The bike is frozen over when I set out this morning. The sun is powerful, but the wind is biting through my kit. On my right is the Coolidge Dam, build in the 1920's to help with irrigation.
My original idea was to ride around the reservoirs southern end instead of using Highway 70. But the spectacular formation of fog over the water changes my mind; the water is warm, and the cold, windless night has formed a thick white layer over the surface. In the subzero temperatures this lethal fog freezes immediately on anything it touches.
Warning signs tell me that I am in the San Carlos Indian reservation - No Shooting! I was unaware that the shooting of Indians is still an ongoing process.
Near Safford I have brunch at some Hillbilly diner. For the first time I notice that the dress people wear in this corner of the world is limited to two possible outfits; the city slicker wears worn out overalls with denim shirt (arms rolled up) and some sort of dirty single piece cotton undergarment whose arms are longer than the shirt sleeves. I remember to have seen this kit in Buster Keaton movies - later I find that this is a part of tradition in this country.
The landed gentry otherwise wears denim all out with high heeled leather boots and a ten gallon Stetson hat that seems to be an integer part of the head as it is not even removed inside the restaurant. These fellows look extremely ridiculous, I have serious problems with my facial structures when looking at them. Later outside the diner I see one of them climbing into his Chevy pick-up; he has a rifle placed in a rack behind the seats and the horns of a cow bolted to the bonnet.
Dear reader, have you ever seen the Roman Legionnaires in "Life of Brian" when Pontius mentions the name of his friend? That is my feeling at this moment.
What will this cowboy do if some biker with foreign accent stares at him, then falls to the ground, laughing like a madman? Can I trust that he is drooling so much testosterone that he expects this behaviour from anyone not from here? Possibly not. With superhuman effort I manage to control myself.
At Safford I turn onto Highway 191 towards Mule Creek. Yes, that is biker country. The winding road leads uphill again and the sun is warming the air nicely. At Three Way I fill the tank (costs nearly 3 dollars - rip-off!) and a few miles later a sign says "Welcome to New Mexico, the enchanted country". It depicts the flag of the state - and a Stetson hat.
That this is biker-land has been found out by the locals as well and lots of bikes are out. Plenty of Harleys and other biggies rumble through the curves. Too heavy for real fun.
A quick ride down Highway 180 through the Gila river valley towards Silver City is pretty dull and lined by slums. Here the dwellers seem to be more of Latino origin. A look at my map explains this; Mexico is less than 40 miles from here. If these guys were clever they would brew beer and get stinking rich. Ah, now a Castle from Zim, ice cold...
From Silver City State Route 152 brings me back onto a good biker road towards Truth or Consequences. That is really the name of the town, not a new prerequisite for obtaining the US presidency. And I have the road all to myself. The peaks around me top 10000ft, but I feel comfortable. At least until I see a sign "No gas for 49 miles". 107 miles since filling the tank. 156 miles is going to push the reserves to the limits. The one point of criticism on my Honda is the 12 litre tank with a range from full to reserve of only 145 miles. It is January and I ride more than a mile above sea level - and around me are pine forests and the smells of spring. Snow lies in sheltered corners, but otherwise this could as well be May. Gold and silver were found here a century back, and towns like Kingston appeared overnight like CIA agents after a Marxist revolution. When the gold ran out in the early 1900's another fabulous gadget of the Wild West movie appeared: ghost towns. I end today's voyage at Hillsboro, population 130 (in 1900 it was 5000). It is near dark when I arrive. There is a motel behind a saloon and the saloon has Corona beer. I decide to run out of petrol tomorrow and stay here for the night.
In 1846 president Polk had a bit of a crisis at hand, so he decided to unleash the cream of the US Army to invade Mexico. Many gallant West Point officer gained rapid promotion and extensive warfare experience (among them a 39 year old officer named Robert Edward Lee, who 17 years later would have ample opportunity to prove his capability, though that is a different story).
Vast areas of land were nicked and incorporated into the Land of the Free. Now that ill gotten land was open for settlement by the pioneers.
150 years later I come along to see if it was all worthwhile and if the land has been turned into the paradise that president Polk certainly envisaged when he endeavoured upon that campaign.
Hillsboro seems to be as good a place as any to find out, and the area is great biker country. Tonight there will be a population explosion; a famed local singer will hold a performance in the saloon, so I decide to have a look.
The singer last night was very versatile and did both types, Country and Western. Otherwise it was all pretty bad because Corona was sold out, and you must be a Yank to get any kick from that love in a canoe beer. But the visitors certainly were a sight. If it weren't for the odd city slicker outfit and the electric light one could have thought that I was in Tombstone and Wyatt Earp is just finishing some business around the corner at the OK corral.
