COLUMN: A spiritual-if not geographic-arrival
I made it to Mexico. The people, scenery and culture were everything I expected. What wasn’t right was me.
I arrived in Mexico Oct. 21 when Cimarron Chacon and Bryce Pratt rode from Tucson, Ariz., to the border. We jumped in their car and crossed into Latin America. Having planned on being there for six weeks, I decided it best to stop and get a tourist visa. It took about 15 minutes to get the visa and another 45 to wait in line to pay for it. Once again, we headed out to find the road that goes from the freeway to a small town called Saric. The atlas I had showed that there were two roads; one was paved and the other was dirt. We realized we had already passed both roads and turned around. There was a sign. It simply said to Saric. By this time, it was already about 4:30 p.m., which meant the sun was starting to drop, casting the beautiful sunset light across the Mexican scenery. The road we found was paved for a while, but then turned to dirt. By the time I realized it was the wrong road altogether, we were too far in to turn around. At about 5:30 p.m., with a half hour of light remaining, I got out of the car.
I tried to ride my bike, but was forced to push it. I immediately began looking for a campsite, but the mountain was so steep there wasn’t anywhere to get off the road or that was flat enough to camp. I pushed my bike for about an hour and then camped just off to the side of the road.
The next morning, I arose early and ate breakfast and set out. I had to continue to push my bike for another hour before I began to descend. Going down was just as bad. The road was so steep and rocky that I had to ride the brakes and keep my speed below 10 km/h. After about two hours of riding, I had only progressed a couple miles. I finally got out of the mountains on to a flat dirt road and was able to make good time. A local farmer picked me up a couple miles outside of Saric and took me to his house where I was able to fill up my water and get my bearings.
From Saric, I headed towards Tubutama. There was a highway and I made good time. When I arrived, I wasn’t feeling well. I hadn’t eaten all day and I felt weak. I bought myself a grape soda and some chips. I drank the soda, but the chips proved as difficult as everything else to consume. I thought it would be better to rent a room and stay the night before proceeding. The only place in town that rented rooms didn’t have anything available. I had to continue. I rode a few hundred feet out of town and collapsed under a tree.
After resting for about 30 minutes, I started slowly up the road. I spent the next two hours looking for a place to camp. Once I found a place, I pitched my tent and crashed inside. Until sundown, I laid there sweating. I began to contemplate this whole thing. Those two hours proved to be the beginning to the end. They gave product to the hardest decision I have ever made.
The next morning, I woke up at 5 and thought things were looking good. Then I tried to stand up and just about fell over. I stayed in bed and ate the rice I hadn’t eaten the night before. Two hours passed and I forced my body to move. I got up, packed camp and started down the road, very, very slowly. It was hot, but there were clouds in the sky and I could see there was a storm brewing. The sun tucked itself behind the clouds and the temperature dropped, but then the wind started. I was able to make it to Magdalena del Kino by 11 a.m. when I checked into a hotel and crashed.
After talking to my wife and reviewing my situation, I decided to come home. I struggled with this for two days and still wasn’t sure what to do. Then I started to check on my financial, physical and geographical state. Out of the three, none were favorable to continuing. It became apparent in a big way that my refusal to plan was simply my inability to accept that I didn’t have the resources to reach my goal. I came home.
I have been home for three days now. I do not regret what I did or what I was unable to do. This trip was a journey of two destinations; one was geographical and the other was personal. I never arrived geographically, but personally, I made it. I have never been so excited to just see the sun rise every morning.
Lukas Brinkerhoff is a junior majoiring in journalism. His column documented his trek on bicycle from Salt Lake City to Santiago, Chile. Comments can be sent to lukas@mooseknuckleralliance.org.