Cycling Across The West – Sedona to Tuba City in Arizona

Bicycling Across the West
Day 12 – Sedona to Tuba City in Arizona

“What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night. It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime. It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.”
~ Crowfoot

Today I meet my friend Dave, and we complete the rest of the ride together. Our original plan was to meet at the Grand Canyon and ride from there. However, we’ve talked on the phone and changed our route a bit in response to concern over a section of road we were going to ride on. The road we’re concerned about is Highways 163 and 162 in Arizona and Utah, which takes us through Monument Valley. Dave’s experience on the road as he was driving down to his starting point was that it was very narrow, lots of curves, no shoulder, and lots of RVs.

We’re both fine with all of that – down to the RV part. My experience with the lack of safety and courtesy on the part of RV drivers so far on this trip has me pretty concerned about that section, and Dave feels the same way. So we modified our planned route, and I’m meeting Dave in Flagstaff this morning. From here, we’ll ride to Tuba City today. I’m clearly upset that we’re compelled – out of fear of our lives – to change our route because so many RV users are either incompetent or inconsiderate drivers. But it is what it is.

Riding through this upcoming section, the thing that makes bicycle trip routing difficult is the space between towns. There are only so many places where a motel exists, and we need to be able to fit a daily ride somewhat neatly between those spots. Our original plan, in fact, included a 140 mile day because of that difficulty. That’s a long day in the desert if the winds aren’t kind… Our new route keeps most of our days down to a little under 100 miles, though there’s one or two that go over 100 miles.

Dave and I meet at a Village Inn. He just rode 30 or 40 miles along Interstate 40 to get here, and met another cyclist as he was riding. This is crazy to me – I’ve seen so few cyclists on the back roads, and Dave meets up with one on the Interstate! The guy was riding a mountain bike, loaded to the gills with gear. Dave thinks the rig must have weighed 100 pounds or more, fully loaded. We’re both really happy to be touring as light as we are…

The Interstate highways in the US are generally off-limits to cyclists. However, there are many sections in the west where bicycles are allowed for some distance. The determining factor seems to be whether there are any reasonable alternative routes for the cyclist to follow, and if not, then for that section they allow cyclists.

Dave had ridden on the Interstate before, and he doesn’t really mind it. In many ways, there’s a lot to be said for the Interstate, with wide shoulders, straight lines, and controlled grades. From a purely safety perspective, I’m not sure the interstate isn’t a fairly safe way to travel by bicycle, since you ALWAYS have a really great shoulder to ride on and stay away from the traffic.

It’s the journey thing again, isn’t it? Am I riding my bike to get from one point to another in the most expedient fashion, or is my bike ride a pilgrimage? If the answer is efficiency, then the interstate is a fantastic way to go. If the answer is pilgrimage, then find the back roads in life.

After sharing some breakfast at the Village Inn where we meet, we head north on Highway 89 toward Tuba City. The cultural debris around Flagstaff is different than most of the places I’ve seen on the trip so far, as we pass a couple odd characters on the road hitchhiking. This, along with the guy Dave passed earlier in the morning, makes me wonder if Flagstaff here is a bit of a cultural crossroads. Interstate 40 is certainly the main highway artery across the southern half of the country, and Flagstaff is a college town. It’s on a main north-south route that can take you to Sedona to the south and Grand Canyon to the north, so it makes sense that it would be.

The road headed north has a great shoulder, and while it’s fairly busy, it’s also 2-lanes in both directions, and not nearly as busy as the interstate. There’s a nice gentle climb out of Flagstaff, taking us up into wonderful Ponderosa Pine country that reminds me a lot of home. After cresting the hill about 10 or 15 miles out of town at about 7500 feet, we begin a long and gentle drop that will take us 30 or 40 miles to Cameron.

Dropping down from 7500 feet, I realize I’m entering another section of the ride that will take me across desert for the next several days, albeit a higher desert that’s not likely to be as hot as the deserts I’ve been crossing. This next section of desert holds another dimension – ownership and nationality.