The barkeeper finally found some German Beck's beer! Incredible in a place like this. I checked the 'best before' date to ensure that the stuff did not arrive in the country with some gold diggers from Bremen in 1877 and the evening brightened up a bit.
The party was noisy and I wonder how some of the guests managed to get drunk so quickly on these weak drinks. The whole scenario reminds me (forever being brought up on a diet of Hollywood trash) of the scenario where the Blues Brothers are performing in some hillbilly place. I guess the sole reason why the band is not behind chicken wire is because of the female performer.
Of course one should expect a fight to erupt somewhere any moment, upon which everyone grabs the nearest piece of furniture and all guests happily begin to smash up the place. But no such thing happened and I was soon bored with the drunken cowboys and cowgirls and retreated to bed.
Today the 'gasoline' problem needs sorting first. I am told that there is a campground down the valley that sells fuel. I am long on reserve now, so I make a mental note of each building I pass in case I run out. But finally I reach the Rio Grande and a friendly outlet of Texaco. It never looked so good. It is part of the Lakeview campsite convenience store. The owner however somehow redefines the meaning of "convenience store"; the store is open at his convenience. At present it is inconvenient, so I have time to look around the campground. US Americans have their own idea of camping; one can either rent a roomy wooden cabin with aircon and all other mod cons or you bring your own "RV" Recreational Vehicle. This is a truck about the size of a bus, powered by a petrol engine the size of an average European car. One such monster arrives while I wait for the store keeper. A triangular bar is attached to the rear which connects to the front axle of the pick-up truck it is pulling. "How many miles per gallon?" do I ask the elderly pilot of the contraption. His name is Charles, he is 71 and from New Jersey. His monster-RV has a sticker on the bumper; 'Burning our kids inheritance'. I like that. "Well, she used to do 12, but since we started towing the Dodge it's down to about 9... But I sorted that out; had them fitting bigger gas tanks". American pragmatism, I guess. There is a video camera attached at the rear end which activates a monitor on the dash when the driver puts the gearbox into reverse. Two massive Freon compressors on the roof ensure that the inside is at a constant 68 degrees regardless of the outside temperature. I could warm to the idea of having a toy like that for retirement if Charles leaves some fossil fuels for me to burn...
40 minutes later it is convenient for the store owner to open store and petrol station. 2.85 US gallons find their way into my tank - with that quantity Charles could hardly move his RV from the pumps those 50 yards to the campground, but my Honda is sorted for another 140 miles.
From here I turn south on the old HW 187 and later HW 185, running in parallel with Interstate 25 towards Las Cruces, about twenty miles north of El Paso.
This by-road leads through poor Latino villages and the landscape is flat, mainly agricultural and not very exciting.
Occasionally the road traverses small brooks. They look innocent enough, but can be up to a foot deep after the recent rainfalls:
At Las Cruces I turn north-east onto HW 70. The road quickly climbs upwards to cross the San Augustin range, but more interesting for me is the fact that I am entering the White Sands Missile Range, a playground for the U. S. military about a quarter the size of Switzerland.
For about an hour and a half I am biking over the missile range between the San Augustin range behind and the Sacramento Mountains on the far horizon ahead of me. I am passing trucks with "Hazardous" signs or military components hidden under tarps.
A note on my map warns that the highway may be closed occasionally during missile launches. The picture above however is not the result of problems with the latest guidance computer or an alien rescue mission for their colleagues at Roswell being under way, no, this is a "commemorative" missile placed there to show off the achievements of the U.S. military in the field of mass destruction of terrestrial lifeforms.
In that same parking lot minutes later a red pickup truck with two Stetson-wearing male species of the human race arrives. By now I am used to the gun racks and the cow-horns on the bonnet. But this vehicle features additional cowhide-coverings of the entire cab interior plus a steering wheel shaped like cow-horns.
Experts have argued for years that the "Roswell incident" is unlikely to have involved aliens - why would aliens travel many lightyears to earth, only then to crash their spaceship upon arrival in the New Mexico backwaters?
Well, I'd say one can't blame those poor alien buggers if they lost control of their spacecraft after unexpectedly encountering these two guys and their cow-graveyard truck. Experts should rethink their theories after I have discovered this revolutionary new evidence - if I had encountered these two with that vehicle out on the open road I'd most likely would have crashed my Honda for reasons of uncontrollable laughter.
I sneak a picture of the truck with my camera, but it came out completely blurred as I was shaking with suppressed laughter and couldn't keep the camera still.
Beyond Alamogordo where I refuel the bike again the road really starts winding its way up into the Rocky Mountains. The first snow appears when I am only half way up:
HW 82 climbs swiftly through 6000ft, then 8000, and finally hitting 9000 near a place aptly named Cloudcroft.
