Day fourteen
It was less than five miles of riding west on Interstate 8 from Gila Bend before I got a flat tire. I don’t know why there had been a heavy-duty staple on the shoulder of the highway, but one prong was now lodged deep into my rear tire. Always the rear tire with this trip, which is slightly more frustrating than the front, because of needing to move the chain and derailleur out of the way to take of the wheel.
I often remind myself, when fixing a flat tire on the side of the road, that there could be worse places to get a flat. That was true here, too. I was able pull well off the highway into a flat, open area, the sun was shining and the day was warm but not yet hot.
I put on music once I was riding again. The traffic on the Interstate was steady, but I had a wide, nicely-paved shoulder to ride on (though at this point I was feeling hyper-vigilant about any glimmers of glass or metal I saw in my path), with a rumble-strip separating me from the cars. Most people moved into the passing lane to give me plenty of room.
My first stop was Conde’s Middle of Nowhere Gas Station. It was a cute adobe structure and claimed to be the longest-running gas station by some measure. It was closed. I made myself a lunch with snacks I already had, and took a break at the picnic table out front.
As I was finishing up, someone drove up in an old Mercedes. I watched as she climbed to the passenger-side door to get out. She asked if I knew how to get to California without taking the Interstate. I said I would be on that route if I knew of one, but I thought this was the only way without going much further north. Unconvinced, she poured over an atlas that looked like it might be out-of-date. Two guys stopped with their motorcycles and asked about my trip. One asked if the Mercedes was my support vehicle, and I said I was traveling solo, and that the Mercedes driver was trying to find a route other than the Interstate. They said they couldn’t blame her for wanting to avoid all that traffic. Unsure of what terribly unpleasant traffic these three people seemed to be trying to avoid, I got back on the highway.
I had read about date milkshakes at a gas station in Dateland and made another stop there. It wasn’t just date milkshakes they had, but a whole date gift shop, with date confections, date merchandise, and huge quantities of dates for sale. At the milkshake counter, I waited as four people in front of me ordered date milkshakes. Seeing they had other flavors, I asked the clerk if they had a preference between date and cactus. As she was explaining that she hadn’t tried either, but that the date milkshake was a clear best-seller, someone mixing shakes behind her said, without hesitation, “cactus.” It tasted a little like strawberry, but slightly earthier.
I knew there was some BLM land just off the highway at Mohawk, but there didn’t seem to be any designated campgrounds. I pulled off onto a dirt road and decided to explore a little. My ride had been flat up to this point, but Mohawk was marked by a small craggy mountain range, which was burning red as the sun was setting. I set up camp next to a wash, and was far enough from the highway that I only heard the occasional semi-truck. My only neighbor was a white truck parked maybe a mile or two away off some other dirt road.
Day fifteen
Despite my thinking that the Interstate was the only way west, I found old US 80 running parallel to I-8 after Mohawk, and in good condition. I was feeling energized, excited about having a motel room waiting for me along with a rest day in Yuma. There was very little traffic on the old highway. I entertained myself with a solo dance-party and bike karaoke.
Since leaving Gila Bend, the desert landscape had been interspersed with farmland, a trend that increased as I approached the foothills to the east of Yuma. I had been noticing an intricate system of canals—the first running water I’d seen so far—flowing like a lazy river, but straight through fields and with a chemical iridescence instead of meandering through a cartoonish oasis of plastic palm trees and waterfalls.
The Interstate runs directly through the Gila Mountains before reaching Yuma. A short but decisive climb that each mapping service I consulted recommended avoiding by traveling north through Dome Valley, between the Gila and Laguna Mountains. I had set directions on my GPS, which told me I had missed my turn. I pulled up a map and couldn’t figure out what road I was expected to take. I turned around and only recognized the so-called road when a dune buggy came bumping through, leaving a cloud of sand behind it. This was not a road I intended to take, so I followed signs for the I-8 alternate route, arguing with my GPS each time it suggested I turn down some dirt road or driveway or canal access route.
My motel was between a Denny’s and a Cracker Barrel, and across the street from a mall. The pool was closed. I wanted to pick up some groceries, so walked a mile to the store, passing what felt like every national chain I could think of along the way: Applebee’s, IHOP, Staples, Big Lots. I picked up a loaded veggie dog for dinner on the way back, from a place that turns out to be a regional chain from California to Colorado. I had booked two nights in Yuma so I could plan my route through California. I got overwhelmed and watched Pretty Woman after channel surfing.
Day sixteen
I hadn’t seen all the national chains yet, because I found more when I went to a Big 5 sporting goods store to get some dehydrated meals. I’ve started to enjoy the Pad Thai and Louisiana Red Beans and Rice from Backpacker’s Pantry. The Pad Thai feels a little like cooking because I get to add the peanut butter packet and dehydrated lime and sriracha to taste.
I found a local coffee shop with a back patio near the tiny historic district in downtown Yuma. I didn’t want another dinner in my motel room, so asked someone sitting behind me if she had any restaurant recommendations. She was also just passing through Yuma, on her way from San Diego—where she picked up an industrial sewing machine—back to her home in Bisbee. I told her how much I enjoyed Bisbee and we shared travel stories and I learned about her work as a book artist (the sewing machine was for hand-sewn leather journals). We chatted for awhile with Kelsey saying I should look her up the next time I’m in Bisbee.
Ultimately I decided on dinner at a local brewery. I had managed to get more of my route planned that afternoon, but was still feeling unsure about what lie ahead in southeastern California. I knew it would only involve a few miles on the Interstate before turning north on a road with nothing but a ghost town.