Globe Rathole

Due to the closure of the Apache Trail at Fish Creek, and the resulting sixty-mile backtrack, I was forced to stop
for the night in Globe, AZ. While the town itself had a somewhat funky charm, my hotel was a rathole of such epic
filth that it made the night I spent with the lepers in Agra seem like a stay at the George V. I resolved to get a very
early start. It was still dark, and bitter cold, as I headed east on State Route 70.

An hour later, I was rewarded with this spectacular sunrise.

I warmed my hands for a bit, then continued east to Safford, a fairly non-descript town where I stopped for some
gas. After a restorative cup of coffee, I continued northeast, toward the New Mexico border.

Entering the Apache National Forest, the topography began to change for the better.

I followed this serpentine road, up into the mountains. After several miles of lovely asphalt, I entered New Mexico
and stumbled across this alternative route through the Gila National Forest,

where the austere mountains turned first to dry pine forest,

and finally, to open grassland.

Not the most compelling countryside, but certainly good for making time.

Thanks to the early start, I reeled off 328 miles, arriving in Las Cruces just before sunset.

Apache Trail

Time to do some laundry. Not my favourite task in life.

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,

and desert,

...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.

After turning the corner, I ran into two more workmen. They flagged me down. Did I know that the road was closed?
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.

Loathing Las Vegas

Too ill to move, I barricaded myself on the 24th floor of some faux-luxe monstrosity
in homage to one of my heroes, Howard Hughes.

Without, regrettably, the drugs.

I spent two miserable days in my robe, mixing whiskey, NyQuil, and this lemon I'd picked back in Palm Springs, 

...before deciding I'd had enough of THEHotel. They say, ''What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas." I certainly hope
that's true. It was a dark, rainy day, so reluctantly, I gave up on Death Valley and headed south, into the mountains
of Mordor.

A brisk 306 miles later, I found myself here, just outside Phoenix.

Great roads if you wanna make time.

A stately Saguaro,

...makes a good perch for a hawk. I took the hint, found a hotel, and fell asleep, exhausted.

Lost in the Desert, pt.2

Sunrise at Joshua Tree National Park.

The first traces of morning light, a welcome sight to the desert camper.

After breakfast, I took a ride down Desert Queen Mine road,

which had just, unfortunately, been graded for the year.

There's no desolation like western desolation.

I head north,

out of the park,

and into the inhospitable Mojave.

From this spot, the next services were 96 miles away.

Not a good spot for a flat.

I saw this promising road, but feeling feverish, thought the better of it,

and continued north, past this crater, for another 45 miles, before arriving in Kelso.

This ghost town has a surprising depot that once served the Union Pacific railroad.

Now, it's a museum, and a diner, where I had some blackberry pie and coffee.

The stationmaster's office, Kelso, CA.

A suitcase, but whose?

One of several historic posters on display.

This holding cell...

sits opposite a defunct Post Office.

No doubt about it, the Mojave desert is a tough place to survive...

But I had beastie, so it was a piece of cake. By now, my head was throbbing, I had cold sweats, and I pretty much
wanted to die. I had planned to camp in the Mojave for a day or two, but it simply wasn't happening. I hit it from Kelso,
pinning it across the windswept desert, heading north. I needed medicine, a bath, and a bed. In short, I needed civilization.
Las Vegas was only ninety miles away. It would have to do.