In spite of the time of year, the altitude and all the snow the temperature this afternoon is still a bearable 55 degrees up here. Cloudcroft is a busy alpine resort. It seems impossible that 30 minutes ago I was rolling through a heated, hazy desert of sand and cacti. The beauty and diversity of this land is exceptional. Up here the air is fresh with scents of pine trees and flowers. Icy patches on the road force me to take extra care. Skiers and sleds loaded with kids crossing the unfenced road regardless of any traffic do even more so.
Nearly as quickly as the road climbed up does it descend on the eastern slope. The last 60 miles towards Artesia lead over empty flatlands with the odd cow added into it, patiently awaiting its time to be turned into bonnet ornaments, cowboy boots, Stetson hats or pick up truck interiors. I continue south on HW 285 and end the day at Carlsbad, 36 miles south of Artesia.
They have a coin laundry, so I do my washing at the motel. Less successful is my search for a decent beer to wash down the road dust; I am told that there is a law in New Mexico prohibiting the sale of alcohol on Sundays. The bars and saloons are open, but all they sell you is soft drinks.
I am entirely in favour of this law; I would suggest that no alcohol at any day of the week should be sold to these armed, cow-killing, Stetson wearing hill-billies. They all appear to be too much of a crackpot to the civilized foreigner for wanting to encounter them when they are completely plastered.
Welcome to the Bible Belt! I suppose that small colourful flag beneath the Union Jack on my Honda could have me swinging from the next lamppost out here... but then I wonder if these hill-billies have ever seen one before in this part of the planet?
The nearest waterhole is in Texas. I want a beer and no Yank and no bible is going to prevent that! It's getting dark by now. I wipe the dead bugs off the headlight of my Honda and 2 minutes later I am on my way south. The border to Texas is less than 30 miles away. Twenty minutes later the border is reached. Nothing shows on my map, but a well lit liquor store is located four inches away from the border on the Texas side. Nothing else is anywhere near here. Droves of pick-up trucks with New Mexico plates are parked here and Stetson wearing cowboys lift huge crates of booze onto their flatbeds. They must certainly stock up for Monday or maybe they have forgotten to set their watches to Mountain Standard Time?
Another 30 minutes later the tank of the Honda is pretty empty, but the fridge in my room is now well stocked with 'Sol' beer bottles. I crack one open and watch the guys from Channel 42 reading the bowels of a dead longhorn on telly. The bowels apparently indicate that there will be rain tomorrow. Such news are now much more bearable, with a beer in hand and and a second one resting within arms reach on the bible placed on the room table for precisely that purpose.
This morning I continue south on HW 285, passing again the (still open) liquor store at the Texas border crossing. Someone once called Texans "the lowest form of human life". The males certainly have all been born with an overdose of testosterone. The brims of the Stetsons are wider than in New Mexico and the pick-ups are bigger. Once inside Texas I notice that horsehead pumps are slowly appearing everywhere - I have arrived in the oil belt:
Suddenly they are pumping everywhere. The calm, purposeful up and down of the horse head type pumps would be suitable as a stress therapy for overworked managers. I pass by a hospital in whose garden this idea is practised to calm the patients with the installation of two of these things right at the front entrance. Another one is in the middle of a farmyard. And they all are surrounded by the best smell on earth; the smell of crude oil. Gasoline forever!
U.S. Americans account for slightly under 4 percent of this planets population. And these 4 percent currently consume one third of the energy resources available. This means that there must be a serious under-consumption in other countries. When will these economy brakes wake up and swap their Volkswagens and ox carts for some gas guzzling SUV from Detroit?
At Pecos I turn North-east onto Interstate 20 towards Midland, 100 miles away. Passing endless rows of pumps I seem to be the only one obeying the 65mph speed limit. Big Peterbilt and Mack trucks pass by and blow me halfway off the road.
The stretch to Midland is somewhat boring. The country is flat as a pancake here and gets ever richer in vegetation the more I travel towards the East Coast. Scenic markers like the one below now mention dates of the 1830's when the local Natives were massacred. In New Mexico and Arizona they were disposed of approximately 40 years later.
After further 110 miles I reach San Angelo, a city of maybe 100,000 souls. I decide to stay for two days. The bike needs a service and I need a rest.
San Angelo was a dusty meadow as little as 130 years ago. My US American readers may call this a long time ago. But if like myself you shop your vehicle spares at a place that's in the trade since 1639 and your local waterhole prides itself in its "alehouse & cider making" qualities since 1541 you'd call that recent...
The city achieved its place in this world due to a mishap to its competitor: in 1875 a fierce struggle was on about who would be the county seat. The battle was won by Ben Ficklin, a trading post and depot nearby.
