Road Filth.
After a couple of days in Phoenix, attending to the quotidian obligations of modern life, I was ready to see something
real. I took off down the Apache trail.
The trail itself defies superlatives...
as it snakes through spectacular mountains,
...on its way to Tortilla Flat. I posted a couple of letters, then had a beer at the saloon, where the bartended told me
some rather bad news: just past Fish Creek, the road was impassable.
Well, we'll just see about that, shall we? Beyond Tortilla Flat, the dirt road rises up to the top of this mesa.
I didn't think the landscape could get much more spectacular than here, but I was soon disabused of this illusion.
After a few miles, I encountered a locked barrier. As it happened, there were a couple of workers there, so I made
some inquiries.
At first they were firm: the road simply didn't exist. There was no way I was getting through. Five minutes later,
I had struck a deal. They wouldn't open the gate for me, but if I could get around it myself, they said they wouldn't
stop me from carrying on.
Needless to say, I made it past the barrier. For scenery, it turned out to be one of the most dramatic roads I've
ever had the good luck to travel. Clinging to the sheer edge of this amazing canyon,
the dirt road wound it's way precipitously down to Fish Creek.
On the other side of the guard rail, the dropoff was a sheer thousand feet...
...down to the canyon floor below.
I took off my lid, and started talking to them. A measure of charm, and before long, I was on my way. I passed a
work crew, who ignored me, then stopped here for a photo. One of the workmen suggested that if the supervisor at
the main works site didn't let me through, I camp at the Apache cave pictured here. If only!
At Fish Creek,
the canyon narrows,
and the road switches back, across this bridge...
...as it emerges on to the canyon floor. Tearing up this sandy track was a blast, until,
...a couple of miles later, where I ran into the stone-faced supervisor. He threatened to arrest me. I took off my lid and
pleaded my case. If he didn't let me through, I'd have to backtrack 60 miles. I travelled 1500 miles to get here. C'mon,
have a heart. I'd have had more luck appealing to the Tin-Man. The supervisor claimed the road narrowed to two feet,
with a sheer drop of 700 feet. It was too narrow to even get a quad through. Quad, I said? My good man, take another
look at what I'm riding. I was tempted to quote Full Metal Jacket: "Get this, little sister, what you're lookin' at here's a
prime example of Alabama blacksnake, but as you can see for yourself, it damn sure ain't too muthafu**in' beaucoup."
His assistant eyed Brünhilde lasciviously, as if to concede the point. Two feet is plenty of room, I insisted. The assis-
tant then told me that someone had tried it a couple of weeks ago, shredded a tire, then tried to sue for compensation.
I assured him that I was not a scumbag. But the supervisor was immovable. I had to turn around, and to add insult to
injury, he followed me back up on his quad...
...till we reached the workmen. It was tight getting past them this time, so I took off the
panniers, took the bike to here, then walked back and carried them up. As if to prove my
point concerning Brünhilde's slender frame, the supervisor was unable to get past his own
crew on the quad. He had to turn around.
That was that. I had to backtrack. At least I had the consolation of passing through countryside like this.
The detour wasn't too bad, either.
