Day twenty
While I’m glad to have made a detour north to see the Salton Sea, I was looking forward to putting the alien landscape behind me. My plan for the day is to continue my counter-clockwise loop around the body of water, then turn to the west and camp a few miles into the Anza-Borrego Desert State Park.
State highway 86 on the west side of the sea feels more like an Interstate than the Interstate did, and is mostly populated by trucks and RVs pulling ORVs behind them. The drivers’ excitement for the free-form conditions of off-roading is palpable in the strong draft as they pass me much faster and closer than other drivers, who perhaps have less exhilarating weekend plans. I distract myself by noting the names of the washes and ditches I pass: Wonderstone Wash, Big Wash, Grave Wash, Surprise Wash.
I stop at a travel center at the intersection of my next road, and eat lunch gripping each item and food package against the wind, which has picked up significantly. Looking at the forecast, I see that this wind should settle after an hour or two, but that there’s a high wind watch for the next day, with west winds 25-35 mph and gusts to 60 mph possible. I had planned for the next couple days to be shorter rides to account for the exponential increase in elevation gain as compared to the rest of my trip, so consider riding further today in case travel isn’t possible tomorrow.
I turn onto the Borrego Salton Seaway along with most of the ORVers, who are destined for the Ocotillo Wells State Vehicular Recreation Area. Soon after, I begin a 1,000-foot climb up the Santa Rosa Mountains. I notice some familiar but lately underutilized muscles activate in my legs and realize that I think I enjoy climbing. Or at least I enjoy that the landscape has transformed from a salted-earth basin to rolling badlands, and that a sign welcoming me to Anza-Borrego Desert State Park also notes that ORVing is prohibited in the park.
I read that disbursed camping is permitted anywhere in the park, so pass the campground I had been planning to stay at and decide to see how far the road takes me. Descending into a valley and approaching the town of Borrego Springs—outside the park boundary—I check a map and see that the state park has a developed campground on the outskirts of town. I call ahead to see if any spots are open or if I should stop at one of the boondocking areas where I see some RV clusters forming, and learn that they have a hike and bike site reserved especially for people like me.
Nestled in a valley below the San Ysidro Mountains, the village of Borrego Springs is a quaint tourist town with stunning views of the surrounding mountains. The campground at the state park is beautifully situated at one end of Palm Canyon. I’m convinced to buy a bundle of firewood when I check in, which a ranger delivers to my site along with some kindling and instructions since I tell her I’m not great at starting fires.
Chatting a little more, she mentions that I might see bighorn sheep on the mountain slope, and bats going in and out of the canyon at night. I ask about staying another night and she recommends I do because of the wind advisory, but also suggests I get an early start the day after to avoid traffic through the mountain pass as visitors return home after the weekend.
My attempt to start a fire is successful and I enjoy a little extra time outside my tent gazing at the stars.
Day twenty-one
I wake up early, watch the sun rise, and enjoy a leisurely morning and the fact that I don’t need to pack up camp today. The time for the start of the wind advisory comes and goes without excitement and I head into town for lunch. I think about ordering my burrito to go, but there’s a lovely patio so I grab a table next to the fountain. As my waiter sets a basket of chips on the table, a gust of wind blows them over. We agree that I should move to the covered veranda.
Back at the campsite, I remember that the ranger suggested a trail into Palm Canyon. Not more than a half-mile in, I pass a small group of bighorn sheep, then practically barge into another as I’m watching my footing on a rocky part of the trail. The trail culminates at an oasis of California fan palms, which often grow along fault lines, where springs form.
I rest in my tent for a bit when the wind starts to pick up in the late afternoon. It’s still breezy when I make dinner and another campfire with the couple logs I have left from the night before, but I think I notice the wind slow as the sun is setting. I am mistaken. I douse my fire with water, make sure there’s nothing loose outside, and scramble into my tent as gusts of wind bend the tent poles to an extreme angle and begin to un-stake the rain-fly. Sand batters against one side of the tent, the smallest particles finding their way through the mesh. I think through my options and realize that I have none other than to stay in the tent until morning. I do need to get up to pee at some point—I make note of the direction of the wind and stand just outside my tent, one hand holding the tent steady so it doesn’t blow away without me in it.
I remember the ranger’s warning to make an early start in the morning, and hope the wind will have settled before then. The weather advisory was set to expire at 10pm, but the wind continues long after. I start to recognize the sound of each gust as it approaches, like a wave about to crash over my tiny tent as I try to get some sleep.
Day twenty-two
I fully expect to wake up to a torn rain fly or to have found myself whisked away to Oz, but my gear and I seem to have survived the tempest. I’m awake just before sunrise, and —against my habit—immediately get out of my sleeping bag and start packing. I allow myself the luxury of hot coffee, but skip a hot breakfast in favor of ready-to-eat foods. I’m on my bike by 7:45 am, and start the climb up Montezuma Valley Road as soon as I’m out of the campground.
The views are remarkable. It’s a clear, sunny day, but cool—temperatures starting around 40°F and not getting much past 50°F for the morning. I’m spinning in my lowest few gears more than I ever have before, but the grade is manageable without needing to get off and walk, averaging 6%. The road’s shoulder comes and goes, but the pavement is smooth. Traffic is light and for the most part I’m passed at a comfortable distance. All that’s to say I’m having a blast!
I’m honked at once and thrown into a brief fury, which passes after I’ve shouted my grievances to the now empty road ahead of me, and which probably gave me a little adrenaline boost to help with the rest of the 3,500 foot climb.
At the top, I stop at the tiny Montezuma Valley Market in Ranchita, eat a Payday, and listen to a group of men talk about their cars. The clerk asks me how long I’ve been riding today and is impressed when I tell him I rode the entire grade in about 90 minutes.
I notice that the landscape around me has shifted decisively. After more than two weeks, I’m no longer in the Sonoran Desert. There are trees now, and the shrubs are decidedly greener. The World Wildlife Fund defines the area as the California coastal sage and chaparral ecoregion. It feels comfortingly familiar.
I stop for pie and coffee at the Julian Pie Company in Santa Ysabel. The namesake city of Julian is less than ten miles away, but getting to the mountain town would involve another uphill ride in the opposite direction of my destination, so I settle for this outpost, which doesn’t feel like settling at all. I can smell the pies baking, even through my double masks, and order the classic apple pie à la mode. The ice cream generously covering the slice of pie is unnecessary, but a nice treat.
I turn off the main highway to the adjacent “old” highway of the same name and pass through an unexpected wine region. I reach Ramona with an hour before I can check in to my motel room, so stop for a wine tasting at Turtle Rock Ridge Vineyard Winery. The rosé is made in a sour beer style and is slightly bubbly. The 2016 winemaker’s blend of 69% Cabernet Sauvignon and 31% Merlot is my favorite—dry, with a slightly spicy finish and warm spice and floral notes that linger. The berry sangria is sugary and refreshing.
Once settled into my room, I order a vegan burrito from Ramona Family Naturals Market—another comfortingly familiar environment. I anticipate wanting a second dinner, but the restaurant I call says they’re only doing a two-person Valentine’s Day menu. I pick up a shelf-stable noodle dish from the market that just requires hot water.
The bed in my motel room has two sheets instead of a blanket and I wake up cold in the middle of the night. I consider getting out my sleeping bag, but remember how satisfied I was packing it up for the last time that morning, so turn up the heat and drape my warm jacket over the bed. The cold is only part of the reason I’m having trouble sleeping—the other being the anticipation of reaching San Diego and the end of my trek the next day.