By Myself But Not Alone

"There's a Hole in the Bucket, Dear Liza, Dear Liza"
Do you know that song? The one where all the solutions are circular and there is no resolution. Well, my troubles were similar, and the problem was literally circular. Or not, as the case of a cracked rim would prove.

So we went over the Rohtang Pass to Manali and got the wheel rebuilt. We came back over the pass, and one flat tire later we picked up the trail to Keylong, Patseo, Zingzing Bar, Sarchu, Whisky Nullah, Pang, Debring, Rumste and Leh, as I had sketched out the stages to allow for acclimitization to the altitude, and early morning climbs on the switchbacks up the 4 passes en route. Well, 15 km into the ride on my newly built rear wheel, I noticed that it was shifting and it had begun to rub on the rear chain stays. Checing things further under a shady tree, I discovered that the spokes were as loose as a slinky and the wheel was performing as such. I ended up hitching the remaining kms to Keylong, taking enough time that Amy was never far behind. 7 kms shy, the truck I was in turned a corner and I animatedly shoutd, "Stop!" Panniers. Bicycles. Leaning together in front of a little lunch spot. I didn't know whose but I could only think there would be help or at least comraderie. As I neared them, I recognized Bavo's black Ortliebs bags and I found him inside the cafe with the two Austrians I'd met in Kaza- Barbara and Walter. Reunion, lunch and a few minutes later, Amy pulled in. I was able to catch a ride quite quickly and the other three cycled together and got rooms at a hotel. I spent several hours with the wizard of Yogesh Cycle Repair (motorcycles, that is.) he recognized that the spokes had been haphazardly laced, randomly tightened and he set to work remedying all. It took effort with no common language, but he finally understood that the roiginal rear rim had an off-set pattern of spoke holes, and when the hub and spokes were rebuilt onto the front rim, the different length spokes were causing the wheel to be off-center. He did some magic with the axle and a spoke wrench. The thing was perfect. As far as I could tell.

I returned to the hotel and immediately recognized a shift in the social dynamic. So I was not surprised when Amy said she wanted to remain in Keylong one more day because the other three Euroeans wanted a rest day. Having had aout a week of "rest" (if you can call chasing after mechanics and inner tubes and doing laundry and logistics a rest,) I was keen to continue on the way, and save the day for better use once reaching Ladakh. To my mind, we had never been on a shared journey, Amy and I. We were just company to each other, each on our own trip, and not always that pleasant a trip either. We each made our position clear. I had no interest in staying another day, and much less interest in merging into a group of five. Three was already enough for me. So I set off alone, having silently pated ways with Amy. 7:20 am and I was cycling away from Keylong on my own.

It was a delightful morning, not yet hot. The ride climbed along one side of the gorge, presenting the opposite side- a wall of Himalaya. Swirled clouds mingled with the domed glacial cap one the first peak, wisps partially obscured others. A long, flat, serrated silhouette slipped past and finally the morning sun hoisted itself above the facing vertical massifs on the other side of the thunderous gorge. The road surface was unpprepared, all loose stone, deep sand and sharp cobble. The grade was pushing my limits and with the sun's rise, the heat was adding to the taks. But to the challenge of riding on my own, I felt a sense of tentative confidence, not afraid of aything at that point. Knowing full well how easy it would be to hitch with a disabled cycle, real or if need be, feigned. Riding slowly uphill in this heat, and resting in the occassional shade, I was in sight of the turning point- the flat top from whence a respite of descent would ensue when I saw that my rear tire had yet another flat. Only 10 kms on. This Indian tube I had been outfitted with was too fat for my narrow American rim, and the valve stem succumbed to the force of being jammed in. Pssshhhsshh. Flat. The remaining spare- with its valve stem layered with three rounds of seam sealer after the Manali mechanic had ripped it when he removed it- also failed, and with it, my plans to cycle to Leh.

After a ten minute wait, first attempt to hitch was fruitful. A Toyota tourist vehichle with two men and a driver stopped. I'd seen it approaching up the switchbacks from a distance, and when I'd dtermined that indeed it had a roof rack, I hailed it. Later, the backseat passenger, Raja, told me that normally they would never stop for someone. "We're bastards, really. But in the middle of nowhere, like this, we had to stop." Initially they were taking me to the next village, just at the bottom of my unridden descent. But we quickly fell into an enlarged group, and after all I joined them as they took a 150 km road trip to the top of Baralacha Pass and back. With my altimeter in hand, I had the chance to scope out an appropriate camp spot for the night, and that's where I got out on the return leg.

