Corrie's Blog originally posted on Free Conversant 25 Mar 2008.
I'm not a tourist. I love to ride all day, but I want a soft bed and a
hot meal at the end of each day. Tent camping is not high on my list of
fun things to do. But Doug, Scott, Jen, and Steve finally won me over. I've retired and so have run short of excuses. So, I bought a Burley
Nomad trailer, put aside my dread of the long hours driving to and from
Death Valley and said, "Okay, I'll take the Garbage Out!" But just as
for Sarah Cynthia Silvia Stout, it was too late. Here's the rest of the
story . . .
I Should have listened to my mother. If I had, though, I wouldn't have
been dragging a fully loaded trailer over 18% ascents through thick
gravel, descending corduroy roads trailer bouncing behind through
geologic time, or changing my soaking clothes in a filthy men's room
in Beatty, Nevada while I shivered and the urinals overflowed."Don't talk to bad men." I should have listened. Doug tells me I must unveil the tale one day at a time so I'll begin
with the cast of characters today. Look for more pictures and adventures
to come.
Cast of Characters
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| Doug | |
Doug seems like a pretty sane guy. He likes to take it slow down
hill--sees no point in risking injury. I like that. Still he does have that questionable tendency to just take off on a trip
which got me into that Weiser River trip last fall. When his mind is
set, he's gone. Several times he'd finished dinner and just left. He'd
get up some mornings before dawn and just go for long walks in the
moonlight.
Suspicious behavior for sure. And then there's the story of Doug's
Waitress. I'll save that for later. For now, I should note, I should
have recognized the bad man in Doug much earlier.
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| Scott and Jen at Rhyolite |
Scott is Doug's friend and former boss from work. They've had 14
years to develop their bizarre relationship. Scott has joined us for
rides a couple of times being laid back, never pushing the pace. Who
knew he liked to hurt himself? He's run ultra marathons and while they
might be in his past, his fundamental masochism showed up on this trip.
His dérailleur became fouled so that he couldn't use the smallest front
chain ring--granny. He made the toughest climb up Towne Pass in his
middle chain ring. In camp he decided to fix the problem which he did revealing that he not
only had carried two large cameras and a lot of water but also a
well-stocked set of bike tools meant for the bench. Scott pulled two links from his chain earning him a front granny but
losing the two largest gears in back. So did he use that granny gear to
climb from Stove Pipe Wells to Beatty on the last day? "No. Where's the
fun in that?" He might just as well have said, "Hurt me again."
Jen is Scott's fiance. She and Scott are both trained Adventure
Cycling leaders. She also helped organize the Idaho Bicycle Ride last
year. She has, however, never pulled a trailer before. She probably
outweighed her bike and loaded trailer, but not by much. Doug claims he heard her complain a time or two on the big pushes and in
the cold, but I never did. And she took more than her fair share of
pulls. If she's marrying Scott, she's likely a very dangerous woman.
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| Steve on his Gunner |
Steve quit his job to ride across America a couple of seasons
ago. What else do I need to say to show you how dangerous he is? Well,
maybe that his training plan for this ride was a century ridden after
having recovered from breaking the L1 and L2 vertebrae. He figures the
best way to get back into cycling shape is to do his first ever
fully-loaded mountain bike tour. He even bought new front rack and
panniers for this trip. Definitely not safe and sound of body and mind.
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| That's me, the novice tourist on the right (Scott on the left) |
Corrie has studiously avoided buying any bike that could
reasonably be used on a tour. Some how I fell into this bad company. I
don't like to drive farther than than the distance I'm going to bike, so
what was I doing 900 miles from home with a freshly purchased Burley
Nomad hitched to my mountain bike? Critical mass. With McCracken and Goodenough lobbying for tours and
actually doing them and my having no good excuses, I gave in to their
blandishments.
I should have listened to my mother.
Travel to Death Valley Begins:
"Shorts weather," I reported stepping from Scott's Telstar circa 1989 RV
onto the pavement in Beatty, Nevada on the 16th of February, 2008.
