Magdelena, NM to El Paso, Texas (Mexican border)

After leaving Magdelena our thoughts turned very much to the Mexican border, and the few 100s of miles we had to travel. Still some way to go but the end of our north-south trip was very, very tangible now...I could almost taste the Coronas and burritos. I had even picked out the sombrero I would snooze under each lazy afternoon. Bueno. Ehh.

The road out of Magdelena was surprisingly steeper than expected...it's probably wrong to say steep, but just more rises than we had imagined. After 10 miles of steady uphill we crested and entered the rim of the Plains of San Augustin, and not too long after that we could see the day's highlight - the Very Large Array (VLA), a series of 27 radio telescopes that were featured, amongst other programs, in the movie Contact (albeit in a computer-enhanced manner). Each telescope, 25 metres in diameter, sits on one of three railway lines that each extend 13 or so miles in length. The telescopes can be moved in or out; when all the telescopes are spread out, it allows astronomers to look at a large part of the sky. When the opposite occurs, as it did when we were there, astronomers are focused on a smaller part of the sky. The telescopes sit within the Plains, essentially in a valley, to help protect them from unwanted electrical interference from nearby towns.


We camped that night at Datil Wells, 44 miles from Magdelena (via the VLA, which added 8 miles), at a very well run campsite. Each night we would look to the west waiting for an expected bout of bad weather that had been predicted days earlier. We were on alert after being drenched a few weeks earlier in the north of the state - we would often laugh about this, entering what we thought would be the driest state of the few we had travelled through, only to hit by the most water.

A few clouds appeared on this evening but nothing too sinister; the next morning saw a few spots of rain yet, for the most part of our 55 miles riding to Apache Creek, located at the junction of highways 12 and 32, it was more about gusting winds than water cascading from the sky. Today we rode deep within the plain, interrupted every 10 miles of so by modest hills flowing down from the mountains to our north. We rode onto the official Great Divide Trail just west of Old Horse Springs; one look down those hard, jumbled forestry roads sent shivers up my spine. We were more than happy to be on the pavement in this neck of the dirt. We crossed the Continental Divide, at 7300 feet, for our second last time...it felt satisfying to be back on the Divide, our companion from day one. Our old friend made us work hard over the course of this trip but she was relenting in this part of the country, her spine not so pronounced, the inclines more modest and sedate.


We camped beneath gloriously tall Ponderosa Pines at Apache Creek campground in the Gila (pronounced 'Heela') National Forest. The Gila, all of 3.3 million acres, wouldn't just dominate our horizon for the next week, it would also fill our heads with the history of Native Americans and the clash with modern America. Of Native chiefs lured to meetings on the pretence of peace, only to lose their lives and heads; of Geronimo, an Apache born and bred in these mountains, leading the US Calvary on a merry dance through its many canyons and mesas; and of infamous outlaws such as Billy the Kid, (partly) lured by the rich deposits of gold and silver found in the 1800s.

Our ride took us through the central and western sides of the Gila (and near the Arizona border), along highways 12 through Reserve and onto highway 180 through Glenwood and Buckhorn. The mountains to the east were magnificent. It was 26 miles into our ride from Apache Creek (about 13 miles from Reserve) that we had our first relatively major issue with our bikes. I had just noticed a wobble in my rear wheel/tire and asked Alia to look at it as I rode; she could see the tire clearly moving laterally, enough to have us plan to stop once we could find an open spot to do so - we were climbing through some steep hairpins on our way up to Saliz Pass (6436 feet) under a darkening sky, and just couldn't find enough space to pull over. We needn't have bothered; only seconds later and a curt 'POP' forced us to the tight confines of a corner of the highway. Not only had my tube burst, but my rear tire had been ripped along the bead for approx. 4 inches. A flawed tire wall had finally given way, putting pressure on the tube inside. As the rain began to fall we got the wheel off and removed the tire, yet as we attempted to use duct tape to repair the damage we could see it wouldn't hold enough to protect a new tube and any serious weight I would need to put on the bike.