My first impression of the thin man in the backseat was that of a rich prince, with his dark Ray Bans and super stillness. He said he was from Bombay and I immediately associated him with a character from Shantaram (although that book is set in Kolkata,) a drug lord perhaps, with his driver and his presumed personal assistant. We enjoyed company that day and I was touched deeply by this remarkable man, Raja and his helpful younger brother. They were no doubt taking a final trip together, as Raja thinness and inertness were not due to some sort of super-coolness, but to a wasting disease. "He has about three months left," said Lakshman, the intelligent and understated driver. Constant diarrhea, debilitating weakness and a skeletal form even under several layers of clothing, he was prone to hypothermis. Unable to leave the car, except when he matter-fo-factly had the car stop so he could "take a dump," he was pleasant, positive and not once complained of his pain, discomfort, or pending demise. He smiled gently and chatted, and played the music of my teen years on a clear stereo, It was unreal, Credence Clearwater, the Allman Brothers and Led Zeppelin full volume, with a dying man on the road to Leh. Although I still don't understand it, I cried for him the whole time during Stairway to heaven.

That night I camped alone. This is one of my biggest fear points regarding solo travel. The camp was perfect. The mountain stream clear. The moon rose full.

For want of a tube, I was not able to cycle. And so I hitched. This second day I rode in an oil truck, my Trek safely nestled in a spare tire in a recessed space above the cab. A Ladakhi man, it was fascinating to watch him negotiate the necessary road-sharing when two-way traffic passes on a one-lane road. From the cycle it always reminded me of two horses meeting and nuzzling each other, as the opposing drivers pause with their heads at their side windows, adjacent, communicating, negotiating, maneuvering; inching past with barely a millimeter's width clearance. Now I saw it up close and personal. "No Tension." "Relax." These are slogans painted on their sun visors. Too bad some of them use local hooch to accomplish this. At the lunch stop, when the bottle came out,I got out, prudently choosing safety. Not only did I want to avoid drinking drivers, I was still attached to increasing my altitude in steps, and this village- if you can call the strip of parachute tent "truck stops" a village- was already 400 meters higher than my previous night, at 4350 meters. I slept in the dhaba on a blanket covered mud platform under the tent that could easily sleep a dozen with two Israelis, and four Brits, and two French. The next morning I rode with students from the International School of Milan on a summer travel program. Several of them were vomitting with headaches, as they increased their sleeping altitudes 1000 meters per night. I could only imagine the liability! I traveled only a couple hours in their caravan, truly heartbroken at missing two passes and one fabulous descent. I got out at Pang and was delighted to find there, Tony and Tim.

Tony had just celebrated his 69th birthday, while Tim, at 57 , was still a youngster. They were cycling superlight and Tony was absolutely generous with his mechanical skill s and... a spare tube. Back in the game! Really glad I had kept to an altitude regime, and thrilled at the next day's prospect: reaching the base of the Tagalang La, the highest pass on this route, and the second highest motorable pass in the world, according to some. 5260 meters. We agreed to camp together for safety and support: they were bivvying, Tim was feverish and coughing, and I had the stove for cooking. In the morning we climbed up to the Moray Plains and passed the sandy dusty flat stretch which ended with a headwind. Two flats, but by know I could fix them with my eyes closed. Tony had gotten ahead when we passed a road workers' officers base. Although I was well-equipped and keen to camp, Tim clearly needed to avail himself of the apparent resources, and with a little sweet-talking and pleady sort of femal eyes, he was able to get in a bed and sleep sleep sleep. They fed us a hot dinner and everything seemed great. But in the morning, my tire was flat again, the previous day's punctures having joined together into a tear. A short reprive. Tim rode off in the cool early morning and I had a breakfast of canned mackerel in tomato sauce with fresh chapati.

What had taken so long to recognize, dear Liza, was that the Manali mechanic not only botched the wheel building royally, he sliced the inner part of the tire in three places when he removed it, leaving just enough of a shard of metal ply exposed, causing puncture after puncture, from within. The things I learned about bike fixing: Never let anyone do anything you can do yourself. If someone does something, watch every move and question it if need be. Whatever they do for you, check it, check it and check it again. So now I know and so do you.

