7-31-84 2502.3 [250.2 miles]. It's Tuesday morning. I've just set out from Lakeview State Park (overlooking Lake Mary), where I spent the night, and it's just a beautiful morning. There's not a cloud in the sky, the sun is bright and shining on my back, and there's a mist in front of me—a fog, if you will—covering part of Lake Mary. I'm presently coasting downhill, headed toward Flagstaff, and nothing could be better. I feel good, I'm raring to go, today's riding should be a breeze, and my destination today is Tuba City, considerably north of Flagstaff.
The riding late last night was miserable. As I approached Mormon Lake, raindrops started to fall, and it was also getting dark. [By] listening to the radio I knew that there was one hour of daylight left, so I was not only racing against the sun, but also the rain and my own fatigue. I was so tired at one point—feeling so weak—that I had to stop and gulp some vegetable crackers by the side of the road. Otherwise, I'm not sure [that] I would have made it. But the crackers must have given me a burst of energy, because I got up, covered my gear on the bike, and plugged on, past Mormon Lake and finally to the vicinity of Lake Mary, where I knew [that] there was a state park. I was helped along the way by a song from Peter Frampton on the radio, called "Baby I Love Your Way." I remember listening to that song in 1976 when it first came out, and even playing my ["Frampton Comes Alive"] tape on a date with Vicki Stout. It sure raised my spirits to hear [the song again as I pedalled] in the driving rain.
Right now I'm riding through a dense fog. I can't see more than fifty yards in front of me. The lake, which is to my left, is invisible, but I can see well enough to ride on, of course. Getting back to Lakeview State Park, I was quite disappointed at the facilities. There was no shower, no sink, no washroom—only an old-fashioned outhouse, which smelled when I opened the door. In Michigan, nearly every state park had full shower and washroom facilities, and the parks were much more well-marked. That is, there were signs indicating how far [it was] to the [various] park[s] and showing exactly where they were located. Here in Arizona, I've been greatly disappointed in the road signs. I see one [particular] sign, "Highway Littering Unlawful," a lot, but other than that, I don't get much information [from] alongside the road. [S]ince it was growing dark, I hurriedly pitched my tent and put my belongings inside, after which I ate two more sandwiches and some crackers, washed my face with cold water, and jumped into the sleeping bag for a good night's sleep [or so I hoped].
The temperature in Flagstaff at 6:10 P.M. last night was sixty-one degrees, and it was expected to get into the fifties overnight. Right now, as I pedal along, the wind is quite chilly, even though the sun is out behind me. Fog is still covering the trees to my far left, and there's a crispness in the air. But then, what I should I expect? Lakeview State Park was at seven thousand feet [in altitude]—well more than a mile above sea level—and Flagstaff itself is only a few feet lower than that.
I didn't sleep too badly last night. At least it didn't rain, and the ground wasn't too [hard]—although my hips got sore from sleeping sideways, [necessitating that I] move around quite a bit in the bag. Also, the bottom of the sleeping bag had gotten wet during my ride, and since my socks were also wet, and I had no dry ones, I ended up sleeping all night with cold, damp feet. I sure hope that I don't catch [a] cold or pneumonia from that. Finally, just before I went to sleep, I heard [a] neighbor[ing camper] exclaim that there was a skunk in the vicinity. One of [the campers] walked near my tent with a flashlight, [so] I asked him from within what it was. He confirmed that it was a skunk. Now, I ha[d] a small loaf of bread and some crackers in my tent, . . . so I thought that the skunk might be trying to find those items. Lo and behold, in the middle of the night, I awoke to [the sound of] some small animal scratching at my tent. Not wanting to trigger a blast from the skunk's olfactory generator [if indeed it was a skunk], I simply yelled, "Shoo, git, shoo!" and I heard the animal scamper away. The lesson [that] I learned from this is that when I get into "bear country," I don't want to have any food in or around my tent [at night]. The last thing [that] I need is to have a bear scavenging for food in the middle of the night while I'm sleeping. I've heard horror stories about campers being mauled [by bears], and I don't want to become another statistic.
This morning I awoke approximately one hour after sunrise, or 6:30 [A.M.], and quickly began packing up my things, taking my vitamins, brushing my teeth, etcetera. I am now quite proficient at packing my gear and taking down the tent. I would estimate that it takes about ten minutes to take the tent down, fold it up, and string it onto the bike with the bungy strap. Everything seems to be in fine order, except my [od]ometer, which has been making a loud, strange noise for the [p]ast half-day or so. I, personally, feel good. I have no aches and pains to speak of, and I feel none the worse for having had only one shower in the past three and a half days.
