Day 17: Eating cactus

Leaving the gritty big city of Ciudad Mante early this morning. On Day 16 we pedaled from El Naranjo to Ciudad Mante, and today, Day 17, we pedaled from Ciudad Mante to El Naranjo. We took different routes each day, for added variety, lest you think us completely uninteresting, dear readers. Once arrived and safely in our stately hotel there we got out pen and paper and calculated days left and kilometers needed and determined that Ciudad Mante was as north and east as we would go on this trip. Now we are heading west towards San Luis Potosi, where our trip must come to it's planned end.

 The flat grey hazy world before we reach the first hills separating the land near the Gulf from the mountain regions (Sierra Madre Occidental). We have discovered a green juice blend, made in Mexico, which hydrates us splendidly. It includes all the expected players of pineapple, celery, and orange, in addition to what is only a local speciality: cactus.

Sunday morning is the time for cyclists! A band of them passed us, making us jump in surprise and laugh hysterically at how foreign they seemed to us, all jersey clad and supremely fast and agile. Likewise, they all called out enthusiastic "hola"s and one even hollered a jubilant and self-satisfied "HELLO!" 

 Climbing out of the flat greys. The mountains, like veiled weighty secrets, blend with the distance.

 Stopping at a little comedor for some coffee. We asked the cook if she had "cafe olla", which ensures you will receive true coffee and not brown water Nescafé. She nodded affirmative and then immediately brought out two cups of brown liquid. Nescafé after all. But then after some time, once we were resigned to our weak fate she arrived with one more cup, the real liquid gold! She went next door and bought a carton of milk and brought it to our table. So many experiences in Mexico, like these three cups of coffee, I simply do not understand.

Riding between the mountains in a roaringly hot landscape of endless sugarcane. The afternoon is the pizza-oven heat of the day, when one has already been riding for half the day, when butt soreness sets in and stoicism must be accessed. I had to buy an enormous and terrible Gatorade, Red Flavor, to replenish some of myself which was being burnt and pedaled off in great sloughs.

At our most defeated point in the day, we could be found 80 baked kilometers into our ride: Ellie was discovering that her gatorade had leaked into her spare bike shorts shami, and I was sitting in the dirt in the paltry shade of some sugarcane, fanning myself weakly with my passport and sitting squarely in the path of many ants.

 But, oh how our road suffering was rewarded. The end of our ride gifted us with the beautiful waterfalls and swimming hole at El Meco. To submerge myself in that cool mermaid-teal water after so much heat and power-riding was a deliciousness that is completely unavailable unless prepped by some suffering.

All the red chairs! The sweet lady of this comedor was sitting in her empty dining room, until two hungry gringas approached and enquired what there was to eat. She cooked us plates of eggs and cactus, and the smack-smack of her palms on corn masa rang through the entire meal. She carried out a stream of single hot tortillas, one by one as each was done, held in the tips of her fingers, adding each to the already generous stack in a cloth on our red plastic table.

 This is cactus! Nopales. It is maybe the only green vegetable we can possibly hope to find, next to a rare bit of zucchini or the incompetent iceberg lettuce. Nopales are like a combination of canned green beans and okra, smooth, a little slimy. And exciting because, come on, you're eating cactus. They shine with chili and lime.

Day 15: Sugarcane, The Kickin' Leg, and The Roar

Day 14 is totally uninteresting to write about. We slept in; we visited beautiful waterfalls, we went to a bakery, we ate fried chicken. There was no character development, no plot twists, just a really nice standard vacation day. I forget sometimes that these bicycle travels of mine are "vacation". 

But Day 14! 
We left the town of Tamasopo in the misty dawn this morning by rattling for 8 kilometers over rocky tracks deep in the secret world of sugarcane. A bit better read of Google maps might have intimated that these little thread roads would not be paved and wouldn't do more than link sugarcane fields together. But there we were, deep in them, stuck going slowly. I felt frustration at eating away our early rise to see the sun come up and not have made more than a picker's progress gingerly navigating terrible roads. Frustration, yes, and also the fairy-like delight in the mists and the green stretching fields of this mystically foreign crop of sugar sweetness (sugar is a plant! and it is so not a vegetable). Emptiness of cars or other humans, morning stillness and the heavy mist. The aggravating bumps of rocky dirt. How both positive and negative are interwoven together. 

