CDT - LA to New Mexico
FAMILIAR TERRITORITY
Am I forgetting something? Is the luggage tied down? As I left the comfort of my garage in Playa Vista I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d botched it. To cut down on at least some of the startup anxiety the first leg of the trip was designed to run through familiar territory. The San Bernardino mountain range is right in LA’s backyard, contains two well-trafficked lakes, and features hundreds of miles of OHV trails. I know some of these routes like the back of my hand, and figured this would be the perfect spot to stress-test the equipment and hit some of my favorite spots before wading into uncharted waters.
The “Rim of the World Highway” is the best route up into the area - a winding paved road with panoramic views of the valley. I stopped along the highway at “Haciendas on the Cliff” - an authentic Mexican restaurant cantilevered over the edge. Three massive tacos later I was feeling stuffed, and plugged in the GPS tracks for the next leg. On my way out of the restaurant I ran into my first casual encounter. Per usual I forget his name (Justin? Jason? Dave?), but he asked where I was headed and shared some of his backstory. A former roadie for Barry Manilo, AC/DC, The Rolling Stones, and several others - he talked about his strangest travels and wished me luck. Cool guy. Great stories.
During this time of year the mountains are crowded with LA area transplants, so the plan was to avoid the main drag. I’d ride from Pinnacles OHV area near Lake Arrowhead to my favorite secluded spot - a swimming hole only accessible via dirt trails. The 30-mile route wasn’t long, but is tougher than I expect the roads to be for the rest of the journey. If I was going to break something I wanted this to be the place I did it.
The bike really exceeded my expectations, and I plowed through the 30 miles of sand, ruts, and hill climbs without issue. As I turned the corner towards the swimming hole my anxiety about the journey faded. I parked the bike, changed into swim trunks, and walked down to the water. The spot had all the familiar features. No people. Running stream. Alarmingly cold water. I spent the afternoon swimming and napping in the shade.
On the way out of the area I spotted another adventure rider. Generally I’ve found that for obvious reasons (jobs), longer rides tend to attract the retired crowd. Younger riders are rare, and almost always want to exchange information. I asked him what his plans were for the evening. He was down to hang out and stuck with me for my ride around the lake and out to my campsite. If anything it was nice to have someone to talk to, and it’s likely we’ll link up at some point in the future.
While setting up camp for the first time I righted the wrongs of my packing. Why is the food in a different bag from the cookware? Why are my sneakers at the very bottom, underneath all the tools? Where the f*ck is my tooth brush? With all mysteries solved, camp in place, and the first day in the bag I settled in for the night.
As a sidebar, my travel companion Harold the surfing duck is featured center below. I suspect a month into the trip I’ll lose it and start talking to him like Tom Hanks in Castaway. Either way he’s been stuck in our shower for a long while and needed to get out and see the world. A duck needs to fly.
SKY PARK
This trip isn’t only about motorcycles. To this end, I took the morning to run over to Sky Park - a strange but fun sports park featuring mountain biking, ziplines, archery, rock climbing, and a few other odd thrills. I’d never been before but it was close to camp and offered full suspension rental bikes for cheap. Having been there now, it isn’t for serious mountain bikers (which I’m not anyways) but was great for families and the “Santa’s Village” theme was so bizarre it made it interesting.
The trails were well-marked and well-kept, but the uphill slog to get to the good stuff was brutal. I managed to make the trip up and down five times before cooking my legs, but got a few good runs in on black diamond trails. Per usual the camp of electric bike people looked like they were having more fun and the camp of anti-e-bike people acted better than them. I wished I had the motor assist, but still had a great time getting smoked up and down the mountain by 8 year olds.
PIONEERTOWN
For those that haven’t been to Pioneertown California - it is a trip. Situated just west of Joshua Tree National Park, it is a novelty built in the style of an old western town. A saloon. An Old-timey jail. A General store. Someone went the full nine yards. I’d ridden past once before, but due to COVID restrictions couldn’t get the full Pioneertown experience. I booked a stay at the Pioneertown Motel for the evening and set off.
As is typical the dirt roads to get there are much more direct and enjoyable than the highway. From my site at Crab Flats I meandered around Big Bear Lake, through the town of Fawnskin, and back up through the mountains. Along the way I stumbled on an old log cabin with a sign noting that it was the oldest known structure in the area, The cabin seemed well-preserved, aside from years of travelers carving notes into the logs. The “best carving” award goes to Kyle, who loved Amanda in 2016. I couldn’t help but be surprised that their weren’t any obscenities - I looked for a while for evidence of immaturity but found none.
After the cabin the route became less populated and increasingly rocky. I bounced along at 20 mph, picking my way through the boulders until I hit the eastern edge of the mountain range. An old abandoned mine marked the end of the trail and overlooked a very dry Baldwin Lake. Clearly a victim of ongoing drought conditions, the area was littered with evidence of a once-thriving community. Docks that no longer stretched to the water. Boats in storage. A jet ski stuck in the mud. I kept on riding - there was another route that connected to Pioneertown.