Next truck and I was sitting in the cab for my last ride before Leh. The driver let me out to take pictures at the top of this fourth and highest pass that I didn't ride over, and stopped in the beautiful village of Rumtse while he and his helper scrubbed and polished the truck under the gushing pipe that seemed installed so high for just that purpose. I was transfices by the scenery. Stripes of burgundy and stone at juxtaposed angles comprised the rising mountains. Below, a turqoise river bounced along next to emeral fields with canary blooms. All under the electric, day-blue, altitude sky. You'd be a clown to dress like that, and even in nature, it made me smile. This truck spent several hours at the weights and customs station while I ate the best mutton fried rice with cilantro, carrots and onions ever. He then passed me off to another driver as he was ot going all the way to Leh. He was the only person to ask for payment and I willingly handed him a 100 rupee note- about $2.50. The next truck stopped just 14 kms short of Leh to was his truck oposite the sign "Please Do Not Wash Vehicles or Clothes." Having been through that already, i hitched from the wrong side of the narrow road, crowded with truck wshers, next to the throngs doing their laundry.

As good fortune unfolded, three local boys took me in their pickup and after doing an errand, they helped me find a room in Leh. i paid them handsomely after shanghaing them for an hour as every single place we checked, from the first to the nearly the last was booked, full, no room. I ended up in the most delightful corner room with the sound of the prayer wheel bell and the lcal stream filling my soul as I rested in leh. I reached it by myself. But as you see, not alone.

30,000 feet and Climbing

Food and Shelter
Over pizza with some very young Brits last night, we were discussing how we journal our travels. I told them about the little calendar boxes I draw in my notebook and how I write just a few keys words to remind me of the day and the place. Usually it includes what I ate. Unless of course, it was more dal bat. If you’ve traveled in the India-Nepal part of the world, you are familiar with this plate of food. For those who travel vicariously, I will explain. It is a nutritious vegetarian serving of chapattis (fresh whole wheat flat bread) ) rice, soupy lentils or other bean things, and a bit of curried vegetables, usually including potatoes. This is lunch or dinner and costs about 80 cents per plate. Usually, seconds are offered as well as chili chutney. Since food varies little in many parts around here, that is what we eat. And parantha for breakfast, which is the same dough with onion and leftover curried potato folded into the middle, but cooked not dry, as chapatti, but with oil or butter fat, on a griddle. Thank God for Kit Kats, which we found being sold in some of the oddest, out of the way places.

And we’ve stayed in some really out of the way spots. It’s amazing how I took pity on the young Nepali road workers who live in stone hovels along side of the national “highway.” But after sleeping a couple nights in similar tarp-covered, mud and stone huts myself, I don’t think of it as such low accommodation after all. Yeah, the wind can be violent in its loud flapping, and you emerge the next morning with a fine, sparkly silt coating- but earplugs and a sense of fashion negate those problems easily. These impromptu beds are found in Dhabas, which are truck stop/cafes found about every 20-30 kilometers along the way. They offer a few sleeping spots- some separate and also communal with the family. They sell soft drinks. They sell Kit Kats. They sell dal.
But currently, it’s no dal for this doll, for I’m in Manali, the Israeli magnet full of delicious western food. Yesterday was cappuccino and mocha fudge cake for breakfast, batter fried Indian cheese balls for lunch, and fresh tomota soup and full on vegetarian pizza for dinner. Tonight I’m planning on nachos with guacamole for the first course, and hot fudge banana split for desert. And I started the day with a hot, melty, chocolate chip cookie. I actually bought two: one for me and one for Raju, the local man who has been my savior. Unfortunately, during a 2-minute stop to check out a map shop on the 3-kilometer way down to the bustling-with-Indian-tourists area called New Manali to meet Raju, I set my rear wheel and pannier down with his wrapped cookie on top. Next second the shopkeeper said, “I think that dog has taken your food,” whereupon I grabbed his broom from his hand and roared and growled at the full-sized German shepherd that had run off with the contents of my yellow napkin. He dropped the cookie. With the 3-second rule, in effect, (which could easily be expanded to 3 minutes when the cyclists’ rules are applied) I promptly retrieved it, thinkg all the while that probably Raju would not want to eat it after all. But the dog, faced with his loss, decided to charge. Bluff charge? I don’t know. But it was a beating, barking commotion that drew a crowd, including the dog’s presumed Master. “Your dog stole my food. It was a present for down side. 20 rupees!” I yelled. In the end I’m not sure who was shaking more. The shopkeeper said I gave that dog the scare of his life. “And he, me.” I refused the 20 rupees and trembled back to the road to continue on my way down to Raju, short a cookie but long on tale.
I heard about Raju through Cass, from Out There Biking. I knew about Cass from his bike touring website and wrote him a desperate plea for assistance when it became apparent to me that my rear rim was cracked, making the rear brake completely unusable and seriously jeopardizing my safety if not the remainder of the trip. End of story: the hub, cassette and 32 spokes on my rear wheel were rebuilt onto the front rim. The front hub, spokes and quick release were donated to the universe. And I am now sporting a fancy, blue Indian front wheel, complete with 36 shiny, twisty spokes. $3.70 to the wheel builder, $36 for the new wheel, and about $18 in gratuity for Raju’s time and generosity. When we head back over Rohtang Pass tomorrow, I will be able to ride with the confidence that has been missing since we first set out. Much as I hate to admit it, I know I left Alaska with this crack in my rim.