We’re entering “The Res”, to use a colloquialism. For the next 3 days, we’ll be crossing the land of the Navaho, along with just a small corner of the land of the Hopi. Dave’s conversation with the loaded-down cyclist along the interstate earlier in the morning left him with the impression that the cyclist had a bit of trepidation – maybe even fear – of the notion of crossing this area. Dave didn’t explore it with him, but it struck him as odd that a guy would feel more fear about crossing the Indian Lands than he would about riding on an interstate highway. Of course, it could have been simply that he’d looked at the route, and was worried about the lack of places to stop for water and supplies.

The further we ride along the highway within the reservation lands, the more debris and glass covers the shoulder. I think a lot about this as I ride, focused on avoiding the glass as best I can. Why is it that the highway here should suddenly be covered with debris and glass along the shoulder? Since the highway runs through land administered by the BIA, it could be that the state highway department doesn’t maintain a budget for keeping these sections of highway cleaned. I find it hard to believe that suddenly, as the highway crosses the border into the Reservation, the drivers suddenly start throwing more stuff out their windows. After all, it’s clear that the vast majority of the traffic along the road is “passing through” – the same traffic that was on the highway on the other side of the border.

The whole issue of Indian reservations has always been a bit fuzzy to me anyway. In many ways, we think of this territory as its own “nation”. Yet, the US Federal Government has an agency to “administer” or “manage” these lands. Hardly sounds like an independent “nation” when another nation “manages” it. Each of the “nations” sets up and runs its own tribal government system, but I’m not sure what the interface looks like between that tribal government, the US federal government, and the state government in the state surrounding the “nation”. If I can extrapolate from history, I suspect that in all cases, the tribal government gets the short end of the stick.

“Treat the earth well, it was not given to you by your parents, and loaned to you by your children.”
   ~ Native American Proverb

I remember hitchhiking in Georgia many decades ago when I was younger and hitchhiking was a more acceptable way of traveling. Riding at one point with the perfect stereotype of the southern redneck, I was surprised when he threw his empty beer bottle out his window to crash on the pavement. I suspect he must have seen the surprise on my face, because he made some comment about “giving those government leaches something to do”, or something to that effect.

I got out at as he pulled into the town I was headed toward, but that image has always hung with me. It’s one of those moments that just doesn’t fit well into the way I see the world. Based on the rest of what came out of the guy’s mouth, you would think he loved the place he lived. Yet, he feels perfectly justified in damaging the wonder he says he likes, and he justifies it in his mind with an assumption that someone should be coming along behind him to clean up his mess.

I recall the Georgia cracker as I’m pedaling, and wonder what went through the minds of the many people who’ve thrown their beer bottles out onto the pavement here along highways 89 and 160. So long as they were throwing them out while the highway was running through state territory, state taxpayers were busy bellying up to the bar with tax dollars to clean up the mess they left behind. Once they passed into Indian territory, there aren’t any of those fat tax dollars to clean up the mess, so it sits on the shoulder for me to dodge with my bicycle tires…

Meanwhile, within the borders of the reservations, most tribal governments struggle to create an “economy”. High unemployment rates and reliance on import of US federal funds often creates an ugly cycle of dependency and hopelessness. While some tribal governments have been lucky enough to have valuable resources within their borders, and they’ve been able to build an infrastructure out of the proceeds from those resources, most seem caught in the cycle of dependency and hopelessness. I read recently about the essentially non-existent tax rates for businesses that do business within a particular reservation. A ready and willing population of workers and very low taxation doesn’t attract any business. So much for the argument that many make about lower taxes attracting business…

It’s complicated, without a doubt, and there aren’t simple answers. Sometimes, though, we make things seem more complicated than they really are. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism that lets us avoid solving problems, convincing ourselves that there aren’t simple answers and solutions, so we can walk away and leave the problem…

If you want to see a “success story” on reservations, look at casinos. Gambling has become ubiquitous on many reservations, and proceeds seem to have become the mainstay of many tribal governments. On the one hand, revenue is revenue, so I’m sure those tribal governments are happy for the income, and the hope of building an economy and infrastