The coyotes broke the night's silence around 5:30. They seemed awfully close, in addition to howling, I could hear one growling. The sleeping bag did ok, but as the night wore on, the opening got smaller and smaller to limit my exposed skin against the icy cold air. It wasn't cosy, and if I moved I'd find cold pockets. But it was cool to finally wake up to daylight, and conquer the night at 6600 feet in December!
It was a cold morning to say the least. I finally got to see what the campground looked like and noticed snow patches on some of the sites! And wow, this was a pretty big place all to myself.
I must say, this is one nice campground, and it was free (and I'm not just saying that because there was a fee, I just didn't pay it)! The grounds were clean and not too rocky, and the sites were spacious and nicely set up.
Did I mention it was cold? In addition to all this frost on everything, the water bottle I had in the tent had ice chunks in it. I broke out the campstove, and made some camp coffee (you know, coffee grounds in water in a pot), and let the day warm up a bit. It had to be in the teens overnight. There were even a few flakes falling this morning. According to my journal "Bitter cold until around 8."
I pressed the ignition button on the bike with some trepidation. I'm guessing it took 7-10 tries before the engine started running, and stayed running. You could hear the electric starter straining for battery charge right at the end. I was not looking forward to dealing with a dead battery (remember when I said I set up the tent by headlight; don't worry, I kept the engine running) out here. I was a mile or two from highway 50, which isn't screaming with people to begin with, and it was all dirt road to get back, which wouldn't be fun to try a bump start on. But hey! She started, so quit worrying about me.
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 Looking back at the trail head. See the snow in the parking lot! It turns out I was in Hickison Petroglyph Campground (I haven't woken up wondering where I was since University). I decided to go on a short hike (like a mile) to check out the Petroglyphs. I was in hurry mode, based on my late starts so far, and breakfast sounded good, so it's a shame I didn't explore the petroglyphs further. But it reminded me of the shoe tree. People long before me leaving their mark. Ghost writers. Funny, when Neil Peart kept mentioning ghost writers, and ghost towns in his book, I found it tedious after awhile. Now I'm appreciating what he means. We all want to leave our mark behind, without being lost in anonymity. Maybe just like these people did a thousand years ago. |
I head back on Highway 50, and the stretch between Hickison and Eureka was cold. Especially with a wind of 100 mph. I had the electric jacket turned off, and wasn't wearing the rainpants, so I could get warmer if I had to. Then, on a nice long quiet stretch of highway, I set up my "ghost rider" shot. You see these all the time by motorcyclists on highway 50. Neil Peart did it. So did the Pashnit guy. So I'm surprised every time someone expresses shock when they see my version.
I wanted to capture that stuff way in the distance, and probably should've used the 50mm lense instead of the 28mm. But I was curious what phenomenon that might be. I had guessed it was dust devils. Turns out...it was snow.
Eureka is a gorgeous town, and reveals itself to you as you find it nestled among the hills. It still seemed "sleepy" at around 10, as I pull into a Chevron for gas. I also picked up a Highway 50 shirt (Been there! Done that!). Hey, I earned it. The woman at the gas station asks if I'm cold, and remarks "We don't get a lot of motorcyclists this time of year." I like being different.
I parked myself in the Owl Club Restaurant for breakfast. It was my first sit down dinner since having breakfast (congee made with smoked Thanksgiving turkey soup) with Kayley back at home. I concluded then and there. Breakfast is good. And when I'm travelling, bring it all on. Two eggs, sausages, toast, hashbrowns.
I walked along the main street (Highway 50), and Eureka struck me as being a small town, but proud of its heritage. The Eureka Opera House is well preserved, and features autographs by people who play there, and even a short art exhibit based on the town itself. A self guided tour lets you explore the old buildings. Next time, I plan on staying at the Jackson House, curious about the legend that it's haunted with children. I support the town's claim as being the "Friendlist Town on the Loneliest Highway in America."
I consulted my map in the restaurant, and pondered taking a short cut to highway 375, to make my planned goal of Las Vegas this day. But I decided I had to do the full stretch as indicated by Life magazine (Fernley to Ely). Besides, just look at what I get to ride on.
Now, I thought I had figured out how to take pictures while riding, but as I find out, I have to figure out how to get the focus on the _background_.
I reach the tallest point of my journey that day; Robinson Pass, elevation 7607.
