BUNYAN VELO TRAVELS ON TWO WHEELS // ISSUE No. 02
BUNYAN VELO ISSUE No. 02 – MAY 2013 Travels on Two Wheels
EDITOR and DESIGNER Lucas Winzenburg
CONTACT bunyanvelo@gmail.com www.bunyanvelo.com
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS My sincere thanks to Nicholas Backlund, Nicholas Carman, Steve Donohue, Lane Giardina, Josh Klauck, Steve Makin, Patrick Murphy, Eric Parsons, Kurt Stafki, Karl Stoerzinger, Mark Wright, and the fantastic contributors who graciously submitted their stories and photographs.
CONTRIBUTORS Nicholas Carman Glenn Charles Joe Cruz Alex Dunn Steve Fabes Cass Gilbert
Casey Greene Carrie Harvilla Nick Hormuth Erik Jensen Derek McIntire Daniel Molloy
Donnie Kolb Clark Patrick Lindy Patterson Beth Willard Amaya Williams Katrina Wollet
PHOTO CREDITS Cover: Cass Gilbert Opposite: Joe Cruz Contents: Alex Dunn COPYRIGHT All content copyright 2013 Bunyan Velo. Contributions have been used with permission and are copyright original sources. No unauthorized reproduction without written consent.
MADE WITH PRIDE IN MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA
EDITOR’S NOTE Welcome to the second installment of Bunyan Velo, a quarterly collection of photographs, essays, and stories celebrating the simple pleasures of traveling by bicycle. I’d like to thank everyone who took the time to read and share the premier issue – the outpouring of encouragement from readers across the world has been overwhelming. I’m thrilled and honored at having the privilege to share another 14 thoughtful, inspiring pieces. This issue’s talented writers and photographers explore geographies and cultures from the glaciers of Alaska, to the forests of Rwanda, to the high deserts of Argentina and back again, all by bicycle. Please consider supporting this independent publication by purchasing a copy or donating at bunyanvelo.com Thanks for reading, enjoy! Lucas Winzenburg Editor
Contents Contributor Biographies............................................................6 The Simple Pleasures..................................................................8 by Cass Gilbert Lookouts of the Northern Rockies...........................................18 by Casey Greene Three Views of New Zealand.....................................................30 by Amaya Williams Winter Wonderland.................................................................38 by Glenn Charles My Tribe..................................................................................52 by Steve Fabes Solitude and Misery..................................................................58 by Joe Cruz Nyungwe..................................................................................68 by Derek McIntire Searching for Sasquatch...........................................................80 by Donnie Kolb Argentina: Pampas and Perceptions.........................................90 by Beth Willard Letters from Alex, pt. 2............................................................96 by Alex Dunn Little Gems............................................................................112 by Katrina Wollet benightment..........................................................................116 by Carrie Harvilla Touring on Top of the World..................................................128 by Daniel Molloy Plan & Pedal..........................................................................140 by Nick Hormuth and Lindy Patterson
The Simple Pleasures
Written and photographed by Cass Gilbert
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y streamlining possessions to those that will fit inside our panniers – namely, the contents of two grocery bags – life becomes lighter, both metaphorically and physically. Shedding our materialistic vices can even be a rather profound experience. The less we own, the less there is to worry about. And, in turn, the more we can get on with what we enjoy most: pedalling our bikes, taking to the hills, and pitching our tents. The simple pleasures. But over the last few years, bicycle touring has become more complicated than ever. In part, this has been driven by the creation of Google Maps, and its encyclopedic knowledge of earthly folds and creases and undiscovered roads. Then there’s the popularity of blogs, the electronic marvels of smart phones and GPS, the immediacy of digital cameras and the miniaturisation of computers. I say this as one who’s embraced such technologies to the full. Tethered as I am by an umbilical cord to my laptop and camera, I’m forever photographing, forever foraging for a wifi signal or place to recharge – both personally and electronically – as soon as I hit town. Inevitably, there are times when I question this path, and lament the loss of my travels of old. Navigating by scraps of paper, or by instinct. And when instinct fails, by adventure. The joys of getting lost. My computer, for all its wizardry and potential, is no match for the tactile enjoyment of filling a notebook with scribbles and sketches. Or the secret delight of keeping my ponderings to myself. Just like the warmth and imperfection of analogue cameras, or the hiss and crackle of a favourite record, a paper map has a quasi-human, romantic connotation; it begs to be touched and held. Occasionally, I make the conscious
