Twenty Miles per Cookie: 9000 Miles of Kid-Powered Adventures

by Nancy Sathre-Vogel

  The boys took off running from house to house and it wasn’t long before their bags were full of candy. We emptied them into the backpack I was carrying. They filled the bags again in no time.

  It was late when the boys decided they had enough booty. My backpack was stuffed to the point where we had to hand-feed candies piece by piece through a tiny opening in the zipper. Each kid carried a plastic grocery bag stuffed to the very tippy top. And I carried two pies and a plate of cupcakes. We wearily made our way back to the main road to hitch a ride to the middle of nowhere.

  “You want to get out here?” the driver asked when we reached the spot where John was camped in the woods. “There’s absolutely nothing around for miles!”

  “Except our tent somewhere back in those trees,” I replied.

  The boys and I followed a dirt road for a ways until we spied a particular sign we had noted as a landmark, then turned right and began counting our steps. On our way out we had counted steps to determine just how far we needed to go knowing that, in the pitch blackness of a moonless night, we wouldn’t be able to see the tent at all. We stumbled over logs and ran into trees, but eventually we found John and the tent.

  “Daddy! Daddy!” the kids yelled as we made our way back into the depths of the forest. “Daddy! You wouldn’t believe what we got!”

  John took a quick look at the enormous haul. “What did you guys do? How in the heck do you expect to carry all this crap on the bikes? Our panniers are stuffed already!”

  We decided we would deal with it in the morning and mummified ourselves in our sleeping bags.

  The following morning was cold. Very cold. Our water bottles were frozen solid, as were our cupcakes and pies. We hacked out pieces of pie the best we could and ate them for breakfast. We froze our teeth on frozen icing. There was no liquid water to brush our teeth with so we simply loaded everything up and headed to town. The kids were in heaven, and John and I simply shook our shook our heads in wonder. Somehow I don’t think either of us ever considered a Halloween like that before we pedaled away from home!

  We were getting tired of cold. We had finally figured out how to deal with it, but that didn’t mean we enjoyed it. I was getting tired of having to be zipped into my sleeping bag each night and was looking forward to the night when I would be able to use the bag as a blanket again. I had owned that sleeping bag for many years and had never been zipped into it until the last couple of weeks. I generally used my bag as a blanket – a mighty fine blanket at that. I typically flung it over me and I could toss and turn to my heart’s content. I could curl up, or stretch out, or tuck one leg up and leave the other extended, arms in or out.

  Having the bag zipped up, on the other hand, wasn’t quite the same. It was kind of like cramming pickled pig’s feet in a jar, sardines in a can, or Ethiopians in a bus. It just wasn’t comfy. My legs had to work in tandem, turning over required superhuman efforts, and the little hole for my face never seemed to stay at my face and it wasn’t easy breathing through my ears. I couldn’t wait to drop down off the plateau to warmer temperatures.

  In time we descended off the Colorado plateau and entered Saguaro country. The magnificent cactus signified warmth for us, and we rejoiced every time we passed by them. We quickly shed our many layers of clothing until, once again, we wore only shorts and t-shirts. We very happily changed our routine this time.

  * * *

  Dear Grandma,

  We are now in Joshua Tree National Park. We were talking about rock climbing our whole way to the campsite. When we arrived, we immediately set off for The Rocky Tour. There was a great big humongous granite rock near the campground, and we wanted to climb to the top of it. We didn’t expect the climb to be so hard. Mommy got stabbed by a barrel cactus as we hiked and her leg was bleeding.

  Two times we set off to see if we could get up onto the rock. Failure. Finally we found our way up. It was on a steep face. We got up by using the cracks in it. We went through a tunnel and slowly up to the top of the ridge to wait for Daddy. The tunnel was such a small hole that it was hard for Daddy to get through. We got to the top of the ridge and over a rock we called “The Mitten.” Then we thought we saw a way to make it to the tippy-top but we couldn’t.

