Day 15: August 25th, 2008 – Sierra Shadow

Carson City --> 8 miles east of Fairplay

Very few days of my life have started with such simplicity but still held the promise of such raw challenge. My only goal for the day was to cross the Sierras. Carson City sits twenty miles from the Cal/Neva border and serves as the gateway to the final stretch of the ride. After the near fifty mile climb to 8,573 foot Carson Pass my path would lead me almost completely down slope, most of it in the course of only thirty miles, to the Bay of Frisco!

The wind had not relented over night so I pushed through the foothills in the Sierra’s shadow to find a place I am sure I will always remember as a sign of the times, Genoa. A nice little town with a worn out ole “Thirst Parlor” in the center, Genoa is a Mayberry on the decline. This sweet Nevada burg was suffering from California fever. The quaint and modestly built homes that made up the town center were quickly being encroached upon by large communities of California style condos. In a few years this place will look no different than the countless suburbs that sprawl out of Los Angeles like tentacles on some enormous urban sea beast. Nevada’s Oldest Thirst Parlor was going on it’s 155^th year, which was somewhat verified by the 100 year old original Jack labels that were used to insulate the walls, but I couldn’t help but wonder how long a place like that could last within the city limits of the newest designer community.

I moved on from Genoa and into the Sierras with some trepidation. I knew how badly the mountains could hurt and I was in no hurry to put myself in that kind of pain again, but so long as I moved along the right route, no matter how slowly, the mountains found me one way or another. A few miles out of Genoa I came to a point in my journey that I had dreamed about for days, the California border. There were times deep in the heart of Utah, that I had expected to meet many scantily clad Californian girls at this border, perhaps even Arnold himself would have come to welcome me into his domain. But all I found at the border was a salty looking lama and a stiff breeze.

I stopped to record the momentous occasion with a few photographs and some shouting at the lama. I thought about saddling up the hairy little beast and riding him into San Francisco, but decided against it when I realized that even the mighty lama might not make it over the Sierras. So I rode, under my own power, up those mountains, up , and up , and up. With every turn I promised myself that it was the last. I knew the end was near and that soon there would be a tremendous downhill unmatched by any I had done in the last two weeks. As I bound up to the crest of Carson Pass, thousand year old trees were scattered on either side of the road and the lakes that are known to fill the Sierras dotted the terrain like puddles on a city street. I stopped at a shop about midway through the climb to dine on some delicious high calorie treats and enjoy the scenery without toil. I had been wasting away in Nevada and now that I had entered the relative civilization of California I wanted to ensure I didn’t lose the calorie battle. The shop was the only one on the pass. In fact it was so remote that it was only open about 4 months out of the year due to snow. As I sat on the stoop in front of this humble store I though that maybe as an old man I could come back to a remote and beautiful place like this to work in the summer, perhaps between my adventures elsewhere or teaching the through the fall and spring. Just a thought, but none the less one on the odd things that filled my head as I rode.

When I made the pass summit I stopped to enjoy the scenery and talk to a middle aged hiker who recommended I take the Immigrant Trail, a small back road shortcutting my route in order to avoid some traffic later on. I had been fairly pleased with my route and saw no reason to shortcut so I began my downhill into the Great Valley. I rolled quickly through the classic alpine terrain. I passed many more lakes and mounted a few more spurs. Soon dusk began to fall and I found myself very far indeed from where I had expected to be. I though some of the burgs marked on my map would be the type I might be able to get a hot meal at but most simply consisted of a few lights off the side of the road. Dusk dragged on among the great timbers that flanked the road. I attached my head and rear lights on my bike and continued to follow the winding roads down slope. I was looking for my next turn on Omo Ranch Road but found no such marking on the many roads I passed in the night blur.

Eventually I reached a service station so I took the opportunity to stop and find my bearings. After a few minutes of fussing with my maps and moments before the station closed for the night, I went in and asked directions. The cashier confirmed my suspicions…… I had traveled 8.2 miles off route, usually this would be no problem but these particular miles concealed something that couldn’t be found on the maps, 4000 feet of climbing! In a matter of 15 minutes I had rolled down what would become hours of work in the morning. I sat outside the service station for quite a while contemplating my situation. On my way in I had seen a construction

site on the other side of the road. It was the type that was deep off the road and very expansive. They had cleared many trees to make way for whatever they had intended to build but tonight they had simply made me a bed. I hauled my bike over the barricades and rolled it back toward some equipment in the back of the site.

I looked for a smooth area to make camp but in finding little to work with I looked towards the sky. High in the air, a bulldozer scoop called to me. I climbed up one of the wheels and looked in. It was smooth and clean, far from animals, and in general seemed like the perfect place to set up camp, and on top of it all I was in a particularly playful mood. So I made some ramen, of which I ate little of, then climbed into my comfortable lofted scoop and went to bed.

........................( 3AM) I was roused to the horrifying sound of a rabid dog. Below the scoop was a dog barking so fiercely that each bark was stacked upon the next until it sounded like an angry mob of PETA protestors. These sounds were my only clues to what the animal was. It was so dark that I couldn’t see the animal ten feet away! Although I was horrified by these sounds I was far too tired to really care. I thanked myself for picking such an intelligent place to rest and went back to bed.

Day: 88.98 mi
Total: 1518.21 mi
Elev. Climbed: 4600ft
Elev. Difference: -800 ft