Week 58 - Among Apaches, Truth or Consequences

It took a some time to get clear of the sprawl around Phoenix, and on the way I stopped to buy groceries, change my oil, and put balancing goo into the tires. I'd sworn off interstates, and luckily there were good alternative routes to my next destination of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. Shortly after clearing the exurbs, US 60 started to climb into the mountains, with lovely switchbacks, tree-filled ravines, and roadside weeds heavy with flowers and seed pods. I climbed over a very scenic 8,000 foot pass, filled up my water bottles at a kiosk in Globe, and entered the San Carlos Apache reservation. As I passed a tribal grocery store, I had a brief urge to stop in and see if they had any unique items, but I'd gotten a late start and daylight was limited, so I decided to push on. As I approached the center of the reservation, I pulled over at a small gas station to top up my tank before the long stretch ahead. Just before I stopped the engine, I noticed the green idle indicator light flickering, but it didn't really register. As I pumped the gas, I noticed a strange smell, somewhere between spoiled food and chemicals, and looked around for the source of it but didn't see anything obvious. When the bike refused to start again, I began to wonder if all these things were related, and started to sniff around to see where the smell was coming from. It seemed to be strongest near the battery box, and when I removed the cover a cloud of smoke poured out of the battery. I couldn't see any flames yet, but I worked quickly to pull the battery out and disconnect it before it could damage the rest of the wiring.

I moved the battery away from the pump and around to the side of the store, and stood there watching it smoke and melt on the asphalt. It was late in the afternoon on a Sunday and it was clear I wasn't going anywhere soon. A bike with a newer CDI ignition system like I had on Punkin could run without a battery, but Sugar couldn't, the battery was essential to regulate the voltage, and I needed a 6 volt one which is less common these days than the standard 12 volts. There was a small tribal hardware store across the road, and I decided to wait and see if they had a battery in the morning. The kind I needed are used for electric fences and those tiny cars for kids, so it was possible. A man and some children were repainting the yellow parking bumpers, and he said I should be able to camp there. My anxiety about being broken down slowly started to give way to a feeling of calm. And I noticed an interesting thing: as long as I'd been in a going mindset, this place seemed like the middle of nowhere, but as soon as I stopped and slipped into a being mindset, it turned into the middle of somewhere. I'd never spent time on a reservation before and here I was right in one, at a local gas station that seemed to be somewhat of a community anchor point. A guy in the back of a pickup truck asked if he could have my armored shirt. A gaggle of children asked me questions while their aunt went inside to buy them all ice cream. There was a lot for me to experience here, and as soon as I had no place to go, it all became interesting.

After the battery had cooled off, with both sides melted through and showing the metal plates inside, I threw it away and looked around for a good place to camp. There was an empty lot in back, behind which was a line of brush dividing it from a small neighborhood. I pushed Sugar back there and started unrolling my bedding to camp, but a guy from the store came out to tell be it would be much better to sleep out front where the security guard could keep an eye on me all night. He said there would be a lot of young people on meth walking back and forth all night, and they were likely to mess with me. Of course I'd spent the night in Victorville next to LZ while he paced around on meth, and that turned out okay, but then again I'd met him first. I decided to trust local wisdom and moved out front to the parking space in the far corner where he directed me. Then I went into the store to buy some snacks and look around. It was mostly the standard-issue junk food, sadly, but in the back they had some display cases with artifacts, a long counter with souvenir sweatshirts, towels and so on, and another even longer one filled with beads and beading supplies. I chatted with some of the staff, who assured me I'd be safe out front and said they'd already let the security guard know I'd be there. It seemed I wasn't the first to be stranded there overnight. Back outside it was getting dark, and I sat up for a while reading Shackleton's account of the trans-Antarctic expedition, which lifted my mood by putting my own troubles into perspective: it wasn't as if my vehicle had been crushed in the middle of impenetrable pack ice or anything. A few people pulled up in their cars to offer me food or money; I thanked them and told them I was fine, but their good intentions alone were heartening. I've noticed that it's almost always somebody in a beat-up old vehicle that stops and offers to help, which makes me wonder if it might actually be better to break down in a "bad" neighborhood than a "good" one. A guy walking past on the nearby path asked if I wanted "a sliver", which I also politely declined.

