Tour Bueno

stefan mostert

28 november 2024

1,218 words

10 minutes

Adventuring Southern Arizona

The difference – I believe – between a holiday and an adventure is that with an adventure, there is always a little bit of hesitation. I’ve learned to take this feeling as a sign of good things to come.

When on holiday, we become reactive: we want the world to just pass us by while we look on, preferably with a beer in hand. Adventures require engagement...action...proactiveness.

I now find myself on the threshold of an adventure, that point of hesitation that needs to be surpassed by studying my map, putting on my helmet and placing my feet on my pedals: This is Tour Bueno.

At the core of adventure lies discovery. At the core of discovery lies a fulfilled life. This seems to be the core success of our species: our incredibly beautiful and relentless curiosity. And so, nature seems to have decided to reward its most important gene with the ultimate award: happiness.

Seeking adventure requires energy. Not time, just energy, because when we have energy to seek adventure, life itself becomes the adventure.  But yes, while on this adventure, life will throw a few pieces of shit at you every so often. You can swerve around and miss one or two, but every now and again...

It seems important for us to know that no matter who you are, what you’ve become, or what you have been through, those pieces of shit will keep on coming. Looking out for and reacting to this, is part of the adventure.

Tour Bueno was off to a good start, until my morning caffeine was all pumped out of my bloodstream. Breakfast is on a cold stormwater retaining wall, overlooking the desert while cars zoom behind me. I have left the city, but the buzz remains. Slowly, that buzz will dwindle with every pause extended, and then, later in my tent tonight: absolute silence. This is usually day one on a bike tour: Leaving. I try not to rush Leaving. Train or bike is the preferred method; anything else feels like time travel.

Late afternoon, I enter the Buenos Aires National Wildlife Refuge, the place I have earmarked for my first night’s camping. From here, I will swing around the Santa Rita Mountain range, through Southern Arizona’s chaparral shrublands, via the sleepy towns of Arivaca and Patagonia, and back to The Old Pueblo.

One of the best aspects of Leaving is the inevitable turn onto a gravel road. I throw out my tarp on a small patch of shade to take it all in. The tea in my flask is still lukewarm, and the sun finally appears behind the clouds. On a windless day like today, the silence can be deafening. Only the occasional chirp of a bird — who has seemingly decided to stay on for the winter — and the sound of a pen’s ink rolling over paper.

A little while before sunset, I find a secluded, relatively flat area to pitch my tent. Baboquivari Peak towers above the horizon. My room with a view. I feel tired but inspired.

Arivaca is a lively and colorful place near the Mexican border: a perfect blend of two cultures. My morning’s ride has been slow, but even at 10 a.m., I am one hour too early for the only café in town, La Gitana Cantina. I decide to wait in the town’s empty Saturday market grounds while pick-ups roll in and the voices of friendly people exchange friendly greetings.

La Gitana has country music and a rowdy atmosphere. One wall is filled with faces in portraits: Stinkin’ Steve Bonczkowski, Joe Pina: Storyteller, Potbelly Dan Sarkin and Spooky. I enjoy a good hamburger and think about how much I enjoy small-town America.

I enjoy Arivaca so much that I forget to fill my water bottles, leaving me with very little to finish the day: Drink, cook dinner and get me through the first part of the morning. Every sip becomes more and more enjoyable as it depletes, and my thirst builds up. I enjoy a new appreciation for that wonderful clear substance we rely on so much.

After a rough and steep stretch on Ruby Road, I reach Whiterock Campground. I pitch my tent between two generator-roaring recreation vehicles and make a small fire for dinner: beans, salt and melted cheese.

My body starts feeling cold, and I climb into my warm sleeping bag: that feeling of being so exposed to the elements, and yet so protected from them. Lying thirsty in my cocoon, I’m savoring that moment at the gas station tomorrow when I will buy an extra-large bottle of water and gulp it all down in one go.

I wake up early with a dry mouth, pack my gear, and depart at first light. No water for brushing teeth, no water for coffee. At least I’m mentally prepared for the pass between Whiterock and Nogales, as I’ve cycled here before. Steep uphills allow me just enough forward motion to maintain balance, followed by steep downhills that wash my entire body in icy morning air.

In Nogales, I’m greeted by The Golden Arches. A place for water, a place for coffee, a place for breakfast, a place to wash my face. Another two-hour stretch gets me to the tranquil rural town of Patagonia. I stock my bags with a dinner plan, get an iced tea, and go to rest and write in the town’s park.

When you travel by bike, home is where you want it to be. The park becomes your study, a secluded spot next to a highway your bedroom, an outcrop your room with a view. How enjoyable it is to be detached from a fixed point for a few days, weeks, or even months. You start to roam; you fall into another way of being. One where food and shelter become your only concerns, and discovery takes center stage. Of course, the fact that your heart is aggressively pumping fresh blood and oxygen into your brain helps this process along quite nicely.

My afternoon’s cycle becomes immersive as I pass through the foothills of the Santa Rita Mountain Range. Dense mesquite groves surrounded by winter-dry grass. Here and there, a hunter behind a pair of binoculars. I see young boys joining their fathers, and I’m reminded of my first — and only to date — hunting experience as a young boy: the visceral intensity of the guns, the blood, and the taste of liver cooked over the fire, as an initiation ritual for a first-timer.

I feel like I can continue on forever, but I start looking for my bedroom before darkness falls. I hide myself behind some trees and suddenly feel very alone: no noises, no rustling of leaves, no birds chirping. The desert readying itself for winter. The sun sets quietly while I stoke a small fire for dinner. I feel light as I sit and write.

I’m up before dawn, slowly packing up and tying everything to its right place: the daily rituals of bike touring. I’ve done all the climbing on my route; now it’s downhill all the way home! A gentle downhill, the kind you can only experience by bike.

It feels like I have only started warming up, but I’m always grateful for even just a few days on the road — days of dazing and discovery and adventure.