Ely seems like a busy, noisy town, and even though I saw poker machines in Eureka, now I'm in a town large enough to justify a casino. I took full advantage of it, strolling past the slot machines in Hotel Nevada, to get my thermos filled at the restaurant. I browse a couple of small shops along the main street (highway 50 again), and wait for awhile at the Chamber of Commerce (Running errands, Be Back Soon) where I can finally see the Highway 50 Survival Kit through the window (I had looked for it in Eureka and Austin). A woman waiting for the Chamber of Commerce to open again offers suggestions for places nearby that might have it. Bingo, second stop, and she validated the towns I've been in for me too. Still, I burned maybe 45 minutes waiting for the Chamber of Commerce lady to come back.
I bid a fond farewall to Highway 50, and took highway 6 to race daylight again. The sense of urgency prevented me from getting shots of this road, but it is pretty country. Less desert like, it cuts through the Humboldt National Forest, and I encountered less traffic than I did on Highway 50. Now, this part of the journey was voted Most Likely to Need Spare Gas, and so I took the last opportunity I saw. The station had one pump, and only offered 87 octane, and I had to tell the guy how much my gas was. Wow, you sure get used to paying at the pump.
I encounteedr rain as the mountains block the sun, and it was cold. Not fun, but pretty soon I made it to highway 375 for dusk.
My map showed Warm Springs as being a town nestled right at the junction of highway 6, and 375, and in my pre-trip debate on whether I needed a spare gas can, a friend remarked that he was pretty sure Warm Springs was a town. Well, here it is in all its glory. Warm Springs Bar and Grill hasn't seen business in awhile by the look of things, and the place is littered with skeletons of buildings, and crushed cars. Warm Springs obviously gets its name from the ...warm springs. Steam rises from the water near the remains of the Bar and Grill, that travels under highway 6. I thought it'd make a great campsite, but I haven't eaten anything since breakfast, save a cereal bar, so I elected to press on. Sunlight faded as I began my journey on highway 375: The Extraterrestrial Highway.
I caught a glimpse of something RIGHT by the highway, but it was definately terrestrial in form. Cattle!! Dangerously close to my path, it reminds me to never outrun my headlights. After about 50 miles on the ET Highway, I pull into Rachel, knowing that there I can find the Little A'Le'Inn, where I knew in advance I could find food and shelter.
Dinner is cheese ravioli with eggplant parmesan. I cautiously tuck in, remebering the sanitation violations I came across the Web on this place. But the meal went down well, and the coffee was hot. This place was hopping on a Monday night! The extraterrestrial theme is obviously well embraced by the gift shop selection. Also of note is the conservative/NRA slant proudly displayed in bumper stickers and other slogans on the walls. I asked about rooms, and found out they're $40. Well, a shower would have been amazing, but I was trying to conserve cash, so I mulled my options over while drinking coffee.
After awhile, people came around to talk to me, either about my bike, or what the hell I'm doing out there. One friendly resident, Devin, filled me in on the spirit of Rachel for awhile, and one of the hunters let me know he was the last one to get gas in this town. I had switched to my reserve just before I pulled in, and I could conceivably make it to Alamo with the spare gas I had, but Las Vegas was still well over 100 miles away. So I decided to find a place to set up camp, and a weather monitoring station in the Inn shows the outside temperature as 30 degrees. They seemed to think I was pretty crazy, and one guy described me as "hardy." I replied that I never thought of myself that way, but I'm learning to.
I rode around for awhile, and find fences, and private property, and really couldn't see much past my headlight, so I walked back into the Inn, and grudgingly admitted I'd take a room. I mentioned that I don't know where to pitch a tent, and Connie, the owners' daughter said anywhere, and admitted that I don't have to rent a room. She even suggested out by the porta-potties where I can use them as a windbreak, and said if I made it through the night in Austin, Rachel would be a breeze.
Cool. So I headed out again, and break camp taking full advantage of her suggestion. And then headed back in for beer, now that I'm done riding for the night. It was fun hanging out in a bar drinking with the locals, and hearing the town's gossip. Devin turned to me and said "That's small town politics for you." My response was "Sometimes it's good to hear about other people's problems." Connie seemed to be happy to answer my questions about the town, and I learnt that the highway was renamed recently in 1996 in conjunction with the release of Independence Day. The town itself was renamed in the mid 80's after the first girl born there, who had since moved to Washington, but died to respiratory problems aggravated by the dust from the Mt. St. Helens eruption at the age of three. Connie claimed that the apostrophication of Little A'Le'Inn was a printer's mistake, and that it was supposed to be Little Ale Inn. Of course, the extra apostrophe lent its pronunciation to be more out of this world, so the name stuck. At around 9:40, I decided to call it a night, and headed for the sleeping bag.