It hadn't been shorts weather yet. In fact we were all prepared for
cold. Scott inherited the RV from his mother and, while he had made sure
it ran, he hadn't figured out the heating. By the time we picked up
Steve in Payette, it was getting cold inside. Those banks of snow we
could see along the road fromNew Meadows hadn't helped. Maybe the drafty windows had something to do with it too. "It's too cold to sleep," Steve said sitting the table in the RV. Doug
stretched out on the floor with a pillow just for the occasion and his
eyes closed. The RV had a bed but with two BOBs and a Burley trailer,
there wouldn't be much human use of that bunk. On the way back, Doug
made sure to correct that error.
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| The RV's bed covered in panniers and trailers |
Four bikes loaded Doug's hitch on the back, so Steve's Gunner got ride
inside, its rear wheel trying to hide in the bathroom, the front
protruding into the passenger space."I'm surprised the sleeping bags haven't come out yet," Steve quipped. "Too much work to get to them", I thought, nodding off in my seat.
We started in Lewiston about 2, picked up Steve at the National Guard
Armory in Payettte about 7:30 and still had four more hours before
stopping for the night in Winnemucca. Scott and Doug took turns driving.
Several deer crossing in the dark gave us a thrill and Scott reported
some coyote. Four hours and chill to the bone, we pulled into the Motel 6
and Scott switched on the fan. Wonderful. At least there would be a
promise of heat for the morning.
Promise was all it was, however. If you weren't driving or riding
shotgun, that leaky window sucked all the heat out of the RV. We were
treated to bright sunshine and snow capped peaks. Sagebrush dominated
the landscape. Doug promised us a forest but all we saw were
scattered junipers and even sadder Joshua trees.
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| A healthy example of a Joshua tree |
The roadside snow receded as we lost elevation but when we stopped for
gas--this RV doesn't pass a gas station (undependable gas gauge)--chill
winds and icy footing greeted us.
100 miles from Beatty found all the snow gone leaving mere desolation.
The wind was fierce and I began to have second thoughts. "What have I
gotten myself into?" Did I just say that out loud? So now I'm officially chief whiner for the trip. That's okay--the shoe
fits. Doug's a little bummed. He thought whining was his job and now
with Jen having joined TRC he's no longer the youngest member. "I'm
nobody," he complained. Well, maybe he's still chief whiner. In any case
we make Doug a TRC board member back in Clarkston at the business
meeting. You're somebody, Doug. Just who, we are not sure, though.
So light winds and temps in the high 70s took us by surprise in Beatty.
After 15 or so hours of driving, we were anxious to ride out the six or
so miles to Rhyolite--a ghost town which once had 10,000 citizens in
1908.
Rhyolite
Skeptical about putting on short sleeves and shorts after having been so
cold for so long, we nevertheless suited up and headed out. We couldn't
check in yet anyway despite its being nearly three and check in time
being 2. Add that to Doug's Waitress story for later.
Rhyolite is not in the park proper and appears to be on private
property. Don't picture an old west town. The remains are brick and
stone--a school, two banks, and a train station fully restored for a
Hollywood movie. A house made of glass bottles embedded in stucco and a
mercantile nestled together at the other end of town. Chain link fence
marred thet depot and glass house for picture taking but we tried
anyway.
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| Glass House with Scott photographing it |
Glass house and Scott
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| Train Depot |
No chain link fence obscured the impromptu objet d'art we found nearby. An arrangement of statues mimicking
the Last Supper.
The figures were only empty robes in stark white plaster.Also a giant
lego woman knelt in prayer and another ghostly robe held a
bicycle--spooky for cyclists heading toward Death Valley.
But most popular was the ceramic couch with toys and pots embedded. We had to have a picture.
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| Steve reclines |
The five of us hitch up our trailers and panniers (Steve, you know who
you are) and head into Death Valley. We know we'll hit gravel on Titus
Canyon road. But we didn't know how much or how steep. It will be mine
and Jen's first experience pulling a trailer. We won't be cold again until the last day leaving the valley. And
Scott's discovered the window's open, not leaky. It's all good or seems
so . . .
What goes up, must come down. Death Valley Days 2 and 3.
