Cycling Across America #63
The Rio Hondo Valley
Part 63 of the Cycle-Across-America series. (Read from the start in Boston or see the full index)
This excerpt from the journal of the trip is direct from a handwritten section, and documents a dramatic day in New Mexico. It’s my attempt to get the 70 miles from Roswell uphill to Ruidoso on a day that had major headwinds forecast. After a couple of thousand miles on the Plains I was about to start climbing again.
In a beautiful house, in a large bed, with a very full belly of great food, I’m feeling very lucky. So much in just a couple of days. Is New Mexico my favourite state ?
Breakfast at Roswell was a load of pancakes and a load of toast. I knew there was nothing called a town for over 30 miles and I didn’t know if that would really be a town, so I ate well in the same restaurant where I had dinner the previous evening.
Only one other table was being used and it was by an elderly couple who spoke to me about my trip. I’d noticed that the further I go the less impressed people are. They say things like:
- It’s only 70 miles to such a place, or
- You should get there by noon, or as in this case,
- Lots of people have done it - cycled across the States.When I do tell people the route I still have problems justifying Iowa.
The Weather Channel said the wind as I left Roswell was 13 mph from the south and would increase greatly through the day eventually coming from the south-west, which would definitely affect me. On a wide shoulder of a 4-lane for the first 14 miles I didn’t notice any wind and was able to go a healthy 12mph or so.
It was barren. Grasslands. Ahead of me were hundreds of little hills like sand dunes only they were covered in grass. To my right, the north, it was flatter and I could see for miles, especially looking back. What held my gaze the whole time was the Capitan Mountains. They seemed to rise up from nothing to the 10,000 foot peak of El Capitan and then down to nothing again. It reminded me of Rosmuc because of the rockiness of it, and of Nephin because of its presence.
The road I was on, US 70/380 went up and down a lot. Going down would annoy me a bit because it meant I had to climb back up again but then it did help increase my speed over the distance. At times the wind was very definitely there - it depended on the lie of the land as to whether or not I was protected from it. Mostly I was and felt very lucky. Going up and down constantly it’s impossible to know if you’re gaining in altitude at all. I just had to trust that I was. The land in front of me reminded me of Michael Andrews’ paintings of Australia.
The next 20 miles were just a two-lane but I still had my shoulder except when it was taken for the creation of a passing lane going up a slope. Miles ahead in front of me I could see a dark triangle in a line of hills I had to cross over. I reckoned that must be the point where the road goes and the triangle was probably the hill cut away and in the shade.
And that’s how it was. The climb up to this pass reminded me so much of Firhouse in Dublin when I would cycle over the mountain road towards Brittas in Wicklow. About half way up I stopped at the point I usually stopped in Bohernabreena and looked back. I wasn’t looking over Dublin and its bay but the nearest yet I’ve come to seeing nothing.
[The rest of this day is continued below the fold]
I could see for 40 miles, the only break in the grass being the trees that marked Roswell.
I had liked the town. Its centre was busy, much more so than the other New Mexico towns I’d stayed in, but it was still very Western. It was also modern but that was good. My only problem with it was its size. It was the biggest town I’d been in since Lubbock (which I actually didn’t cycle in so really it was the biggest town since Amarillo or maybe Plainview) and that means you’re on big highways and have to stay on them until you reach the motel strip which is a few miles from the centre. The consolation for me was that my motel was the last building almost as you left town so it gave me a head start.
After passing through the gap the road dropped very dramatically for a couple of miles and I had to be fairly careful with the loose gravel on the shoulder. What was actually happening was that the road was entering the Rio Hondo Valley.
Immediately at the bottom I’m surrounded by cone shaped hills of gravel with little tufts of yellow grass on them. The clouds I’d been under all morning now cleared and the deep blue sky was the perfect backdrop for these striking hills. The town of Sunset was due shortly.
I’d gone 31 miles and my mouth was so dry. I was thirsty more than hungry. Two buildings. One a pub/restaurant. Only one other person in there, at the bar.
- Could I get something to eat ?
- Yes.
- What ?
- Burger and fries.
- ThanksHis grill was in the middle of the room and the burger was fine. Coke and water took care of the thirst. On the television that young 11-year old girl artist getting world attention presented Whoopi Goldberg with a print. The lads couldn’t tell why she was supposed to be good. They likened it to the imprint left by a dropped pizza. I said nothing.
Above my head on the wooden slatted ceiling was about 150 one-dollar notes. They all had people’s names and sometimes dates written on them. I didn’t add to this, perhaps because the bartender was so unchatty. He’d kept me waiting for my drink for ages as he walked around the place everywhere talking on the phone to a friend.
The next town was Picacho. More buildings including another restaurant. The valley was gorgeous. the rounded hills were dotted with rounded dark green bushes. Beside me on the slopes to my right were cacti formed from oval shapes joined together to make limbs, and sometimes just sheer rock. The river was below me to my left and on both sides of it were trees.
Trees. Only in towns had I seen trees for the last couple of thousand miles. Poplar trees. I counted 35 of them in a row at one point. Orchards and ranches. The road was dotted with fruit stands selling apples, cider, honey and red chillies. 6 miles on was the town of Tinnie. Like Picacho this had a Post Office.
