My Trails

I think I may have given you the wrong idea. There is no way, especially this time of year, that I’m even thinking of attempting a thruhike of the PCT. I know that’s what I said before I started the AT, but rest assured that, if nominated I will not hike. The PCT is a young man’s hike and takes a lot of planning, all together different than my ‘fly by wire’ approach. All I’m trying to do is scope out some small day-hikes for spring.

For the last couple of days, I’ve been playing the tourist. I stopped at the Imperial Sand Dunes and talked with two nice rangers at the visitors center. The area is playground to hundreds of vacationers with off-road vehicles. The dunes are alive with dirt bikes, quads, and buggies, all racing across the sand like ants disturbed from their hill. As long as I was there, the rangers suggested I drive down to the site of the old plank road.

Back in the early 1900’s, automobile travel between Phoenix and San Diego along the southern route was almost impossible because of the deep sand dunes barring the way. Some guy got the idea of building a wooden, plank road across the sand, enabling old Model-T’s and the like, safe passage to and from the coast. It only lasted a few years – drifting sand would bury the road every few days, making it very difficult to keep open. They still keep a piece of the road as a historical site.

I am happy to report that I’m back riding my motorcycle. I even went a couple miles on a dirt road. It wasn’t hard to get back on the bike but it has been hard to ride when it’s so cold!

You know you’re getting close to the border when no one at the local Walmart is speaking English. I’m parked for the night at the Walmart lot in the town of Calexico, CA, only a few short miles from the Mexican border. I spent an hour or so browsing the store and selecting some fresh fruit, all the while hearing nothing but Spanish from every shopper. Even the announcements over the PA system were in Spanish. Thankfully the checkout teller spoke English.

I’m slowly making my way across the southwest toward San Diego, CA. Along the way I’ve been staying at BLM visitor areas and checking out interesting places along the way. Two days ago I stopped at the Imperial Wildlife Refuge, situated on the Colorado River above Yuma, AZ, and enjoyed time looking at exhibits and learning about the history of the area. The Colorado River literally gives life to an otherwise desolate, barren, wasteland known loosely as the Yuma Desert.
It is shocking to drive into Yuma. For miles surrounding the city, and I’m sure why it thrives, canals from the Colorado transform the landscape into lush green fields and towering groves of Date Palms. It is amazing what a little water can do.

Prison Cells

I spent the night in Yuma and early the next morning visited the Yuma Territorial Prison State Historic Park. From 1876 to 1909 the Territorial Prison at Yuma was home to more than 3000 prisoners. Some of the southwest’s most harden criminals, including 29 women once served time at the prison. I visited the prison cemetery, browsed through the museum, walked along the cells block, and read plaques in the yard. It was quite interesting if you like that sort of thing, and I would recommend it to anyone passing through.

I stopped last night just inside California at the Pilot Knob LTVA. The landscape is nothing but sand and small shrubs, broken only by a distant black fence that separates the US from Mexico. I walked for a quarter mile before I was out of site of the other campers and found a bush big enough to hide behind and pee. It is really that flat and open. You could land an airplane out there. While I walked towards the border I got an uneasy feeling that the Border Patrol would fly over and think I was trying to cross illegally. That thought made me turn around and hoof it back to my van.

I have been putting off writing about my accident partially because it has been difficult to type but primarily because it has been too difficult to recall. I guess it is hard for me to come to grips with the irony that I could hike for six months through some of the wildest terrain I have ever been in, scale slippery, sheer rock ledges, cross boulder strewn streams, navigate miles of rocks and roots, and never suffer a serious fall. Not for one moment on my hike did it escape me that I was not invincible and something disastrous could easily change my plans, but the reality of how quickly plans change literally hit me full force two weeks ago.

On 12/3/12, I set out to do a little sightseeing in southwest Arizona and southern California. The area is a haven to many retirees escaping cold weather and I was interested to check it out. I had an idea there was a little magic to this community and not just lonely couples parked in their RV’s on a desolate piece of desert. I wasn’t sure what the attraction was, but before I could do much investigating, I was thrown a curve ball (or slider might be a more appropriate term.)

On the second day exploring, in the nearby town of Bouse, AZ, I pulled my motorcycle into a rest area where there were some picnic tables and historic markers. It was only fifteen miles from the campground, but I like to take frequent breaks and look at interesting places whenever I can. I had packed a lunch and the rest area seemed like a nice spot to eat and acquire some history. As soon as the front tire hit the soft, deep, sandy edge of the road, the motorcycle went down before I even had time to think. I was only going about five-mph but the force of the fall was like someone or something had kicked the front tire out from under the bike. Before I knew it, I was down in the gravel with the full force of the fall bearing directly on my shoulder.

I knew I was hurt but I didn’t realize that I had broken a bone in my shoulder until I got to my feet and felt the unmistakable, clicking movement under the skin. It was then that I knew my short vacation was at an end. It must have been pure adrenaline because I picked up the motorcycle, got it started after a bit, drove the winding highway back to the campground, and pushed the bike up the loading ramp on the back of my van. By that time the front of my shoulder had swollen to a giant lump and was beginning to throb.

Other than pain medication, I had an idea that medical science could do little for the trauma I had suffered. It was over 150 miles back to Phoenix, but I decided to drive back before getting any medical attention; at least there I had relatives to deliver me to the emergency room and help with my convalescence. I contacted Daryl as I headed east on I10 and told him what had happened. As long as I held my arm fairly still, the pain was bearable for the three-hour trip – thank goodness I wasn’t driving a stick-shift vehicle.

Daryl took me to an urgent-care facility that had x-ray capability on site and they confirmed I had broken my clavicle. The cure was ice to reduce swelling, a sling for immobility, and time for the body to heal itself. The time has been spent at Donna’s house and I can’t thank her enough for letting me stay. She has not only shared her home for a place to recover, but also waited on me and nursed me through those first painful days.

I am finally feeling well enough to start back on an exercise program. All this sitting around and eating has the drawback that I am gaining weight again. I have to cut back on the sweets… but not just yet – Donna just made some delicious Christmas sugar cookies.

I’m camped near “Geezer City.” I hate the thought that this community of retired people has anything in common with me, even though I will agree that our lifespan is approaching similar numbers. Lets just say that I’m not going to admit it entirely. At the very least, one thing I have going for me is the fact I have strolled farther than most.

It’s still early for the migration of retires to descend upon the desert town of Quartzsite, AZ. I arrived early Monday and had little trouble finding a good spot to camp for the night. Hundreds of acres of desert landscape, dotted with mesquite trees and hardy vegetation, bathed in warmth and sunshine even in winter, abound for the RV Snowbirds. It is a great place to be when the rest of the country shivers from the wrath of snow and cold.

I will explore here for another day and then move down by Yuma, AZ.