It was Doug’s fault really. At 3500 feet (he’ll tell you 3700), he said,
“I could turn around right now and go back to Stove Pipe Wells and sit
by the pool and drink a beer.”We started day three at sea level in Stove Pipe Wells planning to ride
30 miles over a 5,000 foot pass to Panamint Springs. The climbing began
right out of camp. We had climbed to 5,000 feet twice on day two riding from Beatty at 3200
feet through Titus Canyon over gravel roads and then descending to 0
feet at Stove Pipe Wells. The road was crushed rock, lots of thick sand
and ran one way only into Death Valley. The climbing started gently
enough at 3 and 4 per cent. Jen pulled at 6-7 mph—slightly faster than
I would have liked. Finding the line was tough. Most of the road was too rocky or too soft.
The left side seemed best and since there would be no on-coming traffic,
we took it.
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| Steve and Scott on the road to Titus Canyon |
The park bound traffic, however, was fierce. The most cars the ranger
had ever seen. They seemed to come in caravans of five or six: Pickups,
small SUVs and many rental jeeps.
But the canyon was supposed to be spectacular. It had better be. Traffic
forced you off your bike just when you least could afford to lose
momentum. Deep, soft, shifting granular sand mired you wheels and add
drag to the trailers.
Jen in particular struggled more. Her cross bike’s narrow tires gave her
little purchase and her one wheel Bob trailer seemed to always lean
against her direction. Scott also pulled a Bob. Neither had any
suspension. Though Scott at least had a hardtail. The jarring would only
become worse on the downside. My two wheel Burley Nomad seemed to
stabilize me in the sand especially on the downhill. But more stable
means it can carry more and as a novice I was over packed—not like Scott
with useful tools and lots of water. I had plenty of time to think
about what I could have left behind as I pushed through sand and gravel
up those 18% grades at 1.6 mph.
Steve, on the other hand, has never pulled a trailer. Front and back
panniers and rack for our accomplished road tourist. Though he is out of
shape owing to an enforced period off the bike ‘cause he broke his
butt, his training plan (riding a century) seemed to work on those two
18% pushes in soft gravel. When the rest of us dismounted and struggled
up the grade, Steve stayed in his saddle. . It was his grinning face we
saw as we reached the top of each ascent. “It’s the panniers,” he lamely offered as an excuse.“We’re not buying it,” Doug asserted and that was the last we worried about Steve’s being behind.
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| Scott, Jen, and Steve at the top of Red Rock Pass |
Red Rock Pass, the first of the two ascents leading into Titus Canyon,
is scattered in red dust. No trees or plants grow here. We’d soon learn
not to expect plants anywhere. This is a barren,hard scrabble land
which has only ever attracted minors and gold seekers and a few foolish
cyclists. Now we would get to head down. We worried about braking power
and the stability of the trailers. I had never done a descent with a
trailer but we saw relatively little of the softest most treacherous
sand we had seen on the ascent. In addition the lack of rain meant no
washboardy ruts cutting across the road and leaving huge rocks partly
exposed capable of snagging a trailer wheel. I actually had little
trouble going down. Steve was impressed. Of course, now he thinks I can
go ride more nasty trails.
On the second ascent Steve again performed the miracle of the mount
while I struggled just to keep moving. Doug was closest behind Steve and
came walking back down to help. I was just beginning to wish I had
brought a gun, when Doug pushed my bike a few yards for me. I shewed him
off to help Jen but she had already off-loaded most of her gear to
Scott’s bike. I’d later fix Scott for exposing my weakness, by beating
him into camp. But for the moment, thanks for the push, Doug. Once we made the second descent, Doug’s choice of routes was suddenly
redeemed by geology. Wide canyon walls swept by some ancient sea had
carved through limestone and granite until it opened a chasm to the
valley floor.
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| Steve explores a cavern |
Each bend saw a new striation of water-worked stone looming high in
arched splendor—granite, square blocks, limestone caverns. Strong
afternoon sunlight chiaroscuroed the canyon walls with deep shadows and
shining stone.
“Great choice of route,” Steve complemented Doug. “I forgive you the 18% on the other side,” I added. But now it was 3:30 and Stove Pipe Wells was 20 miles away. Motorists
had been telling us all day that the camp ground was full on this three
day weekend. Would we find a camp spot or go mendicant in the desert?