  Daddy came, and we talked about how to get up. We saw some people on top, so we said, “Somebody got up. We can go the way they did!”

  Daddy said, “Yeah. They got up from there.” He pointed in the direction we just came from.

  So we went there. We walked on a foot-wide cliff. From there you have to jump over an empty spot and climb up. But Daddy wouldn’t let us. We watched some other people climb up. We went to that place but it was too dangerous to get to the very tippy-top. So we sat there for a while then tried to get back down. We went to The Mitten.

  Daddy said it wasn’t the right way. We insisted it was the right way. Daddy sent me down a steep path to see if it was the tunnel. It wasn’t. So Daddy went over The Mitten. There was a crack, but he couldn’t use it to get up. We finally had to pull him up. When we got him up we set off for the face. The face wasn’t half as hard as I expected.

  When we got down, Daddy took us for a shortcut.

  Love, Davy

  * * *

  “Nancy!” John whispered in the middle of the night as we slept under the stars. “There’s something in your bike. I hear it scrambling around over there.”

  I dragged myself out of my sleeping bag and stumbled over, expecting some little chipmunk-y creature. Nothing was there, but what I found shocked the daylights out of me!

  This wasn’t some itty-bitty critter – this was a great big creature with claws big enough to slash gigantic holes in the plastic bag that, at one time, had held our breakfast. All that remained was part of the salami wrapper – the salami and cheese were conspicuously absent. Our cream cheese, however, seemed to have escaped the creature’s jowls. I double-bagged the cream cheese (which, unfortunately, was covered with salami juice), and strapped it on top of my bike rack. Then I closed up all my panniers as securely as possible and moved my bike next to John (who happens to be a very light sleeper). I climbed back in bed and drifted off to dreamland once again.

  A few minutes later John called out again – the creature was back. John pulled out his flashlight and shined it to where my bike had been just a few minutes before. A great big gray fox stared right back from less than twenty feet away. The fox stared at us for a few moments as though deciding what kind of threat level we presented. Evidently, he concluded we were no threat at all and promptly returned to prowling. John and I looked at each other in amazement. We were stunned. All along, we had thought wild creatures were supposed to be scared of humans!

  “What’s going on?” Davy asked, as he sat up to join John and me as we watched the fox circle our campsite.

  “Look over there, sweetie,” I replied. “That fox is beautiful. But I’m also scared – wild animals shouldn’t be this close to humans. I don’t know if this guy has rabies or what. I never dreamed he would get this close to us.”

  John gathered a pile of rocks and a couple of big sticks for us to use in defense should the fox attack. He placed a big sticker bush right on top of the cream cheese on my bike and carefully positioned the backpack (with additional food in it) at Daryl’s feet. We both figured that, if the fox was brave enough to raid the food this close to us, John would wake up. The whole time John was up and wandering around, the fox was never far. At one point the creature came to within seven feet of Davy and me.

  Deciding our food stash was secure, we finally slept.

  A few hours later, the sun came up and John climbed out of bed. “Nancy!” he exclaimed. “The fox got it after all!” Our cream cheese had vanished. Our backpack had been dragged a good twenty feet from us, although the fox hadn’t been able to open it. We never did figure out how that fox managed to get the cream cheese, while leaving the sticker bush untouched, but we vowed to pack our food more securely in the future.

  Stretchin
g our legs in Borrego Springs.

  Dear Grandma,

  We visited Borrego Springs State Park and learned a lot! A rattle of a rattlesnake does not tell the age of the rattlesnake. The reason is because the rattles break easy and rattlesnakes only shed once a year. They can only grow a rattle when they shed. Rattlesnakes can unhinge their jaws so they can eat their prey whole. The reason rattlesnakes stick their tongues out is to smell. Rattlesnakes can feel vibrations on the ground and can sense heat in the air. A lot of desert snakes are not poisonous.

  Love, Daryl

  * * *

  “What would you say about Disneyland tomorrow?” I asked my boys as we lounged in the hot tub behind the house of our hosts in San Diego.