Decision time.

In a surprisingly calm manner (well, for me at least. No outburst this time) we decided that we would walk to the nearest clearing (we could get enough air in the new tube to walk the bike) and begin seeing if someone could take us the 85 miles to Silver City. Failing this, we would simply walk around 12 miles and camp (we were in National Forest, which means you can legally camp anywhere excluding near streams/rivers), getting up the next day to walk the final eight miles to the nearest small town of Glenwood. From there we knew could order a tire from Silver City and have it Fedexed to us. Walking 20 miles really didn't faze us too much - we can walk at 4 miles an hour, and with our gear still on our bikes it wasn't too hard pushing my bike along. Obviously not our preference but well within our scope.

About a mile into our walk and a man stopped in a pull-out and asked us if we needed some help. We looked at each other and thought it made sense to see what this meant. Jerry, the man in the car, said he would happily take us into Silver City, not far from where he lived, and bring us back with a new tire...wow, what an offer. He couldn't take our bikes with us but these could be safely stashed in the dense bush near the road. Another glance between each of us. It seemed to make sense, and Jerry seemed genuine. And so it went; Jerry not only took us all the way into Silver City to get a new tire but allowed us to join him and his partner Mary for dinner, and put us up for the night at his house, located on highway 180 about 12 miles west of Silver City. How humbling. Such generosity I hadn't experienced. Ever. And Jerry was a lovely man, so humble and spiritual, so ready to listen to us and our laments.

After dropping us back at our stash site the next day, we cycled 21 miles to Bighorn campground at Glenwood. Both this evening, when we met a couple from Victoria, BC and a motorcyclist from Tuscon, Arizona, and the next day when we met locals at a Saturday farmers market, we were hit with how we seemed to be meeting so many nice people on this stretch of road. Not to say people weren't friendly earlier in the trip, it was more the sheer number of people we were meeting on this particular stretch of road. And it wouldn't end here; after taking in a local site called the CatWalk, an elevated walkway that takes you through a picturesque canyon just northeast of Glenwood, we made our way to Buckhorn for the night. The very next day, whilst having a coffee at a service station about 7 miles south of Glenwood at Cliff, we met Patrick, who was cycling back to Silver City. He was part of a local group of cyclists that had also spent the night in Glenwood as part of a weekend trip from Silver City. After chatting for about 10 minutes Patrick, who had only recently completed a solo bike trip from Silver City to his former home town in New York State (in just 41 days), offered for us to stay with him and his wife rather than the motel we had planned to bed down at. We accepted, and suffice to say, much like Jerry and Mary, Patrick and his wife Eileen, Irish Americans, treated us royally. We pretty much talked for two days straight, about anything from cycling through to Patrick's immense knowledge of the American Civil War. And in amongst this was an amazing fiddling performance by Eileen, the sounds of distant Ireland resonating sublimely through their adobe home.

We stayed with Patrick and Eileen for two days, two absolutely wonderful days. From Silver City was cycled up and down the cavernous bumps of highway 180 east to the junction with highway 152; from there it was up steeply past one of the oldest (copper) mines in the US at Santa Rita, an open pit monolith as big as anything we saw in Butte, Montana. Not long after we enjoyed a five or six mile descent into the Mimbres (Spanish for willow) Valley before recommencing what ended up being a grueling ascent to Emory Pass. For 15 miles we battled hairpin after hairpin, hoping that each one would be the last. It wouldn't, and it was only at 5.45pm that we finally crested the 8200ft summit, 2200ft above Silver City's elevation. The view to the east was immense; our view not only took in the surrounding mountains of the Gila Forest but also the distant Rio Grande valley...the scope and diversity of what we were seeing was astounding. Probably one the top three views on the entire trip. And the descent into Hillsboro was exhilarating, if not a tad scary on some of the turns as the wind pushed us this way and that, sometimes a bit too close to the edge of the pavement (and the canyon below). Just as the sun was setting, and about eight miles from our destination of Hillsboro, Alia had her very first flat tire of the entire trip. We laughed. Just wish it wasn't now, but then again I've said that on each of the ten times I had a flat. Always have to be somewhere by sometime.