Only three miles separated us from smooth pavment. We though we could
make it, but we hadn’t counted on a sea of lose gravel for those 3
miles. Doug and I put one foot down and scooted through the sand. Doug hurried off, perhaps, in an attempt to take responsibility for
finding us a camp spot or perhaps because that is what Doug does. I rode
a bit with Steve while Jen and Scott brought up the rear. I hadn’t
planned trying to catch Doug but when I pulled away from Steve and
finally spotted Doug's sturdy form pulling a yellow Extra Wheel, I couldn’t
resist giving chase. I figured we’d trade pulls into camp and secure a
spot together. But when I caught him, he seemed to lose heart. I sped on
to camp arriving in Stove Pipe Wells right at 5:30. It would be dark by
6:00. It took some time for me to figure out the camp situation and both
Doug and Jen had arrived as we learned we’d have to camp in an RV lot.
It didn’t really matter since it was all the same rock. We lacked only a
table.
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| our campsite for days 3 and 4 |
Scott had different priorities. When he rolled in, he wasn’t in a hurry
to pitch tent. Instead he handed out cold beer. He’d stopped at the
General Store—good man.
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| Stove Pipe Wells Village. That's a pool of mineral water on the left. Water was discovered here and marked with a length of Stove Pipe |
Day 3
So it really was Doug’s fault that we turned back on day three. The plan
had been to ride over 5,000 ft Towne Pass to Panamint Springs, spend
the night and then return via Emigrant pass the next day. But Towne Pass
was a different animal. At the bottom a sign warned us to
avoid overheating by turning off our AC.
The sign reported we had 20 miles of climbing. This was supposed to be
an easy 30 mile day. Towne Pass doesn’t switch back giving you relief.
Instead it climbs relentlessly at a steady 6 to 9 percent with some 10
percents sneaking in there. We were fully loaded.
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| Rest stop at intersection with Emigrant Pass |
At 3500 feet we began to see the world more clearly. We weren’t sure we
could do that much climbing day after day and still be able to climb
over Daylight pass to Beatty on Wednesday. When we gave up the idea of
riding back on Emigrant Pass, riding to Panamint Springs didn’t make
sense. Maybe the beer by the pool, was too attractive. Scott, lover of suffering, and Jen chose to continue to the 4000 ft
marker before turning back. Doug and I left immediately. Steve followed
soon. Actually this turned out to be the best decision we could have made. On
the next day, we’d ride the relatively flat 25 miles to Furnace Creek
for lunch and then back. Along the way desert primroses were said to
have made the desert bloom yellow and we’d also have a chance to explore
Salt Creek for the elusive pup fish. But the climb to Beatty looms in the back of our minds. Pavement or no, if it hits 18% again, I’m pushing.
2/19/08 Tuesday day 4. Stove Pipe Wells to Furnace Creek and back 52 miles
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| Mountains abound |
Death Valley lies open before me as I descend from Towne Pass. Distances
are deceiving. Everything seems closer than it is. The rim of mountains
around the valley seem easily reachable. They are not. I'm doing 37 mph, my nomad trails smoothly unnoticed behind me. I brake
only to avoid RVs whose own brakes stink. The grade is 9% and probably
more.
The narrative of our Death Valley Days has taken a darker turn. We had
planned to ride over Towne Pass and return the next day. Instead good
sense prevailed and we turned back.
We consoled ourselves that this was not a defeat. We planned a better
ride to Furnace Creek which promised flowers, flowing water, and perhaps
the pup fish. But the truth of the matter was that we had been turned
back from one pass and had no alternative but to ride another just to
get back to Beatty and our RV. This was beginning to sound like one of
those disaster stories about pioneers who stumbled into Death Valley.
Those tales never seem to end well.
Our road tourist, Steve, says he now understands the scariest sign a
cyclist might see is that "
Avoid Overheating; turn off your AC" we had
spotted at the bottom of Towne Pass.
Conversation always seemed to turn to that final climb up Daylight Pass
to Beatty. We wouldn't take our trailers to Furnace Creek and the route
to Beatty was reputedly easier there. We could let Scott return to
Beatty to retrieve the RV and rescue us. We are a sturdy lot. Steve likes the challenge of a hill and promises us
that he will be able to get over Daylight Pass. I'm not so sure about
myself but none of us want to be rescued yet. We might unhitch the trailers, cache them, and ride on to Beatty without
their weight coming back in the RV. Some version of that scenario
allowed us to rest and enjoy the day ride without trailers to Furnace
Creek.