Just like going the wrong direction all the way through an unpaved town. A potentially negative thing, but allowed us to successfully notice a little hut that served coffee, which we hadn't identified on the first pass. So coffee it was, in real clay mugs too, us dipping a beloved cinnamon bun into it, dribbling all over like children. 

We decided to get a re-fill in our beautiful clay mug. I pushed my chair back to fetch it and bounced smartly off the cushiony Mexican lady sitting behind me. Oopa! Desculpe! Pardon! We all giggled. Imagine being wacked from behind by an awkward pole-shaped alien with sculpted helmet hair. 

We rode through sugarcane almost the entire day. Low mountains rimmed our gloriously flat ride, palm trees dotting their looming faces. We pedaled through this trough all the way from Tamasopo to the town of El Naranjo. It was amazing to ride like this. It felt like a scenic day ride, as if we were cyclists for the fun of it. So different from the rides when we are on highways: We Are Traveling. 

At one point we inexplicably passed out of Sugarcane Candy Land and thru a tunnel of rainforest. Shade! Palm shadows, like fans of sharp knives, were visually arresting on the road surface. The trees draped over us from above. Epiphytes and vines and wide-load leaves leaned into the road. Delicious. 

Hours and hours of sugarcane. So green. Pedaling past young fields, the cultivated soil between the green rows made stripes like driving past a cornfield. We also kept being passed by enormous trucks with unwieldy towers of the brownish long sticks, all aligned lengthwise. We finally passed a huge belching factory, with hundreds of these stacked trucks waiting outside it. The air smelled of dry fall leaves mixed with molasses. I can only imagine how much sugar is processed there. So much sugar! Sugar is in almost everything. It certainly helped us on today's 100 kilometer ride. 

We could not find a single road sign or route name or number for our roads today; we traversed anonymous roads all day. Some were viscously potholed, making for swerving and bumping and going slowly and feeling like Humpty Dumpty. 

But in places the pavement was fresh and smooth. Where the road stretches pothole-free in front of you and you are a race horse now, flattening out and relaxing into the power and stretching into your full stride. Where my mind can be free from navigating doozies. And somehow free from other thoughts, as the speed is mesmerizing and hypnotizing. On these long flat fast stretches, my mind is a big cloud of fluffy wool being spun into a single pointed string of yarn. This feels amazing, and after a time of so many potholes and rocks, incredibly welcome and special. 

Almost all dogs ignore us as we pass; they're asleep in the road, asleep on a pile of gravel, busy chasing each other around, or--rarely--chained up. But today, a fierce snarling rager came charging at us, guarding his property. Teeth bared jaggedly, hair on scruff in spikes. He chased us long enough I knew he was serious. Ellie, in front, yelled her sharp "hey! hey!" The dog was not deterred and the snarls continued. Rise to next level: Ellie got out her Kickin' Leg. Her bike shoes can be meanies when needed. Much better than my sandals. The toothy beast did not respond to the Kickin' Leg, however. Situation just got REAL. So I roared my Protection Roar at this creature from behind. 

The first time I heard my own Protection Roar was in Thailand, with my buddy Elise, on my first bike tour. "Where did that COME FROM?" asked Elise, astounded, after the dog had subsided. I didn't know myself. I had surprised, scared, and impressed me as well. 

My Protection Roar comes out as words, words I do not premeditate, and thus often are a bit off the mark. The words might be only partially threatening phrases like "BACK OFF", or a misplaced "GO AWAY", but they are nearly fully camouflaged in the intensity of a demonic expulsion of human sound. The timbre of the roar itself is truly stupendous. It is a lion, amplified through a bass bullhorn. My throat usually hurts for about an hour after creating one. I couldn't actually create one without a terrible dog to yell at. My Protection Roar comes from a very deep and untouchable place. 

So I Protection Roared at this dog who was continuing to chase after Ellie. It flattened with the roar, then turned to see there was another thing to chase, and started after me. This was the ideal development. I carry The Pepper Spray, holstered by my right hand. Quick draw! Quick aim! No animal shall sink teeth into my friend or me! This dog stopped in it's tracks, then bolted into the yard to wipe it's eyes in the grass. Victory! After we surfaced from this event, we had a giddy laughter fest over ourselves. Ask any cyclist: there is such a special fear to be chased by a dog. It is a universally terrible experience. Besting one is incredibly satisyfing. 