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LOOKOUTS OF TH
HE NORTHERN ROCKIES Written and photographed by Casey Greene
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t all started in the unusually dry summer of 1910. Rain hadn’t fallen since April, and in August, lightning did. A raging cold front from the west whipped up hurricane-force winds as perfect storm conditions descended upon Northern Idaho and Western Montana. On the evening of August 20th, it all went up in flames. Towns burned. People died. In a period of 48 hours, the monsoon of fire consumed over 300,000 acres along the Bitterroot Divide. The fledgling Forest Service could not stop it. No one could have. By the end of the summer, roughly 3 million acres sat scarred across the Northern Rockies. In the aftermath, the young Forest Service adopted a new zero-tolerance fire policy for the woods they were entrusted to protect. If a fire was spotted, it was to be extinguished promptly. The keystone of this plan was to locate a fire in its infancy. To do that, they camped people atop high vantage points to record lightning strikes and check back later to see if those strikes materialized into ‘smokes.’ Soon those high camps became permanent structures. Over 900 lookout towers were perched on high peaks and craggy ridges across Idaho. Montana had over 600. At one point, there were so many being erected that a district ranger could order a lookout tower as a kit, and pack the whole thing up a mountain to be assembled via paper instructions. Need a D-6 Cupola or an L-4 Cab? No problem. It was the equivalent of placing an order with Amazon today. The decline of the lookout tower started in the early 1960s. New technology had crept in, making some towers obsolete. By the 1970s, most lookout towers around the country had been phased out of service and sat decaying. The United States Forest Service was dealing with lawsuits from citizens who would venture up the towers and hurt themselves. The Forest Service responded by issuing an order: if a tower is not in use, get rid of it. Burn it. The order was a harsh blow to the individual National Forests. Staff watched as towers they had manned for 30+ summers ironically went up in flames. Some forests would do all they could to save the structures. When the order reached Kootenai National Forest in far Northwest Montana, they responded with a standard government tactic. They dragged their feet. For 10 years. When the winds changed, Kootenai was
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Three Views of
NEW ZEALAND Written and photographed by Amaya Williams
WINTER WONDERLAND Written and photographed by Glenn Charles
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he forecast said it was going to be cold. Colder than I was prepared for, and certainly colder than I had ever experienced. As I awoke that morning, I tossed aside the two blankets that lay atop my zero-degree sleeping bag. A nice couple on vacation from Hawaii had decided that winter camping was not their thing, and, feeling a bit sorry for me, they left their blankets as they headed out for the relative warmth of resort life to the north. After tossing the blankets aside and unzipping my sleeping bag, I became aware that something was different from previous mornings. I had become quite acclimated to the night temperatures, hovering between 0 and -15, so this did not bode well. My skin began to tingle as I rolled out of the bag. The warmth of the bag was instantly sucked away, along with any sign of moisture from every inch of my skin. The temperatures had forced me to sleep with all of my clothes on and my parka draped across my body inside the bag for added warmth. As I began moving that morning, I quickly put on my parka and covered my face with a wool buff, donning my big mitts in an attempt to revitalize my fingers. The total time out of the bag could not have been more than five minutes and my digits were beginning to pain me. It was all happening very quickly, and yet I seemed to be experiencing it as if watching a film in slow motion. My brain was on autopilot due to the frigid conditions: put on big gloves, get stove, pull out water, painfully light stove, try to re-warm fingers, make coffee, try to get warm. Muscle memory is a wonderful thing, and even though I was in a cold-induced state of pain, and a bit of panic, I was able to perform all of the morning tasks that needed to be accomplished. The stove gave warmth to my fingers. It also brought moisture back to my skin, but only temporarily. Once removed from the warmth of the fire, the moisture was instantly and painfully sucked away again. I knew it was paramount to get to the visitor center; it was simply too cold to be sitting idly outside. I packed up a bag and arduously attempted to load the bike. Everything hurt, but most of all my fingers could not get warm. Trying to load the bike, which required Bunyan Velo 40