40 miles later Pioneertown came into view. I pulled into the Motel, dropped my gear, and went out to town to take some photos before the sun dropped over the horizon. The town itself was busy, and I noted that the clientele were evenly split between LA natives and locals. The difference was easy to spot. 22 year old woman in full makeup taking selfies in the street? LA. Old man with thick beard, bandana, and a ratty T-shirt? Local.
The design of the town was gimmicky, but done well for what it was. I appreciated the wit in a few places. The signs at the edge of town read “hoof n’ foot only.” If you acted up in the Saloon they would send you to “jail.” A local in full western garb approached me,
“Do you want to hold a baby rattler?”
“Like the snake? Yeah - let’s do it.”
He took me over to a barrel labeled “Baby Rattlers” and asked me to rummage inside blindfolded. I did, felt something, pulled it out, and couldn’t help but laugh at the cheesy joke. The barrel was full of infant toys - “baby rattlers.”
I stopped into the most popular spot in Pioneertown - “Pappy and Harrietts.” The line for a table was out the door, but being solo can have it’s perks. I sat down at the bar and had a chat with the bartender. Born and raised in Joshua Tree, she explained how Pioneertown started and how it has grown. Originally the place was just fun for the locals - a kind of “getaway” party experience akin to someone setting up a themed camp at Burning Man. After a while a new owner purchased the land, saw dollar signs, and commercialized it into something more like Disney Land for LA tourists.
The food was surprisingly good, and out back an indie rock band started to play. The show was killer, and I made friends with a bachelorette party. They were on a mission to take tequila shots with every man at the bar and I regretfully took part. The band’s female vocalist and lead guitarist really shook the house down - most people stayed until 11 when they stopped playing. The music reminded me of a less established Dead Weather - all original and certainly not what I expected to hear at a local bar.
IT BURNS
The stretch from Pioneertown to the start of the Continental Divide Trail in New Mexico was always going to be brutal. There is simply no way to get to Colorado from LA without passing through the Southwest, and due to how high the mountain passes are in the rockies the trip must be done in summer. The options are Death Valley (the actual hottest location on Earth) or Arizona.
I prepared as best as I could. Water. Electrolytes. SPF 50. I figured I’d follow the rules of riding in heat, take a lot of breaks, only travel before noon, and everything would be fine. Up until about two weeks prior to departure Phoenix was still only in the high 80s. The weather abruptly shifted a few days before I started, and at the time I passed through there was an “extreme heat warning” and record-setting highs of 118.
I left Pioneertown at 7am and glanced at the weather report on my watch - 60 degrees. The first 120 miles were comfortable and scenic. I crossed through Joshua Tree National Park, riding past towers of boulders and vast expanses of the iconic Joshua Trees. Feeling cocky, I found a turnoff where I could pull the bike out into the wilderness and snap a good picture. Two minutes after I stopped a park ranger pulled up to ask if I was lost - fun spoiled. Off-trail riding is strictly off-limits inside the park.
As I crossed into Arizona things started to go off the rails. The heat rose and my tolerance for it dropped dramatically. I could only ride 50 miles. Then 30. Then 10. About halfway to Phoenix the landscape changed and offered no escape from the heat. No rocks. No cactus. No brush. Nothing but sand and tumbleweeds, and no shade as far as I could see.
118 degrees is otherworldly. Sweat evaporates before it exits your body. The shade can’t save you - the air is warmer than your blood. Fuel started pouring out of my tank because it had expanded to fill the volume. My bike tipped over at a gas station because the asphalt melted underneath the kick stand. The soft plastic on my luggage straps turned to goop. It simply isn’t rideable, and I couldn’t help but think to myself “Why do people live here?!?”
I threw in the towel at a rest stop about 50 miles from Phoenix. Heat at 115 F - the safest option was to wait out the day in a place with food, water, and a way to cool down. A nice family saw me sitting and took mercy - offering oranges, ice cold water, and company.
The conversation started with an odd suggestion. “You want me to watch your stuff while you go to the bathroom and run sink water over yourself?” Her hair was wet, and it was clear she’d taken that route successfully. “Yes please.” I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of that, but it was heavenly and no one in the bathroom seemed to judge me for it. We sat and talked for a while about my trip, their travels, and their future plans. They were headed to Texas from Lake Havasu. She was a seasoned international traveler, and told a few good stories about the trials and tribulations of traveling with only your 10-year-old daughter. It was a pleasant break.
Eventually I made it out of that rest stop and to a cheap Phoenix motel. I sat in front of the AC vents for an hour, then fell asleep.
ON TO THE TRAIL
Sometimes Mother Nature simply says “No.” I’m sure southern New Mexico contains beautiful countryside, but during this heat wave there was no way to experience it. I swallowed my pride, took a day off to rest, and pushed on to Grants, New Mexico, where I could pick up the trail 30 degrees cooler.
The highway route wasn’t particularly interesting, but I did stop briefly in Toto National Forest to snap photos and become one with the cacti. With the first week in the bag I’m looking forward to the cooler and more life-supporting landscape to the North. Time for a rain dance.