One other point. The [camping last night] was free. . . . I went up to the "host's" trailer and asked if there was a fee for bikers as there was for cars. [The host] said, "You're on a ten-speed?!["] and I said, "Yes," and he said, "No; go ahead." [That means that] I now have five additional dollars for my trip. [All told, I have] $410 for twenty-seven more days. Here are my objectives once I get into Flagstaff: first, eat a good breakfast; second, stop at a laundromat [to] wash and dry my clothes; third, buy food and pick up iced water for the day's trip; and fourth, send two postcards. Each day on the trip I'll try to mail two postcards. That will give me approximately sixty for the entire trip—more than enough to keep family and friends abreast of my journey.
2531.3 [279.2 miles]. I'm currently riding northward out of Flagstaff on Highway 89, and I saw a sign about a mile back which stated that the elevation at that point was seven thousand feet. I'm slightly above that [elevation] right now. I'm quite sure that that's the highest elevation [that] I've been at on this trip, and yet I feel reasonably strong and fit. The thin air hasn't made me notic[e]ably sluggish, although it's hard to tell without comparing it to something else. As I come down somewhat in elevation, I'll see if the riding becomes a little easier.
Well, I've now put thirty miles under my belt today. The sun is almost directly overhead, and I suspect that it's just past noon. Here's what happened since last I spoke. I pulled alongside the road going into Flagstaff to check out my odometer and take a salt tablet, and as I was sitting on the side of the road, a biker approached me from the direction of Flagstaff. He was decked out in the usual riding gear, and he had a nice bike, [so] we struck up a conversation about biking and other subjects. It turns out that this fellow lives in Flagstaff and that he's been biking for some thirteen years. He told me that one summer a few years back, he had ridden his ten-speed [bike] from Arizona to Philadelphia, and when he arrived at his parents' house, he vowed that he would never try such a foolish thing again. But as any biker can tell you, . . . long-distance riding becomes habit-forming, and the very next summer he not only went all the way across country, . . . he came back on his bike. That should tell you a little bit about not only the heartache of biking, but the fact that you get a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction when it's over. I certainly felt good after completing my ten-day trip around Michigan in 1982, even though along the way there were times when I was dejected, lonely, and sore.
Finally, after discussing my plans and the bike and gear that I have, the biker suggested that he accompany me into Flagstaff. Finding his company agreeable, I accepted, and on we pedalled into town. I had asked him about the Northern Arizona University campus, and so the first place he led me was through a long drive pas[t] some of the campus buildings. When we got to the domed football stadium [the Walkup Skydome], I stopped to take a picture [of] it [with] the San Francisco Mountains in the background. The biker told me that the San Francisco Mountains [contain] the highest point in Arizona, and from the looks of them, he's right. Before we went our separate ways, the biker made a suggestion and described [end of "notebook #1 (3-8-84 to 7-31-84)"—consisting of 150 single-spaced, computer-printed sheets] to me the route through Utah on Highway 89. [He was great company—the sort of person who would make a fine companion on a long bike trip.]
I just passed a sign which read, "Elevation, 7282 Feet." It's hard to believe [that] I climbed 282 feet in the past couple of miles. Maybe I did. At any rate, there's a considerable drop in front of me. It should be good riding. Finishing up the story about the biker, [his] suggestion was that instead of going northward into [the town of] Page, I [should] veer off to the left and go across the Colorado River and through part of the Grand Canyon area. I frankly hadn't considered that alternative, but the more I think about it, the better it sounds. He said that the view is much more scenic [along that route] and that the [amount of] climbing is about the same—short climbs in certain places. As for his de[s]cription of the route, he said that Highway 89 through Utah is a joy. The winds are from the south, which should assist me, and the road is basically flat. And finally, the views, he said, are spectacular. So I was encouraged to hear about the trip through Utah.
Amazing! I've been coasting for about three miles now, and I still have a huge drop in front of me. At the moment I've slowed down a bit, but the [de]cline will steepen shortly. As I was saying, the biker and I parted in downtown Flagstaff, but before we did so, he gave me directions as to how to get out of town and where to find a laundromat and a McDonald's [restaurant]. They were both on the way, so I didn't have to go on any detours. The first stop, as with the last two days, was to eat a big breakfast at McDonald's. You might think that I'd be tired of the same meal three days in a row, but it's actually a good breakfast. I had, again, scrambled eggs, pancakes with syrup, hash brown potatoes, an English muffin with jelly, a raspberry danish, and a large cup of coffee. I find that these large breakfasts get me going and stand me in good stead for most of the day. Afterward, I found a small laundromat and washed all of my dirty clothes except the shorts and underwear that I was wearing. The bike feels lighter now that I've gotten the dirty, sweaty clothes out of the rear pannier. While I was at the laundromat, I took the time to write two more postcards—to Mom and to Kutinsky, Davey & Solomon—and . . . mailed them before I left.
