Two Wheels on my Wagon (22 page)

‘WANTED. 12-ga pump or semi-auto shotgun, ugly condition preferred.'

Perhaps Pinedale wasn't quite so homely after all.

U
nsurprisingly, our accommodation in Pinedale was not a patch on that at Brooks Lake. It had the great benefit, however, of a kitchen. We made the most of the facilities. Between us we had assembled quite a feast: cereals; toast with a variety of spreads; porridge; yoghurt; and fresh fruit. There was also fruit juice and coffee. All that was missing was Radio 4. Instead we had MTV still blaring away in the other room.

Our motivations for such excess – to save money and time compared to eating elsewhere – had been legitimate. But neither goal was fulfilled. We had each bought more food than was needed and as a result we remained rooted to the spot, indulgently gluttonous, for far longer than was strictly necessary to set us up for a day's riding. After half an hour, even the excuse that we needed to build up our reserves as we were once again heading into a vast area of nothingness – there was no grocery guaranteed to provide anything useful for the next 220 miles – was running a bit thin.

Finally, we summoned the courage to depart. As we did, it started to rain. Heavily. Stephen passed up the chance to purchase a pair of waterproof overtrousers. In spite of the weather and our previous experience, Stephen's reluctance didn't seem unreasonable. It was inspired in part by budgetary constraints created by having left his previous job (something to do with IT in the car industry) and not yet having started his new one (something else to do with IT in the power industry). It was also inspired by a near-pathological aversion to carrying superfluous gear – he had the lightest load of all of us – and a dogged belief that things would come right in the end. What's more, by the end of the day we hoped to be in the Great Divide Basin, the first desert of the trip.

It was more of a surprise that a shop selling such items was open before 7 a.m. in an otherwise still somnolent Pinedale, a town of below average annual precipitation in one of the driest states in the US. Clearly the proprietor was either a fool or an opportunist: in the same way as an ice-cream seller in the Arctic would have only a short season, he had deduced that the most had to be made of such infrequent windows of good fortune.

The first 35 miles of the day were on paved roads, the first 17 on US Highway 191. The rain intensified from heavy to diluvian. It was now on a par with our descent into Lima. The road was covered in standing water. It was like riding through a cold shower. We were assailed by rain from above, spray from below and splashes to our sides from passing vehicles.

By the time we turned off the main road, the situation was grim. In full kit, I was uncomfortably cold. Stephen was in a far worse condition. At 26 he was the youngest in our group, but was already toughened by considerable experience: he had hiked the complete Appalachian Trail, the world's longest footpath, without a break, and was more of a mountain biker than the other three of us put together. What's more, his incredible energy levels had been amply illustrated by the speed at which he had cycled the previous day and his aversion to a television-free motel room. Yet he still had no waterproof trousers, and what passed for his waterproof top was really in breach of the trades descriptions act – it was a top, but that was it.

Imagining how I would have felt in Stephen's shoes – and, more pertinently, shorts and top – hypothermia seemed a distinct possibility. The few ranches passed early in the day had now dissipated into nothingness. Self-sufficiency would be the only option, yet for one still just warm enough to pedal the prospect of stopping in such vile conditions seemed anathema. I cursed the waterproof-clothing salesman in Pinedale for not having been more persuasive.

More selfishly, having lugged a full set of waterproofs with me for over 1,000 miles to avoid just such an eventuality, the thought of having to stop and prolong my own discomfort to accommodate somebody else's oversight seemed to be asking a lot of my generosity of spirit. What's more, no self-respecting Yorkshireman would let a drop of rain catch them out; they'd never venture outside if they did. Then again, Stephen wasn't from Yorkshire. He hailed instead from the much balmier climes of Mississippi. It crossed my mind that it could well be the case that no self-respecting Mississippian would be caught out in quite such conditions anywhere other than on the Tour Divide; or in hurricane season.

Besides, Stephen was doing a confoundingly good job of demonstrating that all my suppositions about hypothermia were hypothetical, or a vicarious projection of my own hypochondria, or both. Although manifestly cold and damp, he continued to ride uncomplainingly. The history of exposure to rain might not be shared, but his commitment to the old Yorkshire dictum ‘mustn't grumble' was to the manner born.

Then, as if to put all such debate to an end, after three hours of incessant downpour, the rain came to an abrupt halt. The sky was still battleship grey, the road was still made of brown glue, but it was dry. We were grateful for small mercies.

In fact, the dirt roads were not impassable, just unpleasant. It looked like we were riding through a thick layer of peanut butter. I imagined it felt pretty similar too. This proved to be a useful analogy. By applying my natural sandwich preference for smooth, rather than crunchy, to the road surface, I found progress was improved. The ‘smooth peanut butter' tracks tended to look slippery and treacherous but were in fact watery in nature and often concealed a hard-packed base on which reasonable progress could be made. In contrast, the ‘crunchy' areas looked outwardly appealing because of the traction hinted at by the nuts (sorry, stones) in the general gooiness, but were in fact too stodgy to be palatable; I mean, cycleable.

A moderate climb led to a slightly higher plateau than the land through which we had been cycling and provided, according to the guidebook, ‘some of the emptiest, biggest, most dramatic views imaginable'. Just imagining the area ever experiencing sunshine, let alone views, was sufficient challenge. The ascent also signalled the first of three back-to-back crossings of the Continental Divide, the last of which presaged our entry into the Great Divide Basin proper. It was an intimidating prospect.

The basin was effectively a great hole in the Continental Divide, which split into two at the end of the Wind River Range before reconvening not far north of the Colorado border. What little surface water there was in the area drained into the basin, where it then either percolated into the parched soil or evaporated, rather than ending up in either the Pacific or Atlantic oceans. In an area with so little rainfall it had become a desert. In wetter climes it could well have been a lake with no outlet; it was not difficult to see why. It covered 4,000 square miles, and had a human population of 500, who were comfortably outnumbered by wild horses and pronghorn antelope.

Fortunately, we had the rest of the afternoon to acclimatise ourselves to its unique charms before having to take the plunge and bisect it. First came another section of paved road as we headed through the famous South Pass, symbolic heart of the westward expansion of the United States, though our gentle descent to it out of broad plains rendered its geographical pre-eminence less obvious. A small visitor centre and several informative signs were all that marked the spot.

Uncharacteristically, this rather undersold the erstwhile significance of the pass. Although discovered as long ago as 1811, South Pass was then ‘lost' again to white men until 1824. In fact, it was not until 1832 that the first rag-tag caravan of settlers and missionaries, opportunists and proponents of the sordid doctrine of Manifest Destiny passed this way. After this slow start, however, the die was rapidly cast. In the next 37 years, until the opening of the first US transcontinental railroad in 1869 sounded its death knell, anything up to a staggering 500,000 people were estimated to have emigrated through South Pass and along the Oregon, California, Mormon and Bozeman Trails. More than 200,000 of these intrepid souls were in the 1860s alone. In a land which even now seemed remote and inaccessible, this was a veritable motorway of its day.

It was fascinating stuff, and I had an inkling of how so many US tourists must feel when visiting Europe and being confronted with so much ‘history'. But we were not history snobs. Of equal import were the capacious and heated restrooms, complete with hot-air hand driers under which we could thaw our frozen extremities after another intemperate cloudburst had preceded our arrival.

Warmed and informed, we saddled up. The next goal was Atlantic City, 15 miles further on, for an early tea. First, though, we rode through South Pass City, a restored and preserved example of a frontier mining town. Like the pass itself, the city had seen more productive days, though not until the passage of emigrants had begun to wane. It was founded in 1867 after the discovery of gold in the area and gained fame and notoriety two years later when it passed the first legislation in the US allowing women to vote and hold office. Such prominence waxed only briefly, however, until the deposits began to dry up. Now it was little more than an outdoor museum. Nevertheless, it was an outdoor museum in its original setting, which should not be taken for granted. In the 1960s, the town only narrowly survived being purchased by a California theme park and shipped wholesale to the west coast.

Continuing the conservation theme, up the hill from the town were the restored remains of the Carissa goldmine, the site of the original gold strike. As recently as 1980 it had once again been considered for possible reopening, but was now the property of the State of Wyoming and was destined to mine tourist gold rather than more natural seams.

A few miles later we finally arrived in Atlantic City. Where South Pass City had been mummified and turned into an exhibit, Atlantic City was still clinging to life as a genuine ghost town. For the second time in the trip, we rode past a sign that said ‘Population 50'.

It had a bar and, as the route maps might put it, ‘non-full-service' grocery.

‘We see you guys coming through on bikes and think “Is there anything you'd like or need?”,' said the proprietor.

Looking at the barren shelves, the temptation was to reply ‘something, anything'. I tried in vain to be more constructive. There was also Wild Bill's Gun Shop – ‘Guns. Ammo. Gunsmithing. Customised Knives' – and the genuine Wild West feeling was confirmed by the only other commercial venture in town, the Atlantic City Mercantile – ‘Steak house. Saloon. Cabins'. There were no drunken, brawling cowboys spilling onto the dirt high street as we leant our bikes against rails built originally for horses, but it seemed only a matter of time.

Inside, apart from a gregarious Italian family of tourists, this was the real deal. The timber-framed walls were clad in garish wallpaper and black and white photos; the stuffed moose head on the wall had a cigarette hanging from its mouth; there were bulls' balls, also variously known as Rocky Mountain oysters, cowboy caviar, Montana tendergroins and swinging beef, on the menu.

Our food choice was more conventional, varying the routine only by the additional request for four bowls of warming noodle soup. We were ready for such comfort. In spite of the flatness of the terrain, it had taken us nearly ten hours to cover 90 miles.

The soup arrived with some unexpected news.

‘Do you guys know a woman cyclist? I can't remember her name,' asked the waitress.

‘Do you mean Cricket?' asked Trevor.

‘Yes, that was it. She only left a short while before you came in. She said she was planning on camping in the Basin somewhere . . .'

Apparently she had been deterred from leaving earlier by the rain. At just gone 6 p.m., after eating our fill, we set off in hot pursuit. Actually, the pursuit was far from hot. We grunted our way up an exceptionally steep but mercifully short climb out of town. There was intermittent sunshine between the bruised clouds. Only once the climb had been crested did we begin to pick up speed. As we did so, the map encouraged us to bid farewell to the last trees we were likely to encounter until Rawlins, 135 miles away. Shortly afterwards, while still riding through puddles from earlier downpours, we were alerted to the fact that the next potable water source close to the route was 69 miles away.

With the gradient and wind in our favour, we made good progress to our intended camp spot for the night. The water at Diagnus Well was not recommended for untreated consumption, but it would at least ensure that we embarked on the next day's riding with replenished bottles.

As we approached the well, we also became aware that the waning sun behind us was rapidly becoming obscured by an immense black wall of cloud with orange below and deepening purple above. Just in case such a visible storm warning wasn't enough, the wind began to rage in destabilising gusts. We arrived at the same time as the first raindrops; their companions could be seen sweeping across the plain to join them. It was eerily like the arrival of a plague of hungry locusts.

Trevor and I raced to pitch our tents before the storm became fully fledged. We were not entirely successful. The sandy soil refused to hold onto my pegs, while Trevor lost a pole, blown away into the gathering gloom. The only way to be sure they would stay in place was to lie in them.