A taxi drove past us, slowing down till he was alongside. He yelled out the window something..... did we need bottles of water? Oh my goodness, how kind! Ellie responded we had our own, but thank you. Serendipitously, this same kind taxi man was in the town of our destination when we were out for an evening stroll. He remembered us, and us him, and we had a charming chat. What sweet kind people we encounter. 

 Misty magical merged with frustration morning.

Towering sugarcane load. 

Entering the tunnel of rainforest, leaving Sugarcane Candy Land.

 The belching sugar factory, trucks awaiting, smelling like fall leaves and molasses.

 Sugarcane scraps in the road, fields of it so green, and the mountain sides framing our ride in the distance.

 We climbed to the top of the bell tower in the town church and enjoyed this view of the fiesta happening below. Rides and stalls with stuffed animals and popcorn and ice cream, just like a County Fair in the states.

Had to get the 5 peso popcorn at the fiesta. Topped with spicy sauce even though it makes it soft. It's the way here! 

Requisite Day 14 waterfall and swimming hole photo. This place is called Puente De Dios (Bridge of God) and includes an underwater cave you can swim through to pop out on the other side of the bridge.

Day 13: A return to leaves, and a horse crossing.

 If hotel of Night 11 was of munching walls, then hotel of Night 12 was truly glorious. And how the scene had been set for our gratitude in it by the previous night. Night 12 had everything we needed: functioning wifi (the whole stay!), water to refill our bottles, cleanliness, enough blankets and sheets, and yes: neon green walls. And this intricate railing and curvy arched situation.

 Classic street scene, Rayon. I admired the tired yet colorful umbrella toppers here from my seat in a little comedor, eating some rice and beans. The sweet little cook came out to talk to us, all grandmotherly.

When I was preparing for this trip, friends asked me how I would deal with people asking about "the wall" and Trump and anti-USA feelings. Almost all Mexican folks we chat with ask us where we are from, just like this sweet grandma did. And then, when we say "estados unidos", not a single person has asked about the wall. Instead, their eyes light up and they say, "I lived in Idaho for 3 years!", or "my niece lives in Miami!", or "I visited my daughter in Minnesota." And then we talk and laugh about snow or something. This is such a tribute to the connection of human beings, how these people meet us and share something we might have in common. That they've been to Idaho and Idaho is in the country in which we live. This makes me smile and warms my heart.

 As we pedaled out of Rayon, these two horses were taking an afternoon stroll through town. Completely at ease, they clopped lazily down the street. And nobody paid them any attention. Like this was just normal. Like the pig trotting through town a couple nights back, crossing a stream, heading up a steep hill on his beige pudgy own.

 Mandarin break! 1 peso each! Mandarins are the ideal Biking In Mexico snack. They come sanitarily wrapped in their own skins. They're sweet, hydrating, cheap, delicious, and easy to peel (unlike mangos, say, which necessitate a sacrifice to the gods of Stickiness).

Pedaling east now. Still with low cold clouds. The dust and scrub and brown.

 And then! After enough Eastward movement, and enough drop in elevation, we find ourselves sweeping into a world of lushness again. "GREEN!" I hollered at Ellie from my bike. The big leaves! The errant banana plants! The grass replacing dirt! I took a deep breath in, feeling the green and the life like a hug around my soul. We're now back to only 1200 ft elevation, in the low dish of the town of Tamasopo, surrounded by the Sierra Gordas.

 Could this sweet dog be any more posed with these bougainvillea? Check out that dramatic little paw drape.

Tamasopo, town square. We danced briefly in solidarity to a Zumba class going on in a nearby building, listened to the loud birds coming to roost for the night, and ate elote (roasted corn on the cob, stabbed with a stick, and spread with mayonnaise, hot pepper, and cheese).

Days 11 and 12: Sockhands and Bagfoot

And now we are in the world of cacti. How quickly the biospheres change around here. From tropical rainforest, to pines, to oaks, to now dry prickly landscape. We've been riding from Jalpan to Rayon these days.

Crossing a river on route 69, impressively windy, blowing us nearly sideways. The wind ripped through a sharp canyon and the trees danced.