MY TRIBE Written and photographed by Steve Fabes
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slow to a halt and squint, searching for a clue. The silhouette is tapered bottom and top, but it might just be a loaded mule or a sluggish motorbike, teetering out there on the crown of the hill. I pedal on and slowly the form sharpens and swells as our distance ebbs. It’s a cyclist, I’m certain now, one of my tribe. I wonder whether they have noticed me too. As the loaded bike and its jockey loom I flash them a wave and soon we are vying for a safe spot to cross whilst traffic rumbles on and drivers remain oblivious to our unfurling chance encounter. The ripple of surprise that comes every time I cross paths with another cycle tourer is itself a surprise sometimes. I should be used to these meetings – bumpy lanes, back roads, and highways the world over are denser now with meandering two-wheeled nomads than ever before. It’s always a welcome moment when my tribe slowly rolls into view. Locals often watch this odd convergence with keen eyes. Enraptured children surround us; village life can pause to watch the playing out of serendipity. The air is abuzz with questions and answers, “Where did you start? How long? What’s Bunyan Velo 54
that?” Meanwhile onlookers gather and gawk and wonder what we mean when we say, “Prudhoe Bay, Six months, A bongo.” We swap details, cards, ideas, tips. We prod each other’s tires, marvel at unusual kit, and discover that we have each named our bicycles. We laugh at alpaca skulls tethered to the bike frame and signs emblazoned with the words “I don’t get out of the way for ANYONE.” My tribe is a hodgepodge of quirky drifters. We are the shiny holiday-bikers, fresh from a local bike shop. We are the muddied veterans and tribal elders, fresh, apparently, from some sort of near-apocalyptic event. Some meander across continents on thirty-year-old rusted contraptions bearing, like their owners, the marks and scrapes of those tens of thousands of miles in their wake. Their smiles and frowns are veiled by dirt tans and billowing tufts of facial hair – tribal marks. There are couples and threesomes and even trains of riders who collect soloists as they journey on. There are the Spandex-clad speedsters who talk only in numbers, “How many miles have
you done this week?” they earnestly inquire. I indulge them with a guess and then wait for the furrowed brow and the sly smile as they work out exactly how many more miles they ride than I do. And there’s the mechanically-minded who nod towards my front hub, “bit loose?” they report with a frown. Their judging eyes make me nervous. The ride can leave a signature. The lonely rant unhindered for half an hour and I wonder how to shake them off. The taciturn, on long solo journeys, are unpracticed and unaccustomed to company. They don’t linger long. There are bikers who revel in the solitude and others who are downbeat and defeated, their spirits strangled and the open road no longer holding the romance it once promised. They have highlighted roads in their map that lead to the nearest airport and their faces say what they scribbled into diaries the night before, “Never Again.” Some are hopelessly overloaded, on their first ever bicycle tour, steeped in sweat, panting with gusto and cursing the decision to pack the foot spa. The paper-light and speedy gloat but own
a body odor that suggests they’re sporting their one and only t-shirt. There are scrimpers too, who have improvised panniers from plastic containers. They make me smile. And sometimes whole families on wheels, a three year old waving from the trailer attached to Dad’s bike. They make me smile the most. Many are ships in the night that fade from memory almost as fast as they fade from view. Others I will never forget. The Swiss tribal elder, for example, on a remote African desert track, on his forth traverse of the continent. “I’ll die on my bike,” he told me, and I believed him. His face spelt resolve and his fierce, stormy eyes held no hint of regret. Or the Chilean biker whose father’s ashes were scattered at the top of the Andean mountain pass where we crossed tracks. On that day every year, and for the past six, he had cycled that road. And that year, like every other, he talked to his dead father as he pedaled. We have much in common, of course. We know the numbness of arrow-straight roads and an unchanging vista, and how to ease the tedium by sifting through old memories like we’re plucking out good tunes at a jukebox. We feel the exhilaration Bunyan Velo 55