We set out for Furnace Creek light-heartedly. This would be 50 miles
round trip with no major climbs though we'd see sea level from both
sides descending as much as 242 feet below it.
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| Jen and Steve pose at the below sea level sign |
We stopped at Salt Creek and hiked the board walk 8k along a flowing stream of surface water in the desert.
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| Salt Creek |
All this had once been a fresh water lake but salination increased as it
dried. Few creatures could make the relatively sudden transition from
lake to desert. Only the pup fish evolved and survived in this one
strange phenomenon of a flowing stream of salt water starting nowhere
and ending there as well. Sadly, the pup fish is subject to predation by
the Blue Heron and has learned discretion. We couldn't find even one.
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| Jen, Steve, and Corrie walking the board walk |
Furnace Creek is the largest development in Death Valley. It loses
something by gaining manicured date trees and palms and a golf course.
We sat at a park bench and ate dates from Death Valley date trees which
Doug plundered and taught us the eating of. They are much smaller than
dates you'd buy but just as sweet. Lunch was good and uncharacteristically so was the service.
Doug's Waitress--wait for it.
Along the route yellow desert primroses scattered thinly along the
roadside and rocky slopes and occasionally mounted a satisfactory
display. Scott poetically called them a river of yellow at the club
business meeting. I think he exercised some poetic license there.
more a puddle than a river
But any show at all of life was welcome and astonishing in this rocky
barren. Rainfall is spotty and so too are the yellow blooms. Apparently
Stove Pipe Wells had not received enough rainfall to stimulate the
desert bloom.
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| Scott, the flower dude |
We enjoyed stopping to take pictures, not pulling trailers, and
occasionally giving one another chase. But always there remained the
question of Daylight Pass and the road out. It's not an adventure if you
know you can do it. It turned out to be both better and far worse than
we had imagined.
| Day 5 "I should have listened to my mother" |
|
|
It's a quarter past 1 and I'm hitting 25 downhill into Beatty. My
acceleration only makes the driving rain pelt me harder. My gloves, long
since soaked through, profid no warmth. My shoes are full of water
despite my having put plastic bags over my socks."We are looking at it with Northwest eyes," I told Scott Wednesday
morning in camp. I had gotten up at three to the usual strong moonlight
in a clear sky, but by 5:30 I began to feel chill in my tent and the sky
had clouded up. A wall of grey covered the northern end of the valley
and another seemed to close in from the southwest."it's just desert fog," I fabricated. Staying in bed wasn't an option, though. Today we would make the climb
over Daylight pass back to Beatty and, we hoped, make at least part of
the drive home.
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| sunrise on the last morning |
We had agreed to go to breakfast before breaking camp, but we had all
lied. We got up earlier than usual and made whatever progress toward
breaking camp we could. I think we were all anxious about the climb and
anxious to get started. Back from breakfast we hurriedly broke camp. The weather wasn't
improving. We managed to head toward the pass about 8:30 trailers and
panniers doing nicely thank you until we hit the bottom of Mud Canyon.
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| making the turn to Daylight Pass |
We took a break and I removed jacket and leg warmers. Was that a drop of rain?
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| Corrie readying for the climb |
A car pulled up, driver grinning. "Anything you want me to haul to the top for you?"
"You can just put me on top, there," I said. But Scott chimed in that
this is "all part of the experience." What a guy, that Scott. A total of 30 to 35 to reach Beatty. We had already covered 8 or 9. We
figured we'd have thirteen miles of climbing. We feared the grade after
Towne Pass though we knew this one only climbed to 4300 feet. Doug scooted off ahead as usual. I was next with Scott and Jen riding
together and Steve taking up the rear. We expected him to come by us
before the top.
The grade was mild if you think 5 to 6 percent pulling a trailer is mild
for much of the way. The light rain actually felt good on my skin. I
felt strong and quickly found a rhythm of spinning that I'd alternate
with a bit more pushing that kept my pace at 6 mph. Just as I thought I was going to catch Doug, though, I had to stop.
Light rain had become the real thing. If I didn't switch to rain gear
soon, I'd be soaked. By the time I had the rain jacket on and plastic
bags in my shoes, Scott and Jen had caught me. We had done about 5 miles
and now it wasn't the grade we worried about so much as being wet and
cold.
