Being the one-horse town that it is (and we never saw that horse)-Baker took roughly 3 minutes to clear, getting us back onto Highway US50. While mid-week, the 'loneliest Road in America' lived up to its' name and we found ourselves mostly alone. So much so that Matt was able to stop in the middle of the highway to liberally apply 'Butt Butter' to a troublesome saddle-sore! Luckily motorists were spared that particular wild-life sighting. Slowly but surely we rode the consistent climb up to Sacramento Pass.
A few miles short of the summit, Matt called a comfort-stop at a National Park parking lot (wich was furnished with some picnic tables and a longdrop.) As I waited by my bike, an old man and a loud terrier sidled up to ask where we were bikin'/bark incessantly. Well, there was a better way to get to Ely on a gravel road yonder... I thanked the man but indicated to our skinny tyres and told him about yesterdays' flats. By this time Matt had returned and we got to hear about what brought old Vyrl to these parts. Turns out he and his three brothers drive their RV's to this park every September, specifically to gather Pinion pine nuts.
Vyrl had an abrupt manner which belied the 'grampa with a heart of gold' within (I could tell.) When we told him we didn't know about Pinion pines he retorted 'You don't? Well you in a hurry? You got 20 minutes?' -I told him yes, sir and off we went for an education.We followed Vyrl to his RV and his dog followed us warily. At a table outside the RV, our guide plucked a green sticky looking pinecone from a bucket for demonstration. With his gnarled old hands, he banged it on the table and expertly cracked big brown pine nuts from its' cones. Viryl bit into one of the nuts and extracted the white seed within, held it up for inspection then ate it; inviting us to do the same.
As we bit, cracked and chewed, Viryl told us how high in protein these nuts were and that they were a staple of the Native Americans who once lived here. Soon one, then two, then all three other brothers emerged from their respective huge RV's to join the demonstration. Vyrl greeted one with 'This is one of my brothers - Herb, you'll like these people; they're from Sweden'. Matt and I looked at eachother, we wanted Herb to like us but we had our national pride(s). Matt smiled 'We're actually from England' and Vyrl did look a tad disenchanted when he responded 'Oh. I thought you said Sweden.' We apologised and ate more nuts.
By now it was almost 10am and the sun was high in the sky, so we started to make a slow retreat from the Pinecone brothers. Brother number three joined us all the way back to the highway, educating us on the highway numbering system and warning us about all the Mexicans we would doubtless meet in California. Thanking him for the advice, we hightailed it up the mountain.
It was now hot and the road kept stretching upwards. Finally our efforts were rewarded with a cooling, swift descent and we rolled steadily into Spring Valley. In the absence of traffic or much of anything else, we stopped by the roadside for some peanut butter sandwiches. Apart from the road, the only man made feature of the desert landscape was a fleet of idle wind turbines. Their stillness puzzled us as we sure felt our fair share of cross-wind... I guess those blades are pretty heavy.
After the enjoyable interlude of flat valley, we began the ascent up Connors Pass. A few miles short of the summit sits Majors Junction; a gas-station/saloon. While we have passed many a bar, this is the first to be awarded a 'beer mug' symbol on our cycle map. It was either an exceptional bar or owned by someone at the mapping company. Despite our intrigue, we managed to pass it by (figuring a bar stop would make a mountain out of our molehill -which was already a mountain; hence unsurmountable.) These are the silly kind of things I think of when peddal fatigue sets in. Matt says he generally thinks about food.
With no crest in sight, Matt hit 'Struggletown, USA' -which is a surprisingly rare occurance. He blames the altitude. So we stopped for a breather before battling on to the summit of 7722 feet. Connors Pass conquered, we slid into Steptoe Valley and enjoyed a flat open stretch with rugged mountain views.
We had our first antelope sighting but I didn't want to lost momentum by stopping for photos; hopefully we see some on an uphill! Just outside of Ely, we stopped by Comins lake for dinner leftovers; still fresh from the pages of Matts 'Outdoor Cooks Bible' (amen!)
I was curious to see Ely, due to a comment made by the Kiwi KTM rider, Chaz, whom we met back in Utah. He and his mate Dave had been urged to check out the town of Ely on their ride through Nevada, and Chaz summarized it for us thusly; 'Man, if I lived in that town I would have to go lie down on the road and wait for a bus to hit me... No trees!'
We enquired at the only campsite in town (a private franchise, Kamps of America)-but their cool 28 bucks for a tent site had us checking out the nearby motels. -If I'm paying 30 dollars, I want a bed with that! I literally backed out of the 'Rustic Inn' when the guy behind the desk jumped up and asked if I was Amber (then looked suspicious when I told him I wasn't). I hope his internet date showed up eventually.
Finally, we hit the jackpot with a motel that didn't look like the set for a 70's horror film at the bargain room rate of 38 dollars. Jackpot -literally (as it is conveniently located by several casinos. When in Rome, eat pizza - when in Nevada, go gamblin'. After scrubbing up we hit the slot machines at the supposedly-famous Hotel Nevada (breaking dreams since 1929!) After a few thirst-inducingly priced beers at various tables, we realised that we both had a serious gambling problem; we couldn't understand how to play. The two of us dumbly hit buttons like lab chimps - 'Double bet'; '25 lines'; even pictures of Star Wars characters didn't make the game easier to undertand. We rapidly lost a few dollars that could have bought several rounds (beer is so cheap we can't afford NOT to drink)-so decided to retreat to the bar and chat up the bar lady. We asked her for some gaming pointers but she said she didn't earn enough to play those machines. Fair point really (and we're unemployed!) We concluded to squander my savings on beer rather than flashing machines.
I just narrowly steered Matt past the 24-hour casino restaurant in favour of a gas-station 'Motel picnic' (read; corn chips and ageless packaged sandwiches.) The dinner was average but being able to relax on a bed and bask in air conditioning and Presidential campaign coverage more than made up for it. Plus we promised ourselves a Casino 24-Hour Breakfast tomorrow...
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