2536.3 [284.2 miles]. I'm still coasting down the hill north of Flagstaff on Highway 89. There was a bike path [alongside the road] up until now, but it looks like I'm going to be on the road [proper] for a few miles, at least. As I came out of Flagstaff, the skies began clouding up quickly, and before I knew it raindrops began to fall. I pulled off to the side of the road, covered the bike, and spent fifteen to twenty minutes reading the editorial pages of the Arizona Republic. But quickly the storm clouds blew over to the west, and now the sky appears to be fairly clear in front of me, and that's really all I care about. The storms can be brewing and hashing about on either side of me or behind me; all I care about is what's in front of me.
Just that quickly, I've gone back into a somewhat desert country. All around me on the side are these small, treelike bushes, and off in the distance on both right and left are round mountains, or hills. My plan for the day is to make it to Tuba City, and, if not that far, then in the near vicinity [of Tuba City]. Tomorrow I plan to get through the Grand Canyon and possibly into Utah (or very near thereto).
I neglected to mention that yesterday, when I was near Mormon Lake, I saw an unusual "double rainbow." I was lucky enough to get two pictures of it, but I honestly don't think [that] I've ever seen such a thing. One rainbow was fairly distinct and clear, [while] the other was concentric with it but a bit larger. I noticed that it was also a bit fainter. I don't know much about the physics of rainbows, but [they] sure [were] beautiful. By the looks of things, I'm going to have some fantastic photographs when I arrive back in Tucson.
Yesterday's mileage, incidentally, was 76.8, which means that I have covered 248.8 miles in three days. That puts me over my schedule of eighty miles per day, and I must say that with the conditions being as harsh as they've been, I should pick up even more ground in the next few days. As I get stronger, and come down in altitude, I hope to get ninety to a hundred miles on some days. The odometer reading when I left Lakeview State Park this morning was 2500.9 [248.8 miles]. [Right now,] as I look behind me, I see a long, steep incline leading into Flagstaff. I'm sure that I'll be taking this same route on the way back, but I'll try to flush it from my mind for the next few weeks and worry about it on my return. I'm fairly sure, however, that I'll be taking a different route from Flagstaff to Tucson, possibly through the Phoenix vicinity.
About a week before I left on the trip, I read a newspaper article which said that the stretch of highway [that] I'm currently on, north of Flagstaff, is one of the most dangerous in the state. It has an extremely high rate of accidents. I frankly don't know why. It looks to me like a standard-sized road; [it has] two lanes; and there's even about a foot and a half [of] bike space on the side. It's not enough for me to stay within, or on, but in a pinch I could move over and avoid an accident.
My back is now fairly well burnt. I can feel the sun's rays stinging off it every now and then, and I can see (by looking in my [small] rearview mirror) that it's blistered quite badly. But I intended to ride shirtless as much as possible on the trip, in hopes that my back would turn dark brown and eventually just "ward off" the sun's rays. I realize that I run a risk of skin cancer by doing this, but, as with other of life's risks, the magnitude of the harm times the probability [of its occurring] is exceedingly small, and so I (for all intents and purposes) ignore that risk.
2540.0 [287.9 miles]. Believe it or not, it feels good to be out in open country again. Roderick Nash, in his book Wilderness and the American Mind, discusses the roots of the [prevalent human] distaste for wilderness, and he finds it in, of all places, biology and sociobiology. According to Nash, there was a period [of] time when the great forests [of the earth] were destroyed by a glacier, or by an ice age, or something, and at that point the humans who remained alive were thrust out into the open. And because good eyesight had survival value in an open environment, humans developed acute eyesight and thrived in that sort of environment. Thus, even today, Nash writes, humans prefer open spaces to dense, dark forests. Last evening, when I was riding through the forest, I felt a similar sense of confinement and loneliness. But out in the open, where I can see off in every direction, I feel safer—perhaps more in control of the situation. I really don't know how to describe it. But then again, maybe I'm just enjoying the change. I'll probably tire of the open spaces within a day or so and be ready to ride through some pine-covered mountains again.
As I climb farther and farther down the mountainside, I notice [that] there's a considerable storm off to my left, over the mountains. I see lightning flashing over one particular mountain, and the sky is an ominous, dark black. But, as I say, it's fairly clear in front of me, and that's all I care about. I'm currently coasting down a hill at approximately twenty-seven miles per hour. The riding here is fantastic, and I'm picking up mileage quickly.