We rode the final eight miles in darkness along a very quiet highway; no drama, and quite surreal in some ways, seeing the vague outlines of mesas and canyons as we glided by the light of our headlamps. The day saw us ride a solid 57 miles, enough to give us a deep sleep at the RV park in Hillsboro, an old gold town that was the subject of numerous Apache raids in the late 1800s. As isolated as we felt at times on this trip, in no way could it be compared to the early settlers in this part of the country, scratching out a living in the dry and dusty environs all the while trying to fend off attacks from marauding Apaches.

Our next day was a monster. After a three mile climb out of Hillsboro we glided down into the Rio Grande valley, entering just south of the wonderfully named town of Truth or Consequences. Just as an aside, the original name of this town was the rather uninspiring Hot Spring. According the local Chamber of Commerce website, the name was changed in response to an offer by a 1950s radio program named Truth or Consequences. The offer was simple - would any town change their name to help show how much a town enjoyed the radio program, now in its 10th year on air? The town, which was struggling to attract tourists, took up the challenge, and after a town vote in which 1294 to 295 residents voted yes, the name was changed. One of the weirder ways to develop a town name. But it caught my eye, so I suppose it works.

We continued south through a rich agricultural wonderland along the edges of the river, a benign topography of largely flat or downhill pavement of highway 185 adjacent to chili, cotton and pecan tree farms...on and on we went. We were making such good time that we arrived at our predesignated destination of Radium Springs by 5.30pm (after departing at our usual late time of 10.45am). A short chat, which brought up the lure of a shower and bed of a Las Cruces motel room, some 15 miles to the south, helped make a quick decision. We would push on. And so we did, at 14 miles an hour. We made the motel just before 7pm, some 77 miles (125 kms) from Hillsboro, our longest day of the entire trip by far. Felt good.

We enjoyed a sleep-in the next day, and whilst winds from the east gusting up to 20 miles per hour made life tad sour, we made it into El Paso, our final destination on this leg, by mid afternoon. El Paso wasn't a pleasant place to ride into, largely because I hadn't noted the best cycle route in. Instead we rode in along Highway 20, a 6-lane road that was very busy at the time we entered the city. We ended up riding along the sidewalk, which luckily was quite wide and continuous (as you discover in the US, many sidewalks just end arbitrarily, usually at the most inopportune spots along a road - i.e. the busiest spots).

So, now for the stats. Our total distance travelled to this point, including the Vancouver Island and Skeena River sections, was 3484 miles, or 5574.4 kms. The total number of riding days (ie. excluding rest days) was 87, or almost three solid months that our butts spent in the saddle. Ouch. Quite the ride, and one which took us through a roller coaster of emotions. Mostly good, and certainly enlightening to the extreme. I lost five kilograms, down from 86 to 81kgs (178 pounds), and two sizes, down from a 36 to 34 inch waist (as I discovered when buying a suit in Albuquerque). This whilst still having a beer or three every few days. I'll have to keep cycling when I get home, I like this flattish stomach thing.

Alia has replaced any weight loss with sheer muscle - did you see her calves during the wedding ceremony?!? Her father thinks that's why most people were crying during the ceremony - sheer astonishment at her beautifully shaped legs.

Yet the drama hasn't stopped in El Paso. On the Friday night just gone, whilst eating popcorn I chipped off a rather large part of my second molar, enough to expose the root. Ouch. I couldn't even finish the beer I was drinking, the pain was that intense. After searching for a local dentist (and wondering how much a US dentist would charge considering we only have insurance for AUD$500 for emergency dental), I found most weren't open on the weekend (nor on Fridays - gees, the golfing must be good here). Whilst conducting these searches on the Net, up came various websites promoting qualified dentists in the Mexican city of Juarez. Yes, that Juarez, the city with over 2000 drug-related murders each year, the city which sits adjacent to El Paso that we were planning to avoid like the plague. After reading quite a few independent blogs, I came up with a few seemingly reliable dental clinics in Juarez, each of which came and picked you up from your El Paso motel/hotel, took you to the clinic, and then returned you to your accommodation. All for dental prices that were a third charged by US (or even Canadian/Australian) dentists.

