By Daryl Farmer
On a trip started 20 years past, Daryl Farmer, a twenty-year-old two-time collage dropout, did what misplaced males have so frequently performed during this nation: he headed west. two decades later and seventy kilos heavier, with the yellowing journals from that transformative five-thousand-mile bicycle trek in his pack, Farmer got down to retrace his course. this can be his tale of pursuing that far-off summer time and that far away dream of domestic, the place house is never-ending house, a roof of massive sky, and a mattress of dry earth. Just because the years altered the guy, so, too, have they altered the West, and Farmer’s moment trip offers a special point of view on those changes—as good as on what lasts. no matter if stuck in a Colorado storm from snow or braving a Yellowstone herd of bison, kayaking with orcas in Puget Sound, buying and selling Ninja strikes with a homeless guy in San Francisco, or getting the lowdown on extraterrestrial beings on Nevada’s Extraterrestrial road, Farmer charts a relocating panorama of individuals and locations. this can be the West the place the wildlife and private personality are inextricably associated, and the place one man’s journey into the earlier and current takes us to the center of that ever-evolving connection. (20080306)
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Additional resources for Bicycling beyond the Divide: Two Journeys into the West
Or quiet. I was tired and wanted a good night’s sleep. “I’ll tell you what,” said the man as soon as I walked back inside. “I can give you a room for forty. ” I was already tired, and the temperature was getting colder. I’d have to set up the tent in the dark with numb hands. I thought the light and trafﬁc might keep me awake. “I’ll take it,” I said. There’d be plenty of time for roughing it later. The room was clean, with a king-size bed. I lay down, forced myself to not fall asleep. I’d ridden ﬁfty-nine miles.
But beneath the warm lights there was only the bartender. He brought me a Fat Tire beer. ” he asked. When I told him, he asked if it wasn’t too cold for long-distance bicycling, and I agreed that it probably was. In all, only a couple of inches of snow had covered Frisco, but I was worried about the trail over Vail Pass, and I asked the bartender about it. “There might be places where you’ll have to carry your bike over 19 Below Freezing drifts,” he said. “And toward the top it might be iced over and slick.
Wet. Cold. Cursing the wind. But at least I was headed west. Jumping that fence had saved me about eight miles of riding. Smart decisions weren’t coming routinely, but that was one of them. Storm clouds were moving fast, and, optimistically, I believed the sun would soon break through. Minutes later I rode into face-stinging pellets of freezing rain. Then it began to snow, large ﬂakes that fell not down but sideways, directly into my eyes. My glasses fogged. Without them my vision was poor. With them, though, I couldn’t see at all.