Solitude and Misery Written and photographed by Joe Cruz
T
he pedaling had been conviction, then repetition, then meditation. Bottom bracket tick tick tick, through here and there and fear, tick tick, through a tiredness so thorough that my self would disappear, tick, so that my will will evaporate into a flux of happening, merely a body doing, not thinking or insistently explicitly shouting in an internal voice. Chile. Mist exhaled breath, twitching legs wobble lean steady against the top tube, piss steam into the chill. Trembling hands, swimming vision adrift toward a whirlpool, somehow lagging a bit behind itself. Look up at a bright moon then back into shadow grey gauze or soundlessness, later will howl gibber plead with the shine. Sip from a bottle continuing a path that began in a stream somewhere back ago, eating stopped meaning anything and the desperation worry of it, the cloying certainty of those demanding small comforts gives way to tympani in the temples serenity. Legs turning again. The irony will come much later when the narration of objects and separation and resolved edges returns. I had lost track of the days that I hadn’t talked to anyone, moved among others with body language or pantomime, whatever figures I saw were far off and abstract, just tilting natural movement on a kind of conceptual horizon. And in the reconstruction I had been riding right then for over fourteen hours, would ride for five more with no longing or drive, a break here and there five or fifteen minutes at a time and neither happy nor sad nor anything, just forwarding presence until there was a trend without comment that it might be a good idea to stop. Tent sets up, zippers close to darkness and sleep. I used to pretend these journeys as straightforward exploration. But bicycles are typically for where there have been other human beings. There are exceptions—untreaded beaches, marshy overland, snow packed vectors, all three attainable on a Fat Bike—but usually no matter how wild remote abandoned broken a track is, it’s still an etched trace of someone having gone before, their graffiti to be read for meaning. An explorer on wheels can’t often expect to be pioneering a place outwardly chartless. Maybe then, and certainly some of the clichés say so, it’s a turning inward, and that made sense to me for a span. Leave, seeking separation to understand and make focal this self in a manner that is hard to achieve in busy barren sleepwalking life. I never found it natural or easy to be alone, but that’s not the same as saying that I get lonely. Solitude is hardly a ready condition for us, beings of groups and sociality and community that we are. Sure, there is a celebrated narrative of self-reliance that has a currency and runs deep in the mythology of some cultures, certainly mine, but the legends and the longing seem a protestation, as if it is a stretch, as if we hope we might become gods if we could achieve escape velocity, though we only half want to. And the triumphant bragging return from being alone Bunyan Velo 60
NYUNGWE Written and photographed by Derek McIntire
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was off to a late start. My hosts had insisted I stay for lunch, sharing a meal of rice, potatoes, pasta, and vegetables while watching football (soccer) on the television. I had met Clement the day before, shortly after he contacted me via Couchsurfing, offering to host me in his home town of Huye, formerly known as Butare, Rwanda. He was nice enough to show me around, taking me to the Rwandan National Museum and giving me a tour of the National University of Rwanda, where he was studying pharmaceuticals.
I
Remnants of the genocide were everywhere – from physical scars and missing limbs, to huge memorials in almost every town, to the manner in which people interacted with one another. Rwanda was different from the other African countries I had traveled to. There was less physical engagement. There was no yelling or grabbing in the streets and no pushing fights over whose matatu I would ride in. The people of Rwanda were reserved, but inquisitive, and it was clear that the genocide had deeply affected their way of life.
Clement lived with his brother, mother, grandmother, two sisters, and two cousins in a small brick house situated down a steep, eroding slope off the main road, just south of town. The backyard boasted large banana trees, along with papaya, cassava, and corn. There was a small water pump just outside the house where they collected water for cooking, but not for drinking. A car battery powered the lights and television in their living room. After the violent genocide of 1994, which decimated Rwanda’s population and left thousands of people displaced and orphaned, intergenerational family living became necessarily common.
