Day 66
October 13, 1995
The day creaks open and we pull the maps out of Brice's backpack and carefully examine them. "I think we should go west," Brice says. He points to the highest pass on 313. "Look -- we just need to get over that pass by early afternoon. If we can do that, it's downhill from there, and that means we'll be off this God-forsaken plateau! I don't care if I can't eat -- I'm willing to cycle three more days -- just don't want to spend another night on this damned plateau."
I'm shocked by his suggestion. "Go west?! He must be crazy." But I see he has a point: getting over that pass would mean leaving this plateau, and it's the plateau that threatens our existence most. But I don't throw my lot in with the plan.
With first light, we venture out of the bags into the chilled air, shaking hands violently to keep the feeling in the fingers and kicking the ground to regain sensation in the toes. Frostbite looms large.
Either way we go, we know weather will be a factor in our success or failure. If we opt for the pass, we'll suffer badly if we don't reach it by early afternoon. Since it's 56 kilometres away, we'll have to maintain a 10 kilometre/hour pace. Though a turtle-like speed under normal conditions, it's not a given considering we're cycling at high altitude, uphill and on empty stomachs. Winds of the kind we've had every preceding afternoon will make our goal fantasy.
I want to have another look at the southern road. But first, we have to pack up. That's the most difficult thing to do because of the temperature. Once out of the bag, toes and fingers immediately go numb -- especially the toes, since they're shoved into a pair of icebox-cold shoes. I hastily accomplish one packing task -- stuffing the sleeping bag, for example -- and then put my hands back under my shirt and start kicking the ground as hard as I can, trying to force some blood into the toes: they're totally numb. I also begin reconciling the possibility of losing them. "It's the fingers that count," I think. If we can get out of this thing alive, losing some toes will be a small price to pay.
With everything packed, we walk out to the road junction and look down at the tracks leading south. We gander up at the mountain slope into which they disappear and then reappear briefly at the top. "Seventy-nine kilometres," I silently tell myself, thinking of the distance to intersect the main route. I look again at the mountain and the phantom-like tracks meekly ascending it. My thoughts turn dark. I imagine the two of us lost up there, wandering in vain to our expiration.
"Let's go west," I say.
Brice doesn't need to be persuaded -- its his preference. "It's the right thing to do," he says. His voice exudes grit and enthusiasm.
The task is clear: get moving and summit that pass before mid-afternoon! We go back to the house, push our bikes out onto the road and saddle up. No dinner last night and no breakfast this morning; and we'll have to make do on one litre of water each for the whole day.
We're relieved and psyched to have such good weather conditions: crystal blue sky, no wind, and no hint of clouds on the horizon. We re-trace the distance I went yesterday, paying keen attention to Brice's bicycle computer. "Seven kilometres per hour," Brice says. We excuse the pace because this is an uphill section -- we can make up for it on the big plain ahead. I try to recall for Brice every detail of the endless false horizons we're ascending and we constantly remind each other to wiggle toes.
"Ah!" I say. "Now look over to the right a bit. Do you see those two spires?" They're the tips of the soaring mountain range we'll soon come into view of.
"You don't need to walk the dog, do you?" Brice asks. We're following a strict regimen of consolidating stops: no pee breaks unless both cyclists need to pee, no clothes-peeling breaks unless both cyclists need to peel. I reply, "No, but I could peel." It seems like reason enough to justify a stop, so we agree to take care of business, in my case taking off layers of clothing. The sun is rising higher in the sky and driving the temperature closer to a pleasant level. For as long as I can remember, I've loathed sweating merely from wearing too much clothing. It seems such a waste of energy. But since we don't have the luxury to stop every time I want to peel a layer, I peel several layers in anticipation of rising temperatures, despite the cold I'll endure in the near-term. We take care of business and saddle up again.
"That one's the last horizon," I tell Brice, pointing to a ridge 100 metres ahead. "That's as far as I got yesterday."
We get there and Brice can see for himself the wide plain and the mountain range dressed in white on the far end of it. From this horizon, the road veers left slightly, disappearing into the distance. We tear into it, thankful to be on flat terrain -- and free of wind. "Fourteen kilometres per hour," Brice calls out.
A few kilometres down this road we stop again for more peeling -- this time all the way down to cycling shorts.
As has been the case along the whole route on this high-altitude plateau, the roadside and landscape on this plain are punctuated with camel bones and graves. Unlike the beginning of the trip from Annanban -- when spotting bones and graves was novel and curious, they are now images of death and failure to make the very crossing we're attempting. Spotting a pile of these bones does more than send a shiver down the spine, it induces thoughts of destiny, of our own mortal ity. It's like staring at one's own doom, a feeling I've never before experienced.
Cycling along, I often see a bunch of bones on my side of the road, and I can tell that Brice doesn't notice them. Whereas a few days earlier I might have pointed them out, now I don't dare. Their symbolism has taken on vastly greater proportions. He spares me similar horrors.
One thing we find curious are the occasional pair of tracks looping off and on the road on that plain. They are dumbfounding, but we conclude they're from oil-drilling or oil-exploration vehicles.
Toward the end of the plain, the road veers again left, avoiding the mountains. We're puzzled but have no choice but follow the road. It makes a feint for the mountains -- maybe heading 20 metres in that direction -- then veers again left, completely avoiding them. It's unsettling. "I'll feel a lot better when this damn road goes into those mountains," I tell Brice.
The mountain range is now within striking distance.
As we cycle along that road, exasperatingly avoiding the mountains, I think more about the random vehicle tracks on this plain, and realize this may not be 313 at all, but an oil exploration road that could stay at this altitude for hundreds of kilometres. Backing up this thesis is not only the fact that the road stubbornly avoids the mountains, there are also no mileage markers on it. And what about that roadblock way back when we turned onto 313? Is it there to warn people off this road? To keep people from making the kind of mistake we are now? The road could stay at this altitude for days, indifferent to our meaningless human expediencies. If that's the case, it could be the road to our final resting place.
Though my mind wants to banish the thought, my spirit's obsessed with pursuing it: We cycle all day today and never leave the mountain plateau. We spend the night at altitude. We return the next day to Xorkol. We're back at square one, only two days later, with fleeting water reserves and thousands of calories expended. We spend another night at altitude. In a desperate attempt to reach the shepherds, we perish from exposure, exhaustion or dehydration.
Pondering this, my spirit sinks to the lowest depths it has known. Brice does everything he can to relieve my anxiety, but he, too, is slightly uncertain. We put our heads down and cycle toward our date with destiny, whatever it may be.
Early afternoon, and the road is still only feigning attempts at the mountains, skirting back away on a parallel track with them.
According to our calculations, we're doing great -- aside from the fact the road seems not to have any intention of breaching the mountains. At our present 13 km/h pace, we'll have a shot at making it to the pass by mid-afternoon, with the sun still high enough to add heat to the environment.
My diaphragm heaves as it tries to get oxygen to the muscles powering the bike at such an altitude uphill in almost the lowest gear. I'm upset with myself for lagging behind. "Aren't I from Colorado?" I scold.
But I'm most worried about the route. "Please go into those mountains," I beg the road.
The road makes more and more turns to the right -- toward the mountains. It winds and winds its way up into them, on a route one could never anticipate from below. Brice and I keep guessing at its intentions: "I bet it's going to go back behind that mountain there and then up into that saddle just behind it," one of us speculates, only to find the road do something completely different. But in the end, it doesn't matter: the road goes up, up, up, into the mountains.
Yes, it's 313 after all! And we're in excellent shape, time- and weather-wise. I am relieved beyond description.
Approaching what is the actual pass, we spot mountain goats scampering across the highest peaks. It's a great sight because it means this place is alive; a huge contrast to the absolute lack of life -- not even a blade of foliage -- and constant reminders of death back on the plateau. Our enthusiasm is tempered only by the cool knowledge that we're by no means out of this -- food and water are still days away, and the failure of one bicycle component could severely complicate things, to put it mildly.
Having crossed the divide of the mountains, the road heads down the other side, following the course of a dry river bed. As this is the north face of the mountains, there are patches of snow all around, which we cram into our canteens.
While we're relieved to be in a living environment, we next see something that indicates a little too much life: cat paw prints the size of human hands on the road beneath us. There are all kinds of paw tracks; this is apparently a popular route. It's an interesting novelty, but we don't want to know more details.
A fleeting image down the road catches both of our attention. "It's a wolf!" Brice says, pointing to the four-legged creature ahead of us. It breaks into a gallop -- a feral pony! It's a beautiful creature, and seems almost to be playing with us: galloping fifty metres, then stopping and watching us. Its gallop stirs up so much dust we can easily keep track of it. Every time it checks us out, we just continue to make our way down the rutted, rocky road, concentrating on the fascinating creature.
We eventually part ways with the pony and keep our wheels turning in order to reach the next junction, a town indicated on the map alongside a water spring. We aren't expecting a town, just an intersection or old structure to indicate the place. We lose altitude quickly and the air gains warmth -- a real relief.
The canyon walls we're cycling within are now sheer. As we turn a corner, Brice calls over, "Hey, Scott. Look at those two black things in the road up ahead. What do you think that is?" As we get closer, the two vultures spread their wings and fly away from the fresh ram carcass they've been picking at. It's right in our path: a spine and the large horns of a ram. I look at the sheer walls of this narrow canyon. "That ram didn't have a prayer!" No way could he have escaped a predator down in this gorge; nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. It's a picture of nature rarely seen in China. It's also chilling, and we're not inclined to linger. "At least the mountain lion is well fed," Brice jokes.
Further down the canyon, by 6:30 or 7 pm -- still warm, we spot the junction: lush cat tails and reeds growing along a flowing brook. Above stands an abandoned house, its roof intact. As we near it, a group of four or five horses bolt from the cat tails and gallop out of sight.
Brice checks the cyclometre: it agrees with the distance indicated on the map. This is today's destination. All we can think is, Look around! We made it! The gamble paid off; we have not only warm temperatures but water. That alone should assure our return to civilization, which will either be a two-day, 135-kilometre trip or three-day, 190-kilometre trip. Over the hump.
Brice and I divide labour to make use of the fleeting light: he checks out the accommodations and I set to work filtering the water until it's too dark to see. I scamper up to the house: we have straw for a mattress and a roof overhead. Not bad! We light a fire using some trash left around the area, and eat 2 bread chips and 7 pieces of candy.
Sleep is something I want desperately. I haven't slept in days, and have even been indifferent to it on those nights on the plateau: it was enough to just be warm, sleeping was secondary. But I'm exhausted. We pile more and more reeds on the floor until we're satisfied we've made a comfortable mattress, and put the plastic sheet and sleeping bags down.
Images of cat prints and the ram carcass fill my head. There's no door to this house, and no way to block the doorway. If they come while we sleep, there'll be no stopping them. Normally, I'd stay awake waiting for the cats to come gobble me up. But I'm so tired I don't care about the panthers or mountain lions or whatever they are. My body and mind are in such a state of exhaustion, I just put my head down and think, "If a puma comes in here, so be it. I can't do anything about it. If I don't sleep, I die."
I begin sawing logs almost immediately. My sleep and snore sound so desperate that during the wee hours Brice restrains himself from alerting me to the thing he hears outside the room, as terrifying as it must be for him. That thing leaves and he doesn't wake me.
Our stomachs are sorely empty, and we're far from civilzation. Though we're off the plateau, we're headed for the desert and its dry, hot temperatures with a limited supply of water and no calories.
Day 67
October 14, 1995
We wake up to a bright day and relieved hearts. Our entire situation is changed, it seems, and despite the fact that we're running on empty, we can begin to appreciate the beauty of this environment and the novelty of our endeavour.
We breakfast on two bread chips each and one piece of candy. There are still some water bladders to be filled, and Brice grabs the filter and begins the somewhat exasperating task. I scramble up a rock to find a nice spot in the sun to record some of this incredible adventure in my journal.
Before setting off we have a taste of the new water. "Oh no!" one of us cries the moment the water touches the lips. "It's salty!" Sure enough, the water is saline, and the filters are no good against the salt.
So, with a little over a litre of fresh water and plenty of saline water, we set off. How far do we have to go? We estimate either 135 kilometres or 190.
First, we've got 40 kilometres left to go on this river bed, with a flowing creek that constantly meanders across the road, adding wet sandy patches to an already tough, rocky, bouncy route. It's hard work pushing through endless patches of wet sand and gravel.
We're anxious to cycle to the end of this odyssey, but the road makes it impossible. Every time we pick up speed on a firm patch of ground, the creek swings across the narrow floor of this ravine and grabs the tyres like quicksand, dragging the bike down to a stop. It's so exasperating. Neither of us wants to dismount the bike and push -- and we don't want to walk through the water -- so we get out of the saddle and try to grind the rig through the deep, wet sand, putting out huge, teeth-clenching effort to motivate the bikes just a few feet. It's a test of our patience, and we're failing.
Brice is moving on a patch of solid ground to my left when in an instant he's pitched from the bicycle like a bronco rider. Springing to his feet he kicks the daylights out a strip of earth in a half-running, half-kicking rage, screaming "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" so loud it echoes through the canyon. I also feel such frustration.
The low energy level is showing its effects.
It seems we are nearing the limits of what can be asked of a person. But we can't afford to let go of the reward of our effort, we've got to keep thinking about the end, about the day when this is all just an interesting story to tell people over the Internet. "Let's keep our eyes on the prize!" I shout. "Eyes on the prize!"
Lord knows how much more of this damned river bed we'll be tormented by; we'd expected a pleasant cakewalk down to the desert! Far from it.
We've been trying to delay a mid-day stop until the moment we get out of this wretched ravine, but we're about at our wits' end and decide to take a break. We pull the bikes over and hunker down in the shade of a canyon wall for two pieces of candy and a gulp of water. We discuss what an equipment failure would mean right now: at least one of us stranded in the desert for at least three days -- slightly pushing the envelope of human stamina, considering the scarcity of fresh water.
We get back on the bikes and continue the charade. Only now, the incline is virtually flat and the stream spreads out over the whole canyon floor, making it difficult to choose a route through the mess. Though exasperated, we stubbornly make progress along the route until finally the road begins climbing westward out of the river bed and through a series of foothills. We're too weak to cycle up some of the inclines, and our pace is thus reduced to a walk, pushing the loaded bikes uphill.
The hills finally give way to desert -- the desert, our old friend. The desert, upon which we'd set out from the start, upon which we'd expected to ride. We never dreamed we'd be separated from it for so long, detoured over a 10,000-foot mountain plateau that almost cost us our lives. We are glad to be back.
The road now is mostly firm and even, and slightly downhill in some spots. It begs us to pump up the jam, and we rise to the occasion with a relentless, ass-kicking spirit, twisting the chain onto the top ring and cranking the rear derailleur closer and closer to the freewheel until we're screaming down this bastard road in almost top gear. "Everything is going good..." I think to myself, rushing over the desert floor and knowing that with the sandy, rocky river bed and the currently fast pace over myriad ruts and bumps, we're putting the bikes through their toughest workout of the trip thus far. "Please let these bikes hold up." One mangled rim will add to our challenge exponentially.
We keep up the fast pace for the remaining hours of daylight, accomplishing a total of 100 kilometres on the day and damn proud of it: 100 clicks closer to civilization.
Sundown, and we decide on a sunken, sandy depression in the desert for a bed, pulling the bikes off the road and propping them against one of the derelict telephone poles which now punctuate this road, for what reason we can't figure. We pull the necessary gear out of the panniers -- plastic ground cover, Ultrafleece and sleeping bags -- and take them down to the depression.
Changing clothes reveals the price our bodies are paying for the calorie deficit. We laugh and point at each other's grotesque torsos and ribs pathetically sticking through skin. With nothing else to do, and the quick arrival of a cold desert night, we lay out the plastic sheets, unfurl the bags, and get in.
Our conversation revolves around food. "Leanne makes the best curry!" Brice exclaims. "You can't imagine!" We reminiss about all kinds of food. About all the food we've overlooked, eaten but not appreciated. "Remember the night China Daily hosted our send-off?" I ask. "Well, those dumplings were excellent. Our canteen makes excellent dumplings." I could practically taste them. I'm obsessed with appreciating every morsel our work unit's canteen prepared that night -- all of it very simple: just some cold dishes and boiled dumplings. But now I feel they must be fully recognized.
The temperature is falling. I pull the drawstring in my bag tightly around my head, block the small opening with a pair of cycling shorts, turn on my side and close my eyes.
"Scott," Brice calls over. "Have you closed your hole yet?"
"Yes, I'm all squared away in here," I answer wearily. I don't want to get out for any reason, and I'm annoyed with the question. What is the problem? I wonder.
"I just wanted to make sure you'd seen the stars."
That's right! I'd been looking forward to an incredible nighttime desert sky -- no moon, no clouds, no city lights, no pollution. I roll over and point the hole at the sky and open it a bit. Gorgeous! A brilliant sky. We may be starving, filthy and exhausted, but we have a desert sky. We are, in a sense, fortunate to be laying in the desert, backs to the sand and eyes open to the sparkling cosmos, animated by shooting stars and a fast-moving satellite.
Though we are definitely closing in on civilization, we're nearing our physical limits. Back on the plateau, we became sure that we could escape, that we could make it back to safety even if it meant cycling for two or three more days on empty stomachs. If we had water, that would be enough. People have survived much worse. We've all heard or read about their stories. But there are those that don't make it.
We nod off to sleep.
In my right hand is a spoon, the bottom of which extends below a heaping portion of Peanut Butter Crunch cereal freshly doused in skim milk. I eagerly feed on the cereal, grinning from ear to ear. The savory, sweet, peanut-buttery taste fills my mouth and rises through my sinuses. But another person at the table is trying to talk to me. "I can't be distracted!" I tell myself, steadfastly keeping my attention focused on the cereal.
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