Yesterday's ride from Oklahoma City was all about crosswinds and headwinds. I'm not complaining, though. I got on the road at 8:30 in the morning and later in the day the city was pummeled by several tornadoes and up to 5 inches of rain. So I'm very glad that I left.
Still, fighting those winds on a 250cc motorcycle can be exhausting, physically and psychologically. And late in the day today, Thursday, the wind was back. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
When I left Albuquerque this morning the winds were still. Interstate 40 climbed for miles away from the Rio Grande Valley. I was headed for Grants, where I would turn off on a long side road to the Zuni reservation. Before Grants, the highway passed through several other reservations – Acoma, Laguna, and others. Various styles of pottery and jewelry originate from these tribes. I have an Acoma bowl, jet-black, with a stylized fox or coyote etched around the sides. It's always been a favorite. And casinos! Almost every tribe has a casino, and more are seemingly randomly placed along 40. I passed at least a dozen of them on my ride today.
Although I was wearing some warmer clothing, it wasn't enough. It was a little cold this morning. Not that it would bother you too much just walking around, but going into that coolness at 70 MPH for hours will really chill you. At Grants I put on some more clothes and took off down Highway 53.
The red rock and juniper country just does something to me. As much as I loved the abundant water in the South, this kind of country makes my soul breathe easy. On I went for miles, climbing steadily higher. I passed the side road to the Bandera volcanic crater and the nearby ice cave, but kept going. I crested the Continental Divide at over 7800 feet. Soon after, a Mountain Bluebird took off from the side of the road. Some distance on the other side of the divide was El Morro National Monument. I took some time here to walk the interpretive trail. A pool at the base of the sandstone cliffs is the only surface water for 40 miles or more, and for a thousand years native Americans, Spaniards, and frontier travelers have carved their names or petroglyphs into the stone.
White-throated Swifts wheeled through the sky above the stone. They love cliffs as roosting and nesting places. This vertical crack at one end of the cliff was perfect for them.
Off I went, through the Ramah Navajo reservation and on to Zuni. There were many beautiful mesas along the way. This one was typical, except for the white sentinel stone standing by itself, on the plains away from the cliffs. It reminded me of an orchestra conductor.
The wind was howling, so for 50 miles I "drafted" a big rig, following closely enough to gain some relief from the wind blast while maintaining a distance where I could brake safely. We passed turnoffs for the Petrified Forest and the Painted Desert. I have been to those places as a small child, but there was no time to visit them today. At Holbrook I drafted another, slower big rig into the town of Winslow. My eventual destination was Prescott and I was going to go there over the White Mountains.
Highway 87 ran straight into the headwinds. It was tough keeping any speed. It crossed the Little Colorado River (just a trickle today) and led out of town across open grazing land, past a state prison and then on toward low hills. There was little traffic. Cedars and sage were the dominant plants, with the omnipresent cheatgrass. Jacks Canyon, a gorge with almost vertical walls and verdant greenery, cut through the dry plains, its top level with the surroundings so that you could only see it when you were right next to it. The road rose gradually and then steeply into the White Mountains and ran for many miles through pine forests. It reached 7400 feet. It was cold! I took a turn on 260 west and soon the road descended out of the pines into oaks and then into desert plant communities. The views were vast and a 6% grade ran downhill for 9 miles. At the bottom was Camp Verde and the Verde River.
Here I had to get on Interstate 17 for a run of several miles before taking an exit to Prescott. That highway was nuts, with many aggressive drivers jockeying to pass slow trucks on a long uphill with headwinds. I dropped from sixth gear to fifth, and even to fourth at one point, looking for more power to keep from being mowed down.
The road from the interstate to Prescott was 30 miles long. It ran through a stretch of chaparral that looked just like something from Southern California, and then got into Prescott Valley, which was also reminiscent of the generic, national-chain landscape of SoCal. I checked into a hotel at the eastern edge of Prescott itself and called my friend Linda. We headed to the historic district and had drinks at the Palace Saloon, the most venerable institution on Whiskey Row, across the street from the town square.
Then it was a nice lasagna dinner, and I was dropped at the hotel to begin blogging. At some point, sleep overcame me before I published my post.
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