  “Disneyland? Really? Can we go?”

  “You bet! Remember I promised way back in Oregon? Now we’re here – we can head up there tomorrow.”

  The boys didn’t remember my promise at all. At the time, in the middle of the desert in Oregon, the thought of visiting Disneyland was a huge motivator. Now, they had seen the magic of bike touring and didn’t need an external motivator like Mickey. Still, I had promised and intended to carry through on my promise.

  Our hosts, Dave and Anne, graciously lent us their car for the day so we could get to the Magic Kingdom quickly. The boys had a blast on Space Mountain and the other rides. They trained as Jedi and danced with Mickey Mouse.

  After so long in Mother Nature’s handiwork, it was a little slice of heaven to leave nature behind and play with cartoon characters for a day. It was a bit of American decadence before heading south of the border for a whole new experience.

  Thorny Fantasyland

  Thanksgiving was over and we were ready for a new challenge. We slowly made our way through the mess and mayhem of the border region, obtained Mexican visas, and crossed the border. We could only hope our five months on the road had adequately prepared us for what we would face in a new country. The four of us passed into the new world with trepidation and excitement, not knowing exactly how we should be feeling.

  As we pedaled away from the border station, we found ourselves funneled onto a busy expressway with no shoulder. Cars and trucks buzzed past, making communication between us impossible. John and I, being new to Tijuana, had no idea which way we should be going and blindly pedaled on, hoping to find a way to exit the expressway. Drivers were, for the most part, courteous and gave us a wide berth, but when another lane merged from the right we were in trouble. We needed to pass through that lane of traffic to get to the nearly non-existent shoulder on the far right side of the road, but getting through the unbroken line of vehicles was a near impossibility.

  John, concentrating fully simply on controlling the triple, couldn’t even look behind as he cycled ahead of me sandwiched between two lanes of traffic traveling at nearly seventy miles per hour. I frantically signaled drivers to stop and let us cross the lane, but car after car zoomed past. At last a police car slowed down behind us to hold up traffic so we crossed the lane and continue pedaling.

  We waited for the police car to pass so we could wave a quick “Thank you!” but they never passed. When I finally felt stable enough to take a peek behind, I discovered the police car right behind us with its lights flashing.

  “John!” I shouted over the din of highway traffic. “A police car is giving us an escort!”

  Knowing the police were behind us, we relaxed and pedaled through the busy, narrow section of highway. Eventually the road widened to include a wide shoulder and started climbing a steep hill. The police turned on their loud speaker, pulled up next to us and broadcast, “Goodbye! Good luck!”

  John and I both shouted, “Gracias!” and we were on our own.

  A few miles later, we approached the toll booth to officially enter the expressway. A man ran toward us waving his arms. “No bicicleta!” he proclaimed. “Se prohibe bicicleta! Bicicleta - no!”

  I understood precisely that the man was trying to tell me bikes were not allowed on the tollway, but decided to play the ignorant American tourist and simply replied, “Ensenada this way, no?”

  “Bicicleta no!”

  “This way to Ensenada?”

  In the end our ignorant American ploy failed. He went to find an English speaker. We decided it was time to lie.

  “We tried the old highway yesterday,” we fibbed, “but it was too narrow and busy, and there is no shoulder.” The entire group of highway officials who had congregated around us nodded. “So we talked with the police and they suggested we come this way.” In reality, it had been other cyclists who had recommended the toll road.

  After conferring for what seemed like ages, they finally agreed the toll road was safer, agreed to let us pass, and said they would call the toll booth ahead to notify the workers there.

  A few minutes later we approached the toll booth and a worker flagged us down. “The gentlemen back there called to notify us to allow you to pass. We want to do that, but we have a problem.”

  My mind started racing. How can we get around this one?

  “We have cameras here. If we let you go through, it will be caught on camera and we will get in trouble. So we will have to do some maneuvering.”

  What kind of “maneuvering” is he talking about?