It's a thriving industry here (well, not so busy now as our driver pointed out - they once collected 100 people per day from El Paso, now it's 10 or so) simply due to the vast number of US citizens who can't afford health insurance - one lady who needed 5 crowns and three root canals was quoted $15000 in Atlanta; she paid around $4000 in Juarez, and was happy with the work (I accept that you can't really verify many of these claims but as best we could, we went to blogs that had no link to the dentists themselves).

So, off we went. Most dental clinics are located directly next to the border crossing, so you are basically only seeing a few streets in Juarez before you arrive. We were greeted by about three people at once, one of which explained each part of the process to me as it was being done (in clear English). I ended up needing a root canal and crown; I have to say that, at this stage, all seems good. The root canal was painless (well, after seven needles, what would you expect - part of me was waiting for a bottle of tequila and a blindfold) and, two days later, still painless. Today (Monday) sees me going back for the permanent porcelain crown (I have a temp in now), so assuming all goes well, both now and in the coming weeks, it may be something I recommend to others. Total cost was US$495, including all Xrays (three to date) and taxes. Alia's mother thinks it would cost at least three times that in Sydney.

But, no, I haven't told my mother about this incident as yet...

Again, not something I would want to do again, and only time will tell if the dental work lasts. Suffice to say, the message from this blog is anything that goes POP is to be avoided, whether that be tires with flimsy sidewalls or the corn you put in the microwave. A poor joke I know but someone challenged me to somehow link the two incidents. There you go.

I will continue to write on this blog as we commence our ride from Austin, Texas to San Antonio, and from New Orleans to Pensacola. We board a train to Austin this Thursday morning. Until I write again, take care, and thanks for taking an interest in our trip. It's appreciated.

Espanola, NM, to Magdalena, NM (via Las Vegas, NV)

We departed Espanola along highway 30, and the first 9.5 miles were fairly flat. That changed dramatically once we hit highway 502, the main road linking Santa Fe with Los Alamos, the city where the atomic bomb was developed. A busy three-lane highway, it climbed steeply through a narrow valley until we reached our turnoff four miles later, the junction with highway 4.

This was a scenic byway which we would travel along for the next two days. After having a lunch at the small town of White Rock, munching away whilst overlooking the meandering Rio Grande from the top of a cliff (pictured), we continued along the shoulderless highway 4 until we reached Bandelier National Monument. Traffic eased considerably after White Rock although it was persistent enough to keep us riding tight along the right-hand side of the road. The tricky part along this road was the many blind corners and crests - as you approach these sections you check to see (or hear) if any cars are coming in either direction, lest you encounter one at an inopportune time.

The scenery changed dramatically once we were out of the valley that Espanola sat in. From dry plains filled with scrub brush and the odd abrupt mesa tops, we glided through small gullies and canyons filled with burly Ponderosa pines, trees that were much taller than I would have expected in such a dry environment. Bandalier's visitor center sat within the Frijoles (Bean) Canyon; after riding 28 solid miles we still had another two miles to do - on foot this time. The reason? The main campground was closed due to renovations, so instead we walked to the nearest designated backcountry camping area. The Park staff were kind enough to let us leave our bikes near their own accommodation, so we were able to simply take our small backpacks, fill them with our tents, sleeping bags and dinner/breakfast, and make for the campsites. And what a lovely camping area it was. Set within the tight confines of the canyon, we had the place to ourselves - no RVs, no generators, no people. Just us. And was that noise I heard in the dark of night a bear...? A mountain lion? Or a coyote? A man in a rain coat? I don't know, and I didn't want to know at the time.