Kaza to Manali, Over Kunzum La and Rohtang Pass
July 4 we rode a short and gentle day, climbing 483 meters, on the first stage of crossing the 4551 meter Kunzum La. Amy agreed to try camping that night, and we settled just off the road, not far from the cement irrigation canal that watered the lifeline of crops on the plain falling away to the gorge-hidden headwaters of the Spiti River, which we’d been following for the past week since leaving the Satlej. The small village of Hul was just two-thirds of a kilometer away, which gave me a calm feeling and brought Amy unease. We’d spent over an hour there, trying to teach the local children how to fly the kite Heidi gave me at the Kayak Symposium ending party in June. Or rather, we were trying to learn how to fly it so we could teach them. There success was irrelevant. Just running through the dreary, dusty landscape with this brilliant rainbow of crisp new nylon, 20-foot tail streaming behind, brought sunshine and laughter to their cooperative, turn-taking faces. It was the perfect place to lighten my load for the climb ahead. I slept soundly, at 3739 meters, enjoying the rhythm of sleeping and waking according to the natural light.

July 5 was another short day with a 549 meter climb, as we rolled into Losar in the mid-afternoon. Dismal at first glance, it evolved into one of the loveliest of stays. The woman who ran the place was a great cook with a warm spirit. We were fortunate to share our little sidewalk eating-seating (inside was rich with atmosphere, prayer wheel, candles and dark wood, but permeated with a thick layer of kerosene) with Hamisch and his partner. He was a tinkerer and persistent, which meant that the broken seat post bolt that Amy suffered that afternoon was finally repaired after three attempts. Eartlier a man about Dhaba had located a spare bolt with matching threads. Too bad it was not a hex head, for it needed to be tightened into a recessed part of the seat clamp. I wasn’t successful in locating washers- which I later realized could be pilfered from Amy’s spare brake pad set- and in the end, the local man tightened the bolt so hard it bent. She rode only 20 meters before she was on a rocking horse on wheels. Pedaling with sandals on clip-less pedals didn’t make things any easier. Before we met Hamisch I tried filling the gaps with finely rolled duct tape wads, clamping the whole thing together with zip ties to reduce the rock and roll. It was effective but far from perfect. Third time’s a charm.

July 6 was a full day. Riding over the Kunzum Pass was actually quite easy. We spent time at the temple and were treated to tea by the local caretaker. We then were accompanied by another local as we attempted the recommended shortcut to Chandra Tal (Moon Lake). Not recommended. After forty minutes of floundering, pushing up a scree traverse, the encroaching weather drip sense into us. We made a hasty retreat back to the temple where there was just enough time to dress in full weather gear before descending 400 meters in the blowing rain. Visibility: 5 meters. A Hindi sign about 8 kilometers down was the only clue that this was our turn-off to the lake. No food and lots of climbing made for my most challenging day. We knew there was a dhaba at the lake but we never found it until after I’d cooked one of our emergency meals- potato soup with coconut milk, and instant beans with crackers. Amy’s late evening reconnaissance mission at least gave us hope for the morning. The next day was the most beautiful, as I circled the lake on the high ridge out, and shoreline back. The winds were truly breath-taking, but they blew out before dawn, leaving a silent turquoise morning, punctuated only by a vocal, orange, migratory Siberian duck.

July 8 was a very short ride to the dhaba at Batal- a strategic move to place us in position for a dawn departure before the impeding headwinds. We spent the afternoon watching busses and jeeps unload their charges briefly for a rice dal feeding and a hunt for some toileting privacy. Earplugs were in order for some sleepable quiet.