As I pushed my bicycle up the steep, rocky path towards the road, Clement and his brother carried my panniers while their five year old cousin watched and giggled. Moving on after getting to know new friends is always the hardest part, but I thanked them and went back to say goodbye to the rest of the family before I finally loaded up my bike and began pedaling back through town. It was my third day into a solo bike tour through Rwanda and Uganda and I didn’t know what to expect. The ride from Kigali to Huye had certainly lived up to Rwanda’s reputation as the “land of a thousand hills,” and I was headed toward Nyungwe Forest, which rises to over 8,000 feet above sea level.
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Leaving town, the landscape opened up to large fields sitting at the foot of rolling green hills that sprawled as far as the eye could see. I noticed that many of the workers in the fields were wearing orange jumpsuits. Soon after, I began to see pink jumpsuits as well. In Kigali, I spent an afternoon at the genocide museum and learned that those convicted of crimes of genocide were not given the standard-issue orange jumpsuit in prison. Rather, they were clad in pink, to set them apart. I made my way down a narrow stretch of road in between two fields now crowded with perpetrators of genocide. A surreal feeling came over me as it sunk in – these were mass murderers. Several of the men stopped to stare at me. I pedaled by, not ten feet from them, as one man raised a hand and offered a smile. This wasn’t a movie or a photo on the news. These were living, breathing human beings who had been convicted of murder on a horrific scale and were forced to bear their scarlet letter in the form of a pink jumpsuit. Uneasy, I dug in and pushed toward the rising hills. I had come to Rwanda to see the jungle, climb some hills, and explore the 250 km stretch of dirt road along the coast of
Lake Kivu known as the Congo-Nile trail, but thus far I had not found a moment to myself. Rwanda is the most densely populated country in Africa, and I was bombarded with attention wherever I went. Stopping to get water, some fruit, or to use the “rest room” was impossible without attracting a large crowd. The children in particular were constantly curious, and often screamed “Mzungu, mzungu!” as I passed. Getting used to the staring, and in some cases, grabbing or touching, was a cultural barrier that might be hard for a lot of people to overcome. At times it was certainly a struggle for me, but I mostly found engaging with locals to be easy. It was amazing to interact with people so united and peaceful just nineteen years after the genocide turned neighbor against neighbor, and tore their country in half. As the sun began to flirt with the horizon, I pulled off the road into what seemed to be a quiet patch of grass overlooking a valley. I sat down, pulled out my food container, and began to make myself a snack. Sure enough, a crowd soon gathered to watch me eat. I licked avocado from between my fingers while one man made an attempt at conversation. Since he spoke a little English, I asked him if he knew a place I could camp. Bunyan Velo 71
SEARCHING FO
OR
SASQUATCH Written and photographed by Donnie Kolb
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f I ever needed to dispose of a dead body, I know exactly where I’d dump it: somewhere in the bowels of Oregon’s Coast Range. While it lies within spitting distance of large metropolitan areas like Portland, Salem, and Eugene, the Coast Range is a wild place, crisscrossed by unmapped dirt logging roads, full of wild beasts, where a Sasquatch sighting is not out of the question. Riding in the Coast Range is a love/hate experience. Although the range is not particularly high, its elevations peaking just above 3,000 feet, the climbing is relentless. It’s hard to find routes without consistent grades above 10%, usually with a spot or two above 20%. Walking is commonplace, especially when loaded down with a full bikepacking rig. Even though you will suffer here more than anyplace you’ve likely ever ridden, it’s hard to leave without being impressed with the rugged beauty. That’s what draws a small handful of us back year after year to explore new areas, get lost, and find hidden dirt routes to the Oregon coast. Besides the relentless grades, the thing most people notice while riding in the range is logging. Logging rules, and every road that still exists, exists because it was cut to access timber. As an outsider and city person, it’s easy to dismiss logging as unsustainable and environmentally degrading. However, it has long been a way of life in Oregon, to the extent you have the opportunity to ride in the Coast Range; it is logging that