One of the five UNESCO site missions of Saint Francis in the area. So intricate outside and good for praying for your family on the inside. 

The second widest tree in all of Mexico! I'm sure it's more than 500 years old.

I'm trying to give it a hug here. The first widest tree is in Oaxaca and all official and signed and with a protective fence. But this one was open to anyone to hug, hard to find, though it was on some tourist maps of the area, hidden back in a community park in a small dusty town with bad roads. Two boys were parked in their SUV near it, playing reggaeton, drinking Coronas, and eating candy. What a bizarre atmosphere for such a revered ancient living thing! 

We're no longer going up huge mountain hunks, but inside going up and down big rollers now, on Route 69 and Route 8. 

Our hotel in Arroyo Secco (literally, "dry stream bed") won the certificate of being Grossest Hotel Room Yet. Being the only hotel in town, and the only town within reach for the day, there we were. This photo is an ant hill in our room. Not shown are the long black hairs around the floor, the dead moth and cockroach, and the bed with only a clingy blanket and no sheet. As I fell asleep I heard gentle crinkly munchy noises, so faint, but could find no evidence of life. Until I realized that the walls were full of chewing creatures. 

Riding through this barren landscape the past two days. The clouds were so droopy that we were riding today bathed in mist, droplets coming off my helmet wetly. Only rarely did cars pass us, but they still turned on their four-way flashers and gave us little waves and encouraging honk-lets as they overtook us.

Today I was called Bagfoot and sometimes Sockhands. It was so inexplicably cold (mid 50s) and wet and grey that even the locals were complaining about it. This is how one gets to dress when one packs so incorrigibly light. 

Climbing into a big properly made warm bed, in a bright and clean room, was heaven after today. 

Day 10: Seeing the earth from above

Day 10 we rode to Cuatro Palos, a famous viewpoint in the Sierra Gordas, the highest point of our trip, the point I'd been considering the great zenith from when I began dreaming up this journey. It is at 8,900 feet elevation and the views stretch in almost every direction.  

This morning climb to there was the hardest ride of this trip, and also one of the hardest of my bicycle life to this point, perhaps. I had slept wretchedly, not aided by the party until 4am next door with musicians impressively out of tune, and was still processing some challenging news. I felt wobbly of brain. But strong of heart, somehow. I was climbing these mountains where there was little air and my heart was working extra hard for me and pushing me along. 

The road was steep and the morning nippy, my legs groaned. But the pines were glowing silver and the road was quiet. The sunlight began it's descent down the opposing mountainside, coming to meet us as we climbed upwards. We turned a corner after a hauling climb and an enormous expanse of stunning view greeted us. I counted seven layers of mountains stretching to infinity. I started crying then, overcome by the beauty and feeling the love and support of those who care for my family. "There isn't enough air up here for crying AND pedaling" I said to Ellie, "one activity or the other!" She laid her bike down and gave me a huge hug. The beauty of friendship and catharsis.n

We turned off the main highway onto the side road leading to Cuatra Palos. This road was basically a concrete wall. With ribbing for traction, otherwise there was no hope in scaling it. Do we have to go up that thing? We rode until we were going to fall over. Then we pushed the bikes until we decided that was stupid. Then we locked them against a fencef and hiked the rest of the seemingly endless hilly dusty path.

Riding through what they call "Heaven's Door", on the way to Cuatro Palos. 

These seem like huge amazing asparagus to me, but are actually agave plants.

The sun came down the mountain as we went up it.

Pushing our bikes up the cement wall of the road.

And then the view was stunning. Mountains spread out in every direction, and us seeing them all from above. 

You could SEE the Earth as the Earth below. It was dizzying to think what 8,900 feet above sea level was. I was imagining that height if for some reason all this ground holding us up disappeared, if we were just THERE, 8,900 feet above the base. So much topography. Do many folds and structure and history laid out in front of us. 

We got here totally under the own power of our legs. Pedaling, pushing, padding thru dust and then up and up stone steps. I packed away the memories and the views to hold, to bring out again at a time of need. Besides, I couldn't fully grasp them all anyway in the moment. 

The jaw-dropping view at Cuatro Palos. A photo is a dismal approximation.