Our walk back to the visitor center early the next morning was a highlight. Instead of walking adjacent to a stream that carves its way through the ponderosa-pine filled canyon (this stream continues to flow even in drought, one of very few in the area that does), we took a path that took us next to the many former homes of the ancient Pueblo peoples. Inhabited as far back as 10,000 years ago, these cliff-face homes were built post 1150AD, highlighting how agricultural advancements led to formerly nomadic peoples to settle in what was a fertile canyon valley. You could clearly see holes in the volcanic rock where roof support posts were once inserted, along with countless pictographs of birds, faces and many other images. What made this place so special to us was how close you could get to the structures, along with the lack of tourists - we were now out of holiday season, the kids were back at school, and we were reaping the relative silence and solitude. It's hypocritical of course, as we are tourists too (special tourists, I always think), but gees it's great to have the 'space' to think about what you're viewing with the intense sounds of traffic and/or tourists bursting your ear drums.

We departed the Park for a campsite higher up in Sante Fe National Forest. Just how high was something we weren't aware of until we asked a few people. Up and up we went - the rise from the western turn-off to Los Alamos was particularly sharp. We were traversing along the side of a caldera, the remains of the very volcano that spewed the lava that Bandelier sits within. Again, the shoulder was non-existent on this stretch of road, although as we were stopping every half-mile or so for a breather (I estimated the grade was anywhere between 6-8 degrees), we were able to pull into what little room there was and let cars pass. One saving grace was the road was largely truckless.

Upon reaching the top we were treated to a view of the caldera, a vast empty hole filled with grass, and rimmed with pine trees. We had expected a sharp downhill at this point, yet the 'top' continued for quite some time - and up and down we went as the sun raced to the horizon (it always seems to be racing to the horizon when you're desperately trying to make it somewhere), only just making our campsite at Jemez Falls as the sun was setting. Luckily we had filled up with water before we commenced our ride that day, as the water at the campground had been turned off the day earlier - whilst we understand that they need to turn water off for the winter (lest pipes freeze), it would be great if they could say that somewhere earlier along the highway. Heaven forbid someone arrives with no water...then again, it was just another example of the myopic thinking focused on people with cars and RVs. They can easily move on. We can't.

The promised downhill came the next day. And what a glorious downhill it was, at 30 miles an hour through the steep confines of a red-rock canyon, again the remnants of ancient lava flows. We were travelling through the Jemez Mountains, and every turn yielded yet more stunning views of valleys and canyons topped by sheer red, orange and yellow coloured cliff faces. It was difficult to stay focused on the road ahead at times, although at least a shoulder appeared - not very wide but appreciated all the same. We stopped in at the hot spring town of Jemez Springs, site of another former pueblo town - this one had been usurped by the advancing Spanish in the early 1600s. We walked through the remains of the Spanish mission that had been established in 1621, the highlight being the stout church walls that still stood tall hundreds of years later. I hadn't quite appreciated how far north the Spanish had come - I know I mentioned this same point earlier in the blog when writing about the San Luis Valley in Colorado, yet seeing these walls made their former presence all that more tangible. The Spanish advance wouldn't have been a pleasant experience for the pueblo peoples, that's for sure.

We continued south along highway 4 until we reached the junction with highway 550. A three lane highway with a large shoulder, we traversed through more dry and arid scenery until we reached the outskirts of Albuquerque, or more accurately the town of Rio Rancho, what I was told is now the country's fastest growing region. We descended into the Rio Grande Valley, and into the city of Bernalillo (which sits adjacent to Rio Rancho) - to the south of the highway, along the gently-sloping ridge, sat countless one-storey homes all built in the earthy-coloured, flat roofed box-style that dominates many structures in the state, and mirrors the ways of the ancient pueblo peoples.

After 55 miles we camped adjacent to the Rio Grande in Bernalillo, and to a Casino that sits on a Native American reservation. How convenient - we showered, and then made straight to the dinner buffet. It was a welcome sight to these starved eyes. And didn't I make the most of it. Three mains courses followed by two desserts, all washed down by two large Sprites. I'm sure they wished they had charged me double. All along they had been warned about my brother's appetite (sorry Matty) - I'm sure I even saw my brother's photo there, just underneath the words WARNING: NO ENTRY TO THIS MAN.