July 9 was three separate 17 kilometer stages which brought us finally to the base of Rohtang Pass. This was undoubtedly the most difficult of road surfaces, but some of the most rewarding in scenery. Our first stop was initially disappointing as there was no longer a dhaba, and the government rest house caretaker clearly felt no obligation to entertain us. A bit of insistence on my part convinced him to offer us tea- delicious with sheep milk, a first for me. A series of name-dropping: the Losar proprietess was his auntie, the Kunzum local guide was his nephew- and he was scraping the remains of his fine breakfast curry into a pot to serve us with re-heated chapattis, Gifts exchanged and we departed refueled in both body and soul. The second stage took us to a proper daboa where we met Ollie, a mad Englishman who cycled our route in the oppositie direction of a bike more sad than mine. Pieced together from a parts heap at Raju’s shop, it had only the rear brake in working order, a rim tied- yes, tied- with string a broken crank, and who remembers what else. They had just little day packs and rode with power until they found a dry bed each night. Chow mein at the daba was a delicious break from lentils and rice. The final push involed two long, but not scary, water crossings and two unexpected but not insurmountable climbs. We finally arrived at Gramphoo, the crossroad to Leh and Ladakh north, our destination, and over the Rohtang Pass to Manali south, our detour.


July 10- an easy two and a half hour climb up to the Rohtang top. Physically easy, that is. I had an early morning meltdown, shouting a variety of curses- none repeated- at each of the passing army convoy vehichles who took there half (of the road) out of the middle while I was perched on a skinny outside ledge. I regained composure and made the rest of the climb without incident. Until we reached the zoo at the top. At first I found it entertaining- all the Indian tourists who spend the day going up “to the snow.” There are some dirty snow fields that persist through summer up there. These families and newlyweds and groups of friends hire jeeps to come up and spend the afternoon strutting in rented boots and fur coats and snow suits. They ride ponies around the stupas along the ridge. The eat overpriced corn, grilled over little charcoal fires. They teeter on snow and manage to ignore the dust, the mud, the noise and the stench of belching trucks and motorbikes, passing with dangerous speed in these crowded confines. Oh, and did I mention the road construction? Occasional bulldozers digging giant holes, uncontrolled and seemingly never finished. But that was nothing at all compared to the descent. One-lane, monsooned, muddy mess of a road, with non-stop trucks and busses and motorbikes and more and more jeeps and tour vans and private cars coming up and going down all in the one-lane quagmire. With two enormous vultures hovering only feet overhead as they swooped and glided in slow motion, presiding over the stillness of the natural world that they saw, ignorant of the clamatous chaos surrounding them. I lasted about 8 minutes. A kind man had his driver stop, “I’ve cycled 10,000 kilometers in India” he said. In the end, he stopped one of the ”goods carriers” that was returning empty from Leh and within minutes, Amy and I were holding on for dear life in the lurching metal hull with our bikes carefully insulated by our panniers underneath. It didn’t last too long, for at the first stop- two cars cannot pass at the same time on these roads, there is always negotiation and often backing up- I ran to the front (which side is the driver’s side here anywhay?!) and he and his two helpers made room for us in the cab. A white-knuckled descent, when were were not a a standstill. 10 minutes in one place left me skeptical as we watched water run through the newly-bulldozed earth on the bank to our left, which then catastrophically rebalanced with a mini landslide. The pile of rubble in front of us was building and the consensus eventurally led the driver to cancel his patient waiting and make an assertive move out of that tenuous spot. He was careful and kind, and despite an occasional scream or eye-closing, breath-holding moment, we safely descende and were gently deposited in this bustling town of Manali where there is no shortage of good things to eat.

Peo, Pooh, Tabo, Kaza

Sounds not like the villages they are, but like names for puppies. If Amy had her way, she'd be giving these names to the countless dogs she'd take home to Alaska with her. The are everywhere, and luckily, they are docile and gentle. They know where their next meal will come from. My next meal will come from the restaurant across the street from this internet cafe. It serves better western food than many US establishments. And everything is fresh. We're staying in a 5 dollar a night guest house with a wonderful rooftop space. Last night of us random travellers- 2 cyclists, 3 motorbikers, 4 bus riders, from the US, Scotland and Israel, all shared beers and watched shooting stars under the warm, breezy night sky. And that experience pretty much defines this part of the trip: lots of travellers are making their way on this route, and we seemed to have fallen in synch with several, meanng that we meet up in each new town. That has it's pros and cons. Seems the only locals we meet these days are the ones we interface with through commerce: cyber cafe operator, restaurant owner, hotel proprietor etc. It is distinctly lacking in family life, children and genuine cultural exchange. I've had to shift my goals on this bike trip, focusing more on the riding and less on the cultural contact; more on the ease and less on the camping.