Then we turned around and came back from whence we came. All the way down to the city of Jalpan, retracing our steps. We were two birds then, flying flying. Thousands of feet down. Our hands doing all the work now on the brakes as our legs rested. It was amazing with the comforting spark of recognition, to pass the places we had stopped for a break, the curve that was particularly hard, that one big field freshly plowed. Recognizing places and reliving memories from only a few days back. "We rode up this WHOLE thing!" sang Ellie. 

We landed in the tiny town of Ahuactlan de Guadalupe again, where we had stayed on the way up, like coming home. We even asked for the same third floor neon green room in that sweet tall hotel. It's amazing how something as simple as being in a same room as before can be so comforting. 

In other news: we are on our third jar of peanut butter.

And now we head north, up route 69, new territory. 

Hot morning drinks at this sweet stand, which we got to visit for a second time in Ahuactlan de Guadalupe. We drank "Teja" which is thick, viscous, made from some type of plant, and is deeply comforting. Everyone who moved through this town seemed to stop for a hot cup here.

Day 9: Climbing & Pinal de Amoles, the pinnacle town of our journey

6:30am

"Proteina para tu todo familia!" said the giant tin of sardines. We were trying a new breakfast option this morning. As a family of only two, however, we sure got our protein. We ate almost the entire thing. I took the dregs down to the street and emptied them out for some lucky dogs. We sliced raw garlic and topped it on the fishes, which we ate on crispy corn tostadas. Delicious, if this is your type of situation. 

The stream sang outside our room. Staying in the non-town of Puente de Dios meant we had a wonderfully quiet night, lulled by water music; I had slept better than I had in days. This water, cradled deep in the low recesses of these mountains. Up top, where we'd started on this stupid terrible road, it was dry and dusty and crispy, but you drop drop drop and here is an oasis of water and big lush trees. 

But because this was a non-town, it didn't deserve a paved road. We would need to haul ourselves back up the steep dirt and stone track down which we had clanked the previous day. This is not a nice condition for any bicycle short of a full-suspension mountain bike. There were basically rock formations IN the road. "This road is stupid", observed Ellie simply. 

We walked quite a bit of it, otherwise you blow your knees as you spin feebly over rock hunks and teeter variously. You push your bike out in front of you and lean into it and heave along. Looking for any momentary slightly smoother path in the road. Maybe where the car tires usually wear will be smoother. Or not.  

Looking behind us as we push ourselves up the "stupid road" 

But the morning was still and peaceful and with walking a bike I could gaze out at the mountains we were nestled deep within. The birds singing were delicious. The sounds from inside the stream valley were amplified by the mountains. We could hear dogs barking and a rooster crowing from deep down below, echoing sharply up to us. A turkey gobbled. I even heard someone spit, awocch-pit-oooo, from a house jutting out on a curve. 

The going was slow. "Oh Bump-a-Lump" said Ellie. I was working on practicing patience. "Let's name some things we're grateful for", she suggested. "I'm grateful that I slept well", "I'm grateful that neither of us have amoebas", "that we've found a type of bread that we actually like", "that it's not too hot right now." This game got us all the way to the top actually. 

8:30am 

Having made it onto the incomprehensibly luscious smoothness of the main road we were now faced with the bit on the map that we have been pointing out to each other for days. "Is that a large intestine?!" "How is that a road?" "Are we crazy?!" The road was basically if you took a wall and painted a couple stacks of "Z"s on it and then rode up them. Zigging back and forth, moving upwards. Each switchback afforded a view of the same little town below, yet growing more and more distant. 

... that bit on the map...

But the going was good, given the cool air and the shade provided by the mountains. We were heading to the pinnacle of our trip, the highest town that we would stay in, Pinal De Amoles. 

Plowing fields with oxen, with mountain, and that little tufty tree at the top that caught my eye.

Elevation makes for slow-going but feeds my soul so fully. 

10am

We'd stopped at a hardware/cement/snack shop (!) for a grateful rest break. "I feel super powerful right now", I said to Ellie, "after all that water and fruit juice and yogurt and bread and coffee."  Let's climb this mountain!! 

Coming around the curves, grinding up the steep bits, gazing at all the trees, I was getting prickles from the realization that I was doing what I had set out to do. Climb all the way up to this town. We rode 5,000 feet of elevation that day. 