I'll skip our time in Albuquerque, exceopt to mention the annual Balloon Festival, which we were lucky to see (we lucked out getting a third floor room that overlooked the valley - see the picture taken from the front of our room). We ended up staying in Albuquerque for 11 nights, interspersed with our wedding in Las Vegas, where we spent another five nights. We really enjoyed the break, and we both needed it. As did our bikes, which needed $200 worth of work at REI (thanks Chris!). I needed a new cassette, chain, and two new chainrings, new brake pads and a new cable and housing (for my gears)...Alia just needed a new chain. I seem to be riding quite hard compared to Alia. Really hard. Weird. Maybe it's my extra weight, both me plus the extra food I carry. Who knows. Or maybe Alia just caresses her gears and pedals while I hammer them.

We eventually set off from Albuquerque on Saturday Oct 16, and we cycled down along the Rio Grande valley. Albuquerque is blessed with many a bike path, both on and off-road, and for the vast majority of our trip out of the city we were on one or another bikeway (just for the record, we followed the North Diversion route to Indian Way, turned left onto Edith, and then made for Isleta Blvd, which is also highway 314). The cars gradually faded from view after we went through Belen, which sits 35 miles south of Albuquerque; a bit south of this city we pretty much had the road to ourselves, a well surfaced pavement gently rolling along the valley through majestic stands of cottonwood trees and small-scale pastures. It reminded me a tad of the Nile River valley, as once you were more than a 1km or so from the river you were back into arid and dry lands.

We were also travelling along El Camino Real, or the Royal Route, along which colonists from Mexico (as far south as Mexico City) came up into present day New Mexico and further, starting from 1598.

That night, after 55 miles, we camped at Bernardo, at a small RV park. We were basically adjacent to highway 25, although whilst the traffic could be loud at times we were that tired we slept easily through it all. Seemed weird being back in a tent again. I kept looking for the TV and refrigerator. And where was the bed? The next day we travelled along highway 25 into Socorro, the oldest Spanish settlement in New Mexico. We originally planned another 50-odd mile day but after learning a large part of the final 28 miles would be uphill, we erred on the side of caution (and entertainment - it was NFL Sunday after all) and pulled into a motel for the night, run by an Indian (i.e. south Asian) man who was amazed with the size of my calf muscles. Mmmmm. Better dead-bolt the door tonight Mrs Parker. (note - he was actually a lovely man, and he even upgraded us to a bigger bed so that we could have a proper rest)

Sure enough, the ride up to our present location of Magdalena, on highway 60, was fairly tough. We're glad we took the extra day to rest up, as we are finding it harder after such a long break. Magdalena is a small town of less than 1000 people, set against the backdrop of the Magdalena Mountains (well, what else would you name it?!?) and Cibola National Forest. On our way up (we ascended from 4850ft to 6500ft) we also crossed the Magdalena Fault. Magdalena, Magdalena, Magdalena - it's all about Magdalena (Lady Magdalene sits atop a nearby peak, looking down upon the town, according to the local Chamber of Commerce website). Once known as 'Trails End', it was where stock was brought along a corridor that stretched into Arizona in order to get them onto the spur rail line that once ran into Socorro.

From Magdalena we'll head west along highways 60 and 12; highway 12 runs into highway 180, which will take us south to Silver City, NM, and eventually Deming. From there it's a two-day ride into El Paso, Texas, from where we'll technically end our trail at the Mexican border. We then pick up a train to Austin, Texas, on Nov 4. We are off the Great Divide trail now, although we will cross the trail at least twice in the next week, the first time just near Horse Springs, and the second at Silver City. Rain is predicted, and we have no appetite for the rough and rugged New Mexican dirt/gravel roads. It's the pavement for us now. Until next time.