We left Rekong Peo with a fortunate event- the pound of cookies we'd bought the evening before were still there at the bakery where we'd left them, and so we were able to head of of town with certain refreshment for the day's ride. That said, this was the most stressful day, and I felt ready to quit. Too many trucks with their endless horn blasts, scary, crumbling, narrow road, continuous light rain. Then we reached the inner line check point- so close to the Tibet border, you need to have your $3.50 paper work in hand- and things became more pleasant. Construction ended and calm remained. Pooh was a lovely night's rest, even if it did entail a late-in-the-day switchbacked, 9 kilometer climb to reach the village. It seems in this vertical Himalayan world, that the only flat surfaces are those terraced from the steeps; going anywhere entails going up. From Pooh we went on to ride our hottest and climbingest day, more than 4000 feet climbing to sleepo at 11,000. The location, "Nako Lake," was funny indeed. As each new group of tourists alit from a bus, you could hear them asking the same thing we did, "Where's the lake?" On the maps it should be huge. In reality, just an algae pond. Still, the village was a wonder of close, winding alleys between Tibetan white-washed, stone and timber dwellings. Calves and dung and stalls and ladders- it really felt like we were somewhere. We took a rest day there, adjusting to the altitude and catching up on sleep. India starts early. Leaving Nako was another thing. We knew there was a landslide to contend with, but knowing that jeeps were able to pass it left us confident. Approaching it was another story. As we neared the final switchback before the impassable section, a natural release occured, sending sand and boulder cascading forcefully to the river below. We tightended our helmets and considered our strategy. Avalanche trained, I determined to pass from safer zone to safer zone, pausing to breathe under each bulging outcropping, hanging above the roadside along the treacherous course. I watched one hard-hatted female worker jog hastily past the most dangerous spot, her baby's unprotected head flopping back and forth as it slept in her back wrap. Another moved quickly, helmet in hand, trusting her prayers to keep her safe. I watched from a safe spot as workmen paused in their task of heaving boulders over the cliff edge to assist Amy in hoisting her bike up and over the rubble. She photographed me in my turn, apologizing for the likely blur due to excessive hand shake. Quite the ordeal. An expansive descent came next, and it would have been a dream downhill cruise, except that the blip in my braking surface had become dangerously pronounced. At this point I believe it is caused by a crack in my rim. Applying the rear brakes caused unpredictable hopping and skidding, to the point where Kamikaze that I may be, I chose to walk (trot) downhill until I reached pavement again. At least there the skidding was more predictable and I could handle the steed. The rest of the ride to the Tabo Monastery was pleasant enough. When we got there, I put Amy's wheel on my bike and determined that the brakes worked fine and the problem is with my rim alone. We spent the morning looking around and had a late start to the day, arriving here in Kaza around 6 pm. I am taking advantage of the first internet in 12 days, and the chance to spend some time alone. Amy went up into the mountains with two American motor bike tourers, one of whom was a big help in diagnosing my wheel problems. Bavo just arrived in town, having taken a quiet day in Tabo alone yesterday. Tomorrow we should head up, or the day after, depending on how the wheel replacement proceeds. In any case, I am looking forward to the opener spaces, the chance to camp, and the bajillions of stars in the high altitude sky.


These four days of riding saw us through to the end of construction and it's dusty roar, to a beautiful landscape reminiscent of Arctic glacial valleys. We continued upstream to the place where the river sparkled in its gravel bed, dancing back and forth in its braided channels. Deep, living green ignited in its brilliance in the terraced villages on both sides of the river. Irridescent barley jiggling in the breeze. Finally, a landscape that speaks to me. Because in the middle, it was two days of rding through rock. If you collect stones, you can understand what mean. It was like taking one of your striped specimens, and blowing it up to the size of a small state, and then miniaturizing yourself and your bike, and riding through the tiny cracks in the rock. Fun, for about five minutes. But worse, was when we passed through the hard rocks and road through the crushed ones. Whole slopes reflected in shimmer-sand grays, above and below to the river, causing my sunglassed and ball-capped shaded eyes to squint from the glare. With temperatures around 100, it was like riding through a not-so-easy bake oven. And then there's Amy, who with every turn of her head proclaimed, "This is beautiful! It's so gorgeous!" To quote a special ed. high school friend, "To reach a zone."

A few faces from the road