Our arrival! I just love how towns in Mexico have these big colorful letters celebrating themselves. And all the visitors come in smiling groups and pose with the letters. So sweet. 

Refueling with these "bombas" (translation: pumps?), these puffed bread things that are stuffed with beans, cheede, lettuce, and cream. I am pleased I can eat vegetarian at most places. 

Wedging ourselves happily into the "balcony" window of our old colonial style hotel in Pinal De Amoles. 

When avocados are 4 pesos each you eat as much homemade guacamole as you want. I love "cooking" with my pocket knife while traveling.

Sitting at sunset and taking in Pinal De Amoles. 

Day 8: on Waterfalls and Wifi

Day 8 we visited the waterfall "El Chuveje". We clanked our bikes down a steep dusty terrible little road for 4 kilometers to access the waterfall, often so steep and so chunky that we opted to walk rather than ride, our bikes pulling us heavily down hill.

It was like entering a womb to be deep in the crevices of these mountains. Up above on the main road it was hot and dry and the trees seemed wan. But down with the river and the waterfall the trees were lush and the ground bursting with life. The bright green of plants feeds my soul so much. I soaked the neon green ferns into my eyes and sat on a rock and gazed at the water. We wove our way along a sweet little forest path to reach the waterfall.

No one else was there. How delicious to be ours. This was now a secret waterfall, even though we saw it advertised on sun-bleached posters for tour packages. That has been a pretty great thing about this trip. There are plenty of fun and beautiful places to go, but they are not crowded with white people tourists. Just us and if there is anyone else around, it's usually a bunch of Mexican families making weekend vacations. 

To sit for so much time, just being and looking and thinking, is a way of being that I rarely experience in the States. I am always going and doing and making and moving. I come to Mexico, though, and I assimilate the way it is here. You sit in the town square in the evening. You sit with your family. You sit with your friends. Granted, I am able to sit probably because I've already moved around fiercely on the bicycle.

We relished the waterfall womb for long enough to forget about the passage of time. But eventually we became our sensible selves again and were aware of how we would need to reverse our dusty bumpy trek back up and how up in that world it was only getting hotter.

How do you fully enjoy something in the moment when you know it will be challenging to return out of? To fully earn your pleasure by doing all the work first is one thing, and definitely my preference. But sometimes pleasures and annoyances are all intermingled. I'm grateful I could set aside the burden of needing to climb back out long enough to relish this place.

Since my phone doesn't have service in Mexico, I rely on WiFi. And WiFi is remarkably wobbly in the places it does exist, except when it works beautifully, for instance, at a little rural shop specializing in cement, wheelbarrows, toilets, and snacks. Or free in a random town park.

If we find a hotel with a seemingly good connection, and I hope for phone calls with a loved one, my person won't be able to hear me at all. Or the connection will be strong during midday but by night when my blog post is ready, the thing won't load. WiFi will be advertised by a hotel but then it will be broken that day. "Perhaps the chico who works este noche will be able to fix it", the girl behind the desk will say.

Then there was the time that the wifi wouldn't reach to the third floor where we were staying. This was after a day of some particularly intense leg output, and hefting up and down stairs wasn't my first choice. So I rubber-banded my phone to my bag strap, tied my strap to my scarf, and dipped this whole length down the stairwell. Ding ding! my phone affirmed from below. It worked! As a child, I always loved hiding in a second floor crawl space and sending down a plastic bucket on a string and getting my parents to put things in it for me. I'd ladle it back up all expectantly, just like I did my phone, bending over the railing.

Can you imagine my deep frustration alternating with intense gratitude to be thwarted connection and also occasionally gain it? When I'm finally able to see the green symbol on my phone appear, like angels singing, and be able to post an entry or check a route distance on Google maps?

Last night, there was a wifi signal in our hotel, but the owners were away that night, and although Mr. Grumpy Nextdoor gave us a key to a room and took our money, he didn't know about the wifi situation. I could see the wifi network with the name of our hotel, but without an entrance code there would be no connection. So close yet so far. How frustrating. Then. I found a wan slip of paper on a cupholder in the bathroom with a random code on it. With only a sliver of hope, I typed it into the password barrier for the WiFi. It connected! Huzzah! What luck! I was only able to push out messages to my closest ones that I'd found a safe place for the night, before the signal drifted off into inexplicable nothingness again.