  “You see that red retaining wall over on the other side of the expressway?” he asked. “We have to go behind that.” All I saw was a solid wall of dirt. “No worry. I will direct you,” he assured us.

  We crossed six lanes of traffic, approached the embankment, and stood there looking at where we needed to go – eight feet up, with a four-foot vertical cliff. My bike would be difficult to get up. John’s bike? Almost impossible. One thing we had learned on our journey was that we could do most things; the impossible simply took longer. This was no exception.

  John and I set about the task of taking off the trailer and unstrapping our gear. The kids set off with our lighter bags and panniers, while John, the highway man and I managed to get the bikes up the embankment. We walked along a narrow pathway behind the retaining wall, crossed a six-inch-wide bridge over a ditch, and climbed back down to the highway. After crossing all six lanes of traffic once again, we reassembled the bikes and were about to take off. The whole process of getting past the toll booth had taken nearly two hours.

  Then the officials appeared. In a van. Riffraff don’t drive vans. This is it. The gig is up. We’ll be fined $500 and sent back.

  John pulled out all the stops and began to schmooze for all he was worth. With a huge smile plastered on his face he greeted the officials.

  “Yes. Yes, we are going to Ensenada. Actually we’ll go to La Paz, then to Mazatlan. Yes, with the children. From Idaho. Five months...” All the while grinning like the Cheshire cat and oozing charm and schmooze.

  Finally the magic words came: “Enjoy your trip. Be careful!” and they climbed back in their van.

  Schmoozing the highway officials paid off. They let us go! Cyclists weren't allowed on the toll road through Mexico, but we wanted to cycle it as it had a shoulder.

  We were free to go, but we faced on one more problem. We stood on the side of the tollway with a man who just helped us break the law and we were totally ignorant about protocol. Had he helped us just to be nice? Should we pay him off? How much would one pay an official who willingly broke the law for you? John finally turned and asked, “Can we pay you?”

  “For what?” he replied.

  “For helping us. We want to help you.”

  “No. No, I am happy to help. You help me when I go to your country.”

  “Yes, of course. We will help you when you come to Idaho. Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  We continued on our way.

  Twenty five kilometers later we approached another toll booth. A man motioned us up onto a sidewalk to avoid the cameras. We lifted the bikes up, walked fifty meters, and lifted the bikes back down.

  As we mounted our cycles and prepared to leave we waved goodbye to a mob of eight or nin
e policemen, while blatantly disregarding the “No Bicycles” sign above our heads.

  We realized we had a lot to learn about how things were done in Mexico.

  * * *

  Dear Grandma,

  We made it to Mexico. I cannot read the signs or understand people. Only Mommy can do those because she speaks Spanish. They have a lot of corn tortillas here, but I like flour tortillas better. I need a lot of cheese on my corn tortilla or it will not taste good. The money in Mexico is pesos. I’m not used to using pesos yet.

  Love, Daryl

  * * *

  By the next day we were pros. As we approached toll booths, men came running frantically trying to intercept us before it was too late. By then we knew the drill and lifted our bikes up on the sidewalk to walk to the other side of the toll booths, where we picked the bikes up again to get them off the sidewalk. Nobody cared that we rode on the tollway; they just didn’t want us to get picked up by the cameras.

  Within a few days we came to the end of the tollway and continued south on a two-lane country road passing through a narrow river valley with mountains on either side. Although the road was narrow with no shoulder, it wasn’t a problem at all. Drivers were respectful and gave us wide berth and we thoroughly enjoyed a relaxing ride.

  As nightfall approached, we began searching for spot for our tent. One of the drawbacks of a narrow valley is that there aren’t a whole lot of flat places at all, let alone one large enough to accommodate a four-person tent. It was getting late and there wasn’t much daylight left and we were starting to worry – we weren’t sure how long the narrow valley was, but it looked even narrower and steeper up ahead. Then we saw a tree farm with a lot of flat space. It was perfect. It was also private property.