Doug stopped at the rest stop at the intersection with the road to
Furnace Creek. I pulled in too and put on my leg warmers. I was warm
enough moving though I had had to drop to 3 and 4 mph by now. Scott and
Jen showed up. Both were cold. We waited for Steve, but by the time he
got there I was beginning to shiver. I told him I had to go to stay
warm. He understood.
Doug and I took off more or less together the rest of the way. No AC
warning on this slope gave me hope that it wouldn't get much worse. Nor
were there any cheery little signs reporting the elevation. No mind. I
had my GPS. I stopped looking at miles, grade, or average pace. Who
cared? What I wanted to know was how many more feet of elevation must I
gain to the top? And it worked. Every few strokes I'd be rewarded by a 1
or 2 foot jump in the elevation. 900 feet, 800 ft I told myself. When I
stopped to wipe the rain and sweat from my eyes, Doug told me it was
4300 feet not 4200 as I had been expecting. Okay, 600 ft, left not 500.
Daylight pass has more turns than Towne. You could make a goal of each turn, each horizon. It helped.
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| That's 4300 feet on the signe in back of me. Do I look wet? |
.
I planned to put on warmer, drier gloves at the top but had trouble
finding them and when Doug said he wasn't stopping, I mounted up and
headed down. Fortunately the steepest section was pretty short and I
didn't suffer much from the cold. I had a couple of landmarks to look
for on the way back to Beatty. One was the Titus Canyon cut off and the
other was Rhyolite. They'd seemed fairly far from Beatty, but now I rode
endlessly before finally passing them. Ahead of me in the drizzle the road way was a shiny ribbon and it looked
to be climbing high and to the left. I don't remember that, I thought.
But an oncoming car demonstrated that, yes, I'd have to climb again. It
hadn't seemed like much on Saturday but soaking wet pulling a trailer
changes how you see the world. That hill was just a false top too. Leveling out a bit, it climbed again before finally dipping down into Beatty.
Cold and wet and anxious to get back to The Nut and Candy Shop where I
knew there'd be a bathroom in which to change, I nevertheless had to
come to a full stop at Beatty's only stoplight. Doug was only minutes behind me and he had a key to the RV. "Watch the bikes," he
said rushing off to the RV.
Steve had made it to that last hill that had hurt me so much before Doug
picked him up. Scott and Jen were still on the Beatty side of Daylight
pass. Walking. Cold, tired, shaky, Jen didn't trust her bike and
dismounted to walk. Scott found his rear brakes wouldn't stop him.
Doug performed his rescue while I peeled off wet layers in a filthy
men's room. The unfamiliar rains had caused a urinal overflow. Black
bags covered the three stations and the floor, though dry, looked
stained. I did my best not to put anything down directly on the floor. Now where's that pair of underwear? NO, it's in the trailer and I'm
naked. So the jeans came on anyway. But by the time I found the
underwear and stuffed them in my pants, maintenance had arrived and
closed the men's room. Damn.
I wanted to sit by the glass doors and watch the bikes, but I couldn't.
Maintenance had a hose running in and kept the door wide open. Dry
clothes or not, I wasn't warm. I don't usually drink coffee but I needed
the warmth. I had two cups.
No bikes! Had maintenance moved them? Why? I confess to a moment of fear
before I realized Doug was back with the RV. Oh, and I corrected the
underwear problem in the RV before we left. Alive, mostly dry and well, you'd think the adventure was over but no.
It became apparent that we were driving through. Scott took a nap on the
bed while Doug continued driving. The heat was working when we left
Steve off in Payette, but it soon ceased. I grabbed my sleeping bag and
crawled in.
My Gps shows 177 miles, 17 hours and 21 minutes riding time, and 14,000
feet of climbing (Probably more 'cause mine shut off for the top half of
Daylight). My average heart rate was 136 but I saw 178, the highest
I've ever seen.
I shoulda listened to my mother.
Doug's Waitress an epilogue
Doug doesn't wear a watch. He'd been known to get up and walk in the moonlight taking desert sunrise photos.