The sun played on the surrounding hills so much, the shadows giving great contrast and also more colour to the slopes as they played on the little round bushes. The bushes looked like they’d been fixed to the hills by Velcro.
4 miles on was Hondo. This is where the Rio Ruidoso and the Rio Bonita meet to form the Rio Hondo. At times the wind in the valley was ferocious and would hold me still, or pick up a load of dust and throw it at me. Then it would quieten somewhat again and I’d meander on slowly at 9mph.
The wind was getting stronger and more frequent and clearly was coming from the south-west although I knew I’d been protected in the valley to some degree. Sheltering briefly from the wind and the dust I stopped at a gas station in Hondo to load up with drinks. I was now okay for the rest of the trip.
US 70 and 380 split with the rivers and I was now tempted to go north-west to the town of Capitan rather than south-west to Ruidoso. This was for two reasons. First the wind would not be in my face, and second a sign told me that Smokey Bear Motel was only 20 miles in that direction which was at least 3 miles nearer than Ruidoso. But I decided no because I wasn’t sure I’d be able to go over the mountain road necessary to leave it the next morning.
Smokey Bear, the burned cub found up a tree, originated over there in the Lincoln National Forest near Tucson Mountain. He then became the nation’s symbol for fire protection.
4 miles on was the town of San Patricio. Down below the road was a little Spanish church. This town was famous for being ransacked by a posse chasing Billy the Kid in the Lincoln County War, and more recently for being the home of Peter Herd the artist who lived there until very recently. The wind had me now going very slow and I was in danger of not making it before dark.
The next historical marker was near the town of Glencoe. It marked the site of where Tunstall the English businessman was murdered. This is what started the Lincoln County War and the marker referred to Billy the Kid’s (William Bonney’s) Regulators, and the Murphy/Dolan faction. The Spanish had been here long before all this but they weren’t getting a mention.
With the wind in my face I was now going 5mph and sometimes not moving. I was now hoping there would be a motel outside the town, this side. The perfect blue sky I’d had for 20 miles was gone now as big dirty clouds sped in.
I was still passing fruit stall and the valley was still beautiful. The bushes were getting bigger and larger, resembling trees, and they were getting more plentiful. I was beginning to accept that I was surrounded by mountains and not by hills.
When the sun went behind clouds I was glad as the glare had been blinding me and I wondered if it was blinding drivers behind me. Now it was cold and I put my jacket and visibility vest on. Then I reached Fox Cave.
This was Billy the Kid’s hideout. I looked at it for 5 minutes - it was closed - and continued up the hill/mountain. Across the road was an R.V. park but nowhere for someone looking for a motel. I did not want to be climbing a winding mountain road in the dark. And the shoulder all but disappeared. I was fighting concern as much as the wind. The cars now all had their lights on.
Then the valley broadened and I could see the town. I thought. The wind increased in this space if that was possible. It was the outskirts of the town but I still had 6 miles to go before I’d reach any motels. I had my lights on and there was now a shoulder again. A mile further on a pick-up truck going the opposite direction stopped and a man asked me if I wanted a ride into town. Without hesitation I roared - Yes please. He turned around and I jumped in.
Dave took me to the Super-8 as I requested and invited me to meet his “drunk wife for a drink”. Unshaved and unwashed I threw on some clothes and called Kansas City to arrange the signal home to Ireland that I was fine.
Ruidoso, New Mexico, altitude 7,000 feet approximately. Population 7,000 permanent or in high tourist season 30,000. Driving through the town it was like Christmas. In the dark I could make out all these little, mostly wooden, buildings, with lights dotted around them.
We went to Wayne’s Place. Horses were largely the theme of the pub. Ruidoso Downs racetrack is here and it hosts the richest quarter horse race in America. 2 beers later and after a lot of invigorating massage from their female friend, we went for a meal. To the Casa Blanca. The best Mexican food I’d ever eaten. An enchilada, three beef stacked, with a fried egg on top, a taco, a fajita, a relleno, together with a Margerita - very nice, and a shot of something.
I was not let pay for anything. I got introduced to lots of people. My hosts are well known in the town. Dave says he knows all 7,000 people. He’s from here. I’ve seen the site where he grew up, the trails he rode horses, his first office. His wife is from Silver City and already they were planning on people I could call in the days ahead. I ate every scrap in the Casa Blanca and also tried to drink in every picture on the wall.
On the way back to the motel we stopped at Dave McGary’s studios. He’s a bronze sculptor responsible for the enormous equine sculpture as you enter town at the Museum of the horse featuring eight larger than life horses (called Free Spirits at Noisy Water). Outside the studio was a life size figure of an Indian called American Horse. Inside were 2-foot high figure of various Indians all of them magnificent. They were painted. All very colourful and very detailed. Was it the Indians or the sculptures I was liking ?
Then we called into Dave’s office and rang an Irish-American who hosts an Irish music programme. I was to go on the radio from 10am to 12noon the next morning. Dropping me at the Super-8 my hosts said had they known me better when I was picked up they would’ve invited me to stay at their place, and then they did.
So I took them up and stayed an extra day. Outside the window there’s no snow so it’s time to move on with great memories of two nights and days in Ruidoso.
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Eolaí gan Fhéile:
How absolutely brilliant.