The Crossing

Towards midday, I met a large yellow gritting truck with a menacing looking front snowplough coming in the opposite direction. The driver and his mate were more than surprised to see me and were full of friendly questions about what would possess somebody to do this. I tried to explain but failed to convince them.

  Gratefully, I drank some of their hot coffee and was pleased to learn that the snow disappeared about five miles further. They wished me good luck and a Merry Christmas. This was good news but created a new problem. My slow progress so far meant that I would need to cover another twenty five miles to reach the plateau at Mount Locke and ten more down to Fort Davis if I was to complete the traverse in one day. It was now Christmas Eve. With this new information, I promised myself a proper Christmas Dinner in Fort Davis; assuming of course that there was an open restaurant and a motel to sleep in. I had been camping and bivouacking for five days and was now badly in need of some real food and a hot shower.  

  The thought spurred me on. I picked up the pace as soon as the road cleared but I paid a high price for my efforts. Resting at the top by the gates of the McDonald Observatory, I felt completely shattered. The ride up was a killer with some sections impossibly steep; both legs were dead and my back and shoulders ached miserably. The reward however, was the most fantastic view south and west over miles of rolling hills covered with patchy snow, dried grass and juniper. Ahead in the distance over 3,000ft. below, I could see the vast empty plain of the South Chihuahuan Desert and the road to Del Rio. I’d ridden into the middle of emptiness to gain a feeling of space and freedom that was simply overwhelming; almost 7,000ft high in the Davis Mountains, 200 miles from the nearest city and 1,500 miles from either ocean. I stood gazing for several minutes and had a fleeting memory of my youth; a recollection of complete triumph and invincibility. Standing alone in that majestic place and just for the briefest time, there was nowhere else I wanted to be.

A light snow began falling from a leaden grey sky and it had become bitterly cold in the gloomy late afternoon. I had to get down. Pulling on another top layer and a pair of over trousers to beat the increased wind chill of the descent, I climbed stiffly back aboard the bike and moved off very slowly. Within a mile, the road began to drop like a stone through a series of mountain-hugging hairpins with alarming drop-offs on the south side. Ice on the verges warned of the need for great caution but within minutes, the road had straightened into one long, continuous swooping run. Now on the south side of the mountain, I felt the warmth of the sun despite the winter wind blasting my face and continued downwards at speeds well above twenty miles per hour. I had seen no vehicles of any kind since the early morning snowplough. Then a convoy of cars from the McDonald Observatory went slowly past; staff heading home for Christmas no doubt. They smiled and waved. Once out of the wind, I pulled over to remove my extra clothing. A jolly, middle-aged couple stopped to ask if I was in trouble. I thanked them for their kindness and assured them I was fine. Clearly unconvinced, they seemed quite determined to rescue me in some way. I was aware of my appearance and knew that I was suffering from the effects of mild exposure; days of junk food and cold having taken their toll. My face was frozen and my speech slightly slurred. Now only a piddling five miles from Fort Davis, I glowed in the discovery that there was indeed a hotel – with an award-winning restaurant no less. At 5.30pm on Christmas Eve, my belief in Santa Claus had just been restored.