefan mostert
11 march 2021
2,000 words
10 minutes
A Sky Island Journey
The perfect sunrise – in my experience – is when the temperature is just below comfort level. Uncomfortable, but bearable only because of the distant colors of mountain silhouettes and the prospect of warm sun rays, that will burst from the scene at any, any moment now.
This is my Sunday morning. I’m slowly cycling through the outer edges of my desert city, here where you are not fully removed form urbanity yet you are also not fully immerses into nature yet. I am still transitioning. In his book Landmarks, Robert Macfarlane identifies the various names by which these outer edges can be know: Drossscape, Edgelands… Crapola... It is as new as the Industrial Revolution is old, and Victor Hugo already identified Paris’ “Bastard Countryside”, in 1862:
Somewhat ugly but bizarre, made up of two different natures, which surrounds certain great cities
Macfarlane then adds:
To observe the city edge is to observe an amphibian. End of trees, beginning of roofs, end of grass, beginning of paving stones, end of ploughed fields, beginning of shops, the end of the beaten track, the beginning of the passions, the end of the murmur of things divine, the beginning of the noise of human kind.
In a desert city this zone is particular as vegetation - or comflage - is spares. Just a slash of human activity and destruction, penetrated only by a few insistent, and persistent, desert flora. Here and there a hare.
A strong morning breeze move oversized American flags in slow waves, and into the opposite direction that I’m traveling in. Beyond them lie my destination: The Santa Catalina Mountains, a 9000 ft Sky Island, complete with Conifers and Brown Bears (so they say). Sky Islands are like normal islands, places of refuge in an otherwise very hostile sea of desert.
I’m floating on the soft ride of a loaded bike – not even shaken by Tucson’s notoriously crumbly roads. On my itinerary is one night, the desert and that Sky Island, which offers two ways to the top. One gradually-long and pleasantly-inclined paved road, and one rocky, dusty, steep gravel road. I’ve opted to start on the dirty side, the decision being easy: As much as I enjoy the ability to travel on almost any road with my gravel bike, there remains very few experiences that can surpass that of freewheeling down one of those gradually-long, and pleasantly-inclined, paved roads.
As I reach the edge of the Edgelands, I find my last supply stop and embrace the setting with a Starbucks coffee, on a cold steel bench, over a bright white concrete slab, in front of a Safeway. My bike is resting against a large pallet of small, blue, plastic water bottles.
A few miles further I finally wave goodbye to the last yellow Mustang as the paved road slowly disintegrates and suddenly become dirt. A steep and steady climb lifts me out of the Santa Cruz Valley and over Reddington Pass in early spring temperatures of almost 100 °F / 38 °C. That unforgiving desert sun, and now my water supply is vaporizing.
It’s ATV-Sunday. How could I have forgotten. Every corners turns into another batch of noisy motorcycles, with their riders likely to come from, or go to, an outdoor shooting range. The Edgelands have given way to the desert but the activity remains: Loudness, crampiness, dirtiness. But soon enough I reach that quiet point, where those on day activities have had to turn around to make home before sunset. Only the overnighter proceeds and here the desert silence sets in, and with it my official arrival into The Wilderness.
I take a break in the sun. There is no shade. In the distance I see a camping truck that looks like it diverted of the Dakar Rally and somehow ended up here. A couple is having an argument over dirty dishes.
A tail wind and smooth-surfaced gravel road brings me down into the San Pedro Valley and I see deep green fields on its banks. My hope raises for a place, next to a flowing river, to set up my tent for the night (and wash off all that ATV dirt). But I should have known better. It’s the end of winter and the desert is bone dry. Not even the cows I encounter are willing to reveal their water sources to me. I see patches of snow on the now-visible north side of the mountain, but there has been no sight of any of this snowmelt on my journey.
I stop at a ranch and a friendly lady hands over two of those small, blue, plastic water bottles. I am desperate for so much more, but appreciate what it is, cherish how cold it is, and carry on.
It is well known by those who travel by bicycle, that there is no stable relationship between your point of arrival, and that of the intent at departure. So, it’s always best to keep those intents at bay. Then follows the best days by bike: When you simply cycle until you get the long afternoon shadow, of you and your bike, stretched over the entire road, then look to make camp.
I seek out a rocky spot between Saguaros, Ocotillos and a million other thorned-species of plant. I set up camp and light my bio-fuel stove - the latest addition to my very limited inventory. What a joy not to fiddle with gas canisters and miniature O-rings and that loud and roaring sound of gas exploding into flame. Instead I gather a bunch of twigs, start a small fire and cook my water. With a few tiny sips of a very small amount of whisky, I wait for my food while I keep on feeding the biofuel stove. My own little Desert Bonfire and dinner transformed into ritual.