gives you that privilege. Even today, much of the land is still private, with several of the larger logging companies graciously allowing access on foot and bike. Oregon is rich with history and the Coast Range is no exception. Its remoteness and valuable timber creates a mostly one-sided history of logging camps, massive fires, and record boardfeet, but there is more to the region than just the ubiquitous clear cuts. In addition to riding through extinct logging camps like Timbuktu, one can also trace its history by bike on the Trask Toll Road, the first stagecoach crossing the Coast Range in the late 1800s. Back then, rough roads and steep grades made for a hellish trip through true wilderness, where passengers were required to get out and help the horses by pushing the stagecoach up the steepest hills. Bunyan Velo 82
TOUR
RING ON TOP OF THE WORLD Written and photographed by Daniel Molloy
T
he ride hadn’t started yet and I’d already been hit with a bout of Giardia. If you’ve ever had the infamous “Delhi Belly,” you can commiserate. If not, I’ll spare you the gory details. Fortunately, anybody can walk into a pharmacy in India and buy a course of antibiotics for the equivalent of two dollars. Since I was a child, India had seemed like an exotic place, completely opposite from where I’d grown up, and I desperately wanted to see it. In my mind, there was nothing more exciting than a mountain bike touring trip to the Indian Himalayas with a couple of friends. After seeing amazing pictures of the journeys completed by other cyclists, we formed a plan to cycle the northern Indian Himalayas from Manali to Leh. My friends Aaron and Jorge agreed to come along. After months of planning, training, and practice trips, we were as ready as we could be. I’d toured the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route three years earlier and learned much from that experience. Gone were the six and a half pound twoman tent and the copious amounts of “doohickeys” and “springa-ma-jigs” (including a kitchen sink – a special German made one!). All of us were riding steel frames with 26” wheels, big tire clearance, rigid forks, and Rohloff 14-speed internally geared hubs. I rode a custom Inglis/Retrotec, Aaron rode a Surly Troll painted a great shade of military green, and Jorge found a used Thorn EXXP fillet-brazed beauty. Three strong and light Hilleberg Akto mountaineering tents would be our private cocoons for the next three weeks. Nobody wanted to share a tent, mainly due to my strong camping odors. I don’t blame them! Upon landing in Delhi, we were bombarded with tropically humid air, oppressive heat, and a density of humanity I’d never experienced before. It was thrilling! I saw a family of four, including a mother, holding her infant and a toddler sitting on dad’s lap, all comfortably perched atop a small motorcycle, sans helmets. This was not an uncommon scene. Amazingly, we didn’t see any accidents. After assembling our bikes at the Sham Nath Villa in New Delhi, we took in the sights for a couple days, including sampling some of the finest local curries, a bicycle rickshaw ride, and a visit to the local bicycle shop where one could procure a new “Hero” brand bike modeled after an old Raleigh gentleman’s cruiser for about $75. Getting to the Bunyan Velo 131
forgotten fire soup for four 2 med sweet potatoes 2 tbsp. olive oil* 1 med. onion, chopped 2 bouillon cubes* 3 cups water 1 med red bell pepper, roasted & chopped 1 small jalapeño pepper, roasted & diced 1 16-oz can black beans, drained and rinsed juice of half a lemon pinch of cayenne* salt & pepper to taste* optional: milk or cream to finish cilantro to garnish *pantry items brought from home Roast two sweet potatoes naked on the grill over a fire or rubbed with olive oil and wrapped in foil and placed near hot coals (est. 30-40 mins). Turn regularly, though it’s ok if they go black, as you’ll peel the skins away. Meanwhile, in each of two pots, heat ½ tbsp of olive oil over low heat. Divide one chopped onion and a little salt evenly between pots and cook over low heat for about 15 mins. While onions caramelize, roast the peppers naked on the grill over the fire or wrapped in foil and placed near coals for about 10 mins, turning regularly. Once the onions have caramelized, crumble one bouillon cube into each pot, then stir in water, evenly divided, followed by chopped peppers and black beans. Simmer until potatoes are done. Peel and mash potatoes with a fork and divide between four bowls. Pour onion broth evenly over potatoes and stir until well blended and the potatoes are smooth. Stir in lemon juice, cayenne, and salt to taste and finish, if you like, with a little cream. BV
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