However, an early cousin of this "El Niño" fellow resulted in a flash flood washing Ben Ficklin down the river in 1882.
These days San Angelo boasts a university with over 6000 students, the Goodfellow Air Force base and the San Angelo Symphony orchestra. I was unable to extract any information on the type of performance on offer. Maybe "Country & Western goes Classic"?
Thus I assume I have arrived back in civilisation and intend to enjoy all its benefits.
I have told the reception not to send housekeeping this morning, so I have a lay-in until 10.30 am and afterwards I go to the movies. The film is crap ("Streetfighter" with the Muscles from Brussels), but a bit of civilization after two weeks on the road feels good. Afterwards I change the engine oil and filter and generally give the Honda a go-over.
My funds are low, so I enter the shiny marble palace of the Texas Commerce Bank in downtown San Angelo. The room is big like a football pitch and looks clean and business like. I ask one of the friendly looking bankers for the foreign exchange counter. She gives me a look as if I had asked her to hand over the keys for the vault. "Sorry, we do not do foreign exchange here...".
Well, I ask, where then can a foreigner in this town change his hard earned cash into the Green Stuff?
Helpless faces all around me, even the assistant manager comes over. Apparently the bank is the second largest bank in town. A quick phone call to the competition (the very largest one...) by the assistant manager reveals the shattering news: there is no facility in San Angelo to change foreign currency, the nearest one is in Austin, some 200 miles away. These Yanks around me are clearly embarrassed that their shiny marble palace can not help a customer to a service that any bazaar in Pakistan can do in any currency ever heard of in this part of the world (and a few others...). This means that I will have to leave this outgrown backwater village with its big city facades tomorrow and ride to Austin instead.
Some television in the evening and a few bottles of excellent Chinese Tsingtao beer (Tsingtao was a German colony once...) round off the laziest day so far
This El Niño fellow seems to have the intention of wrecking my voyage; half an hour into today's trip towards Austin a storm front passes overhead, the temperature drops to 40°F and it starts raining cats and dogs. For once the bowel readers from Channel 42 were right... The countryside is hidden behind curtains of rain and these 220 miles leave me pretty soaked and cold. Texan cattle is grazing between the oil wells. Some look upwards into the grey sky, wondering about the crazy weather. And of course 15 miles before Austin the rain stops and the sun comes out. I fill the tank and work out that for one dollar worth of petrol (1 US gallon) I can travel over 50 miles.
The Texas capital is aptly named after Stephen Fuller Austin who was given permission in 1821 by the then Spanish rulers of Texas to create a settlement. The Spanish clearly saw that no human being could last long in that forsaken country in the middle of nowhere. The city of Austin was named in his honour.
Visitors will find constant reminders of these historic facts but details of the original Comanche and Tonkawa people remain obscure.
However, the bankers here have heard about the existence of human life outside the US and are even willing to exchange funds, so my temporary cash flow problem is resolved.
I find a "Motel 6" and drain their hot water supply during a half hour shower session. Feeling warm for the first time today I drive to a nearby cinema. More civilization. Paul Newman in "Nobody's fool". Excellent movie. Quick diner at grease world. On telly they flog a watch that counts backwards the time until the next election. And then? My take on these elections is whomever you vote for, it's always the government coming in. Democracy is overrated and a better way of government should be found. However, until that long overdue discovery has been made, democracy has proven somewhat superior to the other forms of government tested so far; absolute monarchy, dictatorship, feudalism, communism, tyranny etc.
Deep blue sky and temperature in the mid fifties. Now that's better. I leave Austin eastwards on Highway 290. One good thing results from yesterdays deluge: the countryside is green now. The cows on the meadows look much happier than yesterday.
The ground has turned sandy and as I am again the only one obeying any speed limit all those overtaking cars and trucks see to it that I am getting somewhat sandblasted. To get away from this I turn north at Navasota on HW 90 and then at Anderson onto Farm Road 149 towards Richards. Street names in the villages I pass by are all like "Klaus" or "Meinhard" and show clearly where the early settlers here came from. Up to Richards the 149 is a muddy building site, but beyond it enters the "Sam Houston National Forest" and the smell of pines and spring make the biking exceedingly enjoyable. Beef and oil wells have finally died out. It's getting late, so Conroe at the South end of lake Conroe is my abode for tonight. A Motel 6 is right at the entrance beyond the usual shops (liquor, guns, burger forge, pawn) and tomorrow I have the best part of the forest still ahead of me.
Below isn't the usual map with my GPS tracklog (GPS wasn't available before May 2, 2000.
Instead I have plotted the original route from my diary entries and my old paper charts.)