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| Doug's Sunrise Shot |
He often didn't join us at the Tollbooth Restaurant for breakfast either
despite having claimed that at home he must have breakfast upon rising. This morning he had decided to join us with the caveat, "If she's there, I'm not staying." "She" meant Doug's waitress, a dishwater blonde, who as Doug knew was always there.To tell the truth, since leaving Idaho, clerks and service staff had
looked askance at us. It became difficult to get anything more than a
yes or no.
An inquiry at one convenience store about a building on the hill got no response. In Beatty I ordered whole wheat toast which other than in thickness
resembled the sour dough Scott had ordered. The blonde middle aged
waitress had trouble telling one from the other. When I asked about a grocery store at a Food Mart in Beatty, the first
clerk said "No" and kept bagging. The second did stop me to give
directions to two places where I might find some groceries.The desk clerk at the Motel 6 seemed a bit haggard when we arrived at
2:30. We thought we'd check in and then go for a ride. But when we asked
if we could check in she said, "No, check in is at 2 . . er, 3." That
was okay buy us since we wanted to go for a ride. We changed in the RV
and wrote off oddness. In Stove Pipe Wells where we'd arrived at dusk after 7 hours on the
road, tired, hungry and thirsty, the Tollbooth restaurant didn't seem
anxious for our business. Seating by invitation only is one thing but
they took one look at us, granted we hadn't showered yet, held a
tete-a-tete and told us we'd have to wait in the lounge--about 30
minutes. We could see many empty tables.
The lounge was pleasant enough but had no waitress. One had to belly up
to the bar which Scott promptly did. Sometime later I joined him. He's
far more patient than I and took it all good naturedly. I'm sure another
fellow came engaged teh bar keep in conversation, order a drink and got
it. But I can't prove.
We finally did get our drinks (Save Steve who wanted only water but
hadn't bellied up to the bar). Another group were playing pool when
their reservation was called. Scott happily volunteered that we were
ready and would go to dinner, but the pool players were encouraged to
finish their game.
Waiters and waitresses alike seemed unable to distinguish one of us from
another often miss-delivering orders wildly with no seeming clue to
what went where. We didn't really mind that but it did begin to seem
that all cyclists looked the same.
Scott and Jen said they were on one check. The rest of us--three
men--assumed we'd get separate checks. I don't think we made that clear
enough. We got one check. I was tired and didn't want to fool with the
math. I took the check and asked for separate checks. "You'll have to
deal with your waitress," the manager told me.
They didn't like it and the manager told Scott on the way out that we'd
have to ask for separate checks in the future which we were always
certain to do. It probably didn't help that Doug and I had split a piece
of key lime pie. We told the blonde to put it on my check. She didn't.
Instead she brought me Doug's Check. We just paid it. We had clearly
over-taxed her skills.
Tollbooth is the only game in town unless you are satisfied with a
muffin and juice at the General Store which is what Doug did the next
morning. But at dinner we were told "Your waitress will be right with
you, or, your waiter." The tall slender man got clear instructions about
the checks but had as much trouble telling us apart as the blonde. At
the third dinner, however, the place was busy and the manager seated us
in the blonde's area. She asked us if we were the cyclists who had sat
up front. We said we were. She immediately left us to consult with the
manager. No, go, honey. That's your table. Sullen service with your
coffee, anyone?
The manager always met us with a cheery greeting and convivial bonhomme
that I don't like. "How are you kids?" he'd ask. But we never had to
wait again and the checks were always right. Because we had skipped
Panamint Springs, we took about six meals at the Tollbooth.
To be fair, it must be difficult to get good help in the middle of the
desert. We were at breakfast at 7 each morning and at dinner until 8.
The same three people were on duty every time we were there. Long hours.
Short staff. No wonder we had to wait on Sunday during there busiest
weekend. Wonder what the pay's like? Apparently tips might be tough to
come by if you ask Doug.
Oh, yeah, and there was the matter of Doug's bike shorts that first
evening. We had finished dinner and were waiting for the check when Doug
grabbed a fork, pushed back from the table, looked both ways, and
promptly used a tine to release the knot in the string. "Ah," he sighed.
"That's been bugging me all day." Cyclists got no couth.
Doug's Pics on Flikr If he puts up more shots, you'll have to page through to find them but on 2/25/08 they are first in the list.
Corrie's pics on Flikr These point to a folder and should always stay available.