When the stars are at their brightest, I climb into my ultra-lightweight sleeping arrangement, to which I realize, I need to dedicate some more weight to. I never really sleep but wake up at some point, tired and with a dry mouth. I had been conserving my water and have now started feeling anxious about it too. Yes, yes the Wiskey didn’t help. Water is weight so the chosen amount is a very fine balance to keep. I remind myself - again – to be a little more conservative next time. Now the last person I saw was yesterday afternoon.
I skip breakfast, tea and brushing teeth and set out at first light while consciously taking very small sips from my water bottle. Straight ahead is the remainder of my mission for the day: Reach the top of that mountain and find some water along the way.
I’m entering patches of 2020’s Bighorn Fire and between this, and the piles of one-off, illegal dumpsites showing through the brush every now and again, I can’t help to feel that nature is looking a little bit ill. My memory is fresh of a Pandemic setting onto the world while the mountain adjacent to your city is on fire. The Anthropocene, they say.
I make a final turn into rocky, dusty and steep gravel road that will take me to the top. As I turn I see a ranch, in the opposite direction, and down in a valley below. Feeling precious about my energy level - and the water it requires - I opt to sit on a nearby rock, eat some nuts and scan the compound for life: No cars, no movement...it’s Monday...and maybe I’m enjoying this moment of appreciation, for that thing that flows over our hands and bodies almost unfailingly at home.
A cool morning breeze and cloud cover do what they can to calm my nerves. A little further up two trucks pass me – the first sign of life for the day – and I ask if they have some water to spare. This is the last resort of a Bicycle Journeyer and that point where, if this was a game, you would be required to try again, and start over.
But it is also ice cold and maybe just enough for me to reach those patches of snow up top. It also comes in one of those small, blue, plastic water bottles and I add it to my growing trash heap. I recalculate my water-to-time allowance and look up - at an ever-increasing angle - to the radio antennas on top.
I’m now at that point in a rural mountain pass where you have covered 2/3rd of the distance, but only 1/3rd of the climb. The mountain still roars above me. I’ve witnessed how Desert turned into Semi-Desert Grasslands which, here, turned into Oak Woodland and Chaparral. Above me the transformation continues into Pine-Oak Woodlands, Ponderosa Pine Forest and, right on top under those dark clouds and snow patches, Mixed Conifer Forest.
I see some more cows and hear the unexpected sound of a small stream. I look around excitedly and see a little flow of crystal-clear water through otherwise brown-dry, winter-dead, grass and shrub and fallen leaves.
My anxiety crumbles away I am immediately overthrown by joy. These are the healthy things to worry about, they do not linger - the worries of our ancestors. I immediately finish my bottle of water and wash the cold mountain stream over my face and body. I sit next to it and use the slow-dripping time of my water filter to enjoy the sudden and positive change of events, while appreciating how much the place I just came from, adds pleasure to the one I am now in. My map calls it the Geesaman Spring but I name it the River of Streams and think of how that almost sounds like that Billy Joel song.
At the risk of procrastinating an uphill, I set forth, with my water bottles filled, and extra weight added. The road soon disintegrates into that archetypal high-elevation mountain path. It’s been a while for me: Heading up a narrow, disintegrated and very steep road with just enough speed to keep a loaded bike in balance, while evading large and small rocks alike. It’s a wrestle where you’re not really sure if the bike is with, or against you.
The thing all these roads share is that they always become worse as you ascent. The point, perhaps, where the engineers and builders usually got tired and finished the remaining part in haste. Another thing all these roads share is the ability to put you into a beautiful state of flow, provided you keep at it for long enough without a break. Soon the resistance crumbles and you feel invincible, perhaps able to do three mountains more. In that way you do not anticipate the arrival on top, but simply arrive there in the same way you arrived at every other point along the way.
At noon I light my Desert Bonfire while trying to visually retrace my tracks through the San Pedro River Valley – now a panorama 4500 ft below. I cook some oats, brew some tea and brush my teeth. A late official start to the day.
One more climb awaits – the fat lady always sings. The main paved road has a ridge so the end of the road is not the highest point; something I only discovered by bike after multiple journeys up this road by car. The combination of some caffeine, a smooth road surface and the anticipated downhill provides the final push and then – over the crest – that gradually-long and pleasantly-inclined paved road. A 40min downhill that instantly inserts a smile on my face. I scream into the canyons like they do in the movies.
The transformation reverses, now at an increased pace: Snow-covered Conifers down to Oak Woodlands, Grasslands and then that anticipated first silhouette of a Saguaro - arms in the air! - as you enter the desert once again.
Then the inevitable, final and sudden shift back into city life - concrete, asphalt, cars, gasses - and I think about how our descendants might look back at all this in the same way we now look at the Middle Ages.
I find the closest bike boulevard and head straight back into the center while I isolate myself with headphones:
Its only love
with a little bit of rain
In my head a repetition of Nick Cave’s lyrics that, on this journey, had only been interrupted that one time by Billy Joel.
I savor the last drops of water from the River of Streams while I look up at the sun’s radial glow through opaque clouds: The only familiar sight of the place I just returned from, and always want to go back to.