skeletons of snow on the ground

Moab, Utah. We finally give in {after discovering that our #1 campsite was a mudfield} and check into a hotel. Super 8. Mike and I seem to have some uncanny way of chasing the worst weather across the country. Headwind. Now snow. It has snowed {sometimes quite heavily} every day of the trip thus far. Which is indeed amazingly beautiful, but with car chains, and three season tents {and bags} this becomes something of a nuisance. We left Lake Tahoe and drove up highway 50 {stopping in Carson city where the last words occurred} and out into the desert. I cannot begin to really explain how surreal it has been to drive the route, but the main thing I have discovered, is that the sea between driving and cycling is immeasurable and indescribable. It is interesting for me to contemplate what it must have been like to read the writings from the trip. Though I feel that they were raw and honest, I really believe that it is impossible to explain the severity of riding a bicycle across the desert. Aside from the physical toil, the perception of distance and time is so greatly altered when moving at 70 mph rather than 8, that it becomes an entirely different place. So much less is seen, and the absorption levels are altered by the lack of time to process anything. As the miles pass, I appreciate the bike trip exponentially more.

So we awoke to snow. It had just begun as we ate dinner, and we wondered how much would fall over night. A difficult night’s sleep, as any movement brought the moisture into the tent, thusly making us colder. We attempted {rather hopelessly} a fire the night before, and finally gave up, crawling into our tents at 8pm. As we broke down in the morning, digging out the car, the snow continued to fall hard; the quiet and fierce beauty of it mesmerizing. We drove down off the ridge slowly, the desert obscured in white.

I’ve found it so interesting to experience such extreme contrast in a place, for it could not have been more different. Before, where the eyes could see fifty miles in every direction, the view was now limited to a mile or so, a product of the weather. Even during the two most extreme weather conditions, the desert feels lunar. It is vast and endless and inhospitable. It was though, as before, stunning. Absolutely stunning.

So after passing through the towns where mike and I fell apart, the roads where we found new psychological places, the snow ceased and rain fell. We stopped in Milford, Utah where we all peed in a gas station. The cop said to the two young men, “you out huntin’ today?” The large one held up a bandaged hand, in silent response. The other spoke for him, “He done gone did banged it up.” Hmmmm.

And then it is cedar city. A night of laughter and stories and chili and homemade cookies and the love of friends. Wine. We stay up late talking, and lament the fact that we must go so soon. We sit on the floor in the morning, and watch Addison shake around in her diaper. Erin laughs on the floor beside Lannie. These are people I miss.

And then we drive. We sit in the car for some time before leaving, deciding just what to do as altering our route will cause us to miss things we want to see. But the talk of 50 inches of snow on the ridges and potential closure of roads brings us here. Moab. It is now morning and we plan to hike for a few hours before leaving. Today we drift back to the route and head for Telluride. The sun is out and the earth dry. There are skeletons of snow on the ground. White like bone. Gone for the day.

Posted by jeff pitcher at October 29, 2004 11:10 AM

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