The night air was cool and dry, and I slept great, only waking up a few times to see the security guard's truck parked out there past the gas pumps. I was up before dawn and met the guard himself, who offered to get me coffee. I accepted a cup of hot water to which I added some of my apple cider vinegar, and we stood outside talking. He lamented all the young people on meth. "They don't act like Apaches," he said, "they act like n*****s". He talked about his daughter's college graduation and some of his nieces who had recently completed a coming of age ritual called a sunrise ceremony. As we watched a guy unloading cases of groceries from a delivery truck, the sunrise silhouetted the distant mountains, and the security guard turned to the east, said a prayer in Apache, and crossed himself. "That was a prayer to protect you," he said, "It'll keep the covid off you and your relations." I thanked him and he left to get on with his day. The hardware store didn't open until seven, so I spent some more time walking around, and met a medicine man who'd just got done with some sunrise ceremonies. He said all the medicine men had been very busy lately with the ceremonies that had been delayed by pandemic restrictions.

When the hardware store opened I crossed the road to check it out. It was very small, housed in a double-wide prefab, and didn't carry any batteries larger than for a flashlight, but I did pick up some electrical terminals I was out of. I returned to the gas station and was just weighing my options when an older man pulled up and asked what was wrong with my bike. When I told him, he said he was pretty sure the hardware store back in Globe had the batteries I needed and asked if I wanted a ride. It would be about a twenty minute drive and the store opened in twenty minutes. I said I didn't want to take up too much of his time and he replied that he was retired and didn't have anything else to do anyway. So I hopped in and we headed west.

On the way, we got to talking about this and that, and the conversation turned to petroglyphs. He pointed out into the desert and described some of the ones he'd seen, along with the footprints of "the little people". "You mean like fairies and elves?" I asked, and it turned out it was more along the lines of a forgotten race of tiny humans still living in the desert. It's possible my non-judgemental interest helped him open up, because then he started telling me about his UFO sightings in New Mexico, which were quite engaging. At the hardware store, there was a shelf with 6 volt AGM lead-acid batteries in several sizes. The ones that looked best were small and cheap, so I bought two of them just in case they didn't last very long. On the way back, he told me about his experience growing up in foster care and going to school outside the reservation with white kids, and the wider view of the world that had given him. He said it was hard being able to see things that those around him couldn't see, and that he couldn't seem to talk to other locals because they would get offended. I said that as far as I could tell, that seemed to be a more general problem in the country as a whole. The rest of the conversation drifted to spiritual matters and was quite interesting but hard to summarize. It struck me that I was giving him something in return for the ride: a sympathetic ear, and maybe that was a more valuable gift than I'd realized. Back at the gas station we said goodbye and he took off.

As I altered the wiring to fit the new battery and wedged it into the bike with folded up piece from a cardboard case of Arizona Tea (a fitting souvenir I thought), an old man in a cowboy hat, missing one eye and a number of fingers and teeth, came up and leaned on his walker to smoke a cigarette. We chatted a bit, and I often had to stop working and come closer to make out his mumbled speech. He'd grown up on the Fort Apache reservation to the north, but he'd moved here a long time ago and had even helped build the country store. When I got the battery installed and my luggage stowed, the bike started right up, I waved goodbye and continued on my way east. For a few miles I fantasized about having a more modern and reliable motorcycle, but then I realized that if I'd had one, I would never have stopped there, never have met any of those wonderful people, never have experienced the daily life of another culture from close up. It was Indigenous People's Day too, and what better way to have spent it? The road began to wind gently through rolling hills, and the constantly changing views were quite pretty. When the land flattened out it began to look wetter and richer, and I passed through large fields of sorghum and Pima cotton. I stopped for lunch in Thatcher and then started to climb back into the mountains. Trees began to line the road as I entered the Gila National Forest, and at the top of the ridge I pulled into a camping spot on the Continental Divide Trail. There was only a little daylight left, and the wind was cold, but sitting among the leafy trees and alpine meadows felt lush and restful after so long in the desert.

In the morning, the forecast threatened rain, so I skipped breakfast and got on the road shortly after dawn. As I descended from the ridge, the sun shone eerily under dark and threatening cloud banks. Here and there, the mountain had been carved away into massive terraces, like shining stone pyramids thrusting out of the forest in a rainbow of subtle pastel hues. As I reached Silver City, it looked like it could rain any minute, so I pulled into a covered parking area near the visitor's center. Ever since the crash, one of my waterproof saddlebags was riddled with holes and this was much easier than rigging a tarp. A few deciduous trees had taken on brilliant fall colors, which stood out in the gray light and made an exciting change from the olive drab of desert foliage. I set out in search of breakfast, crossing a footbridge over a deep ravine and exploring city streets lined with cute old buildings. Finding a coffee shop, I went inside out of the cold, and ordered a piece of quiche with green chilies and a big mug of tea. As I waited for my food, I was warmed by the hot tea and also by a sudden intense feeling of home. There were none of the smooth and shiny surfaces of a modernist interior, but instead it was all wood and brick, the ceiling painted like the sky and lit by a skylight shining down through blackened wooden rafters embellished with natural tree branches. The decor seemed to be the eclectic collection of an old hippie, with a banjo clock, a hurricane lamp, oil cans, old woodworking planes, stained glass pieces with wind chimes dangling over a statue of Buddha, a sitar hanging on the wall next to an electric guitar. I ate my quiche, which came with a side of roasted butternut squash flavored with sage, felt the last of the chill leaving my bones, and sat for a bit on a large and comfy sofa. When I left, the sun was shining, and the outside was chillier but every bit as pleasant, with burbling fountains, trees growing through holes in the wooden deck, and lots of little nooks for intimate conversation.

I'd dodged the rain, but the weather report warned of 45 mph gusts of wind along my route. I rode through the strip mall outskirts of Silver City, filled my tank at a tiny gas station that only took cash and only sold 83 octane, and got onto route 152 through the Gila National Forest. This turned out to be one of the prettiest rides I'd ever ridden, the road winding tightly up the mountainsides, low speed limits and only a handful of other cars, wide vistas, tall trees, rushing streams, and birds soaring on thermals. I reached Emory pass, admired the view as long as I could stand it in pummeling wind so strong you could lean against it, and headed down the other side. Here in the rain shadow it was drier and the vegetation was sparser, but it was still quite majestic. The road dropped back to the plains and wound through tawny rolling desert hills. I could see high mountains in the distance, but the rocks were softer, more sculpted by erosion than the craggy ranges of Nevada. The wind tried to knock me over every so often, and the air was sometimes filled with swirling dust. I came to a large reservoir and turned to ride parallel to the Rio Grande to Truth or Consequences. The town was dusty and dry, and looked like it'd seen better days, but when I arrived at the place I'd be staying for a few days, it felt like a magical oasis. There were several little houses and one big one, arranged around a walled courtyard shaded with apricot and peach trees and desert willows. There was an outdoor hammock and a screen porch with a big couch I could work and sleep on. Best of all, there was a geothermal hot tub, the mineral-rich water coming out of the ground at 95 degrees and being heated with propane to 110. I went out for dinner and groceries, then soaked in the tub while talking with the host, who was a serial entrepreneur who'd left ranching life in Texas to do all sorts of interesting things, like living in Tijuana on the proceeds from hauling the cast-off furniture of university students in San Diego across the border to sell. The trees overhead rustled in the gusty desert wind.

I stayed there for the rest of the week, working and sleeping on the screen porch, filling up on fresh vegetables, and soaking. One day I heard talk of motorcycles from the hot tub and went over to meet three friends from Houston staying in the big house. One was a tax accountant for a major oil company, one was a sculptor, and the other ran a motorcycle parts business specializing in vintage Hondas. He was just planning to get into selling parts for CT-90s, so it was a fortuitous meeting on both sides, and he dropped a lot of useful knowledge on me and talked me through some much-needed maintenance procedures. It was incredibly helpful to have someone with experience tell me what kind of things to worry about and what kind of things not to, and thanks to him I managed to get my engine into much better tune and solved the persistent problem of the rubber bumper falling off the end of the cam chain tensioner. The universe seemed to be putting me near the right people at the right time. I was really glad to have stopped at Truth or Consequences, and by the time I left I felt rested enough to tackle the windy plains of West Texas.

Things I Learned

• It's a bad idea to put a lithium battery into a vintage motorcycle. I thought it would be a major improvement over the vintage style which is basically just strips of lead in a bucket of sulfuric acid, but the motorcycle expects it to handle overcharging gracefully and regulate the voltage, and lithium batteries just don't. The tiny AGM battery I got from the hardware store for $11 seems to work just fine and I still haven't needed to replace it or use the spare.
• Diesel truck oil like Shell Rotella T4 is apparently the best kind to use in a vintage motorcycle. It's designed to run hot and fast, which air-cooled engines tend to do, and has an old-school formulation that works with the metallurgy in some way that goes over my head.
• In the hot water district of Truth or Consequences, right next to the Rio Grande, you can drill down just 20 feet to get geothermal hot water.

Wonderful Things

• Eating a ripe pomegranate fresh off the bush.
• A fence decorated with really elaborate junk art made from chrome hubcaps, old license plates, mannequin parts, and such.
• Tiny puppies that jump around like popcorn on a hot skillet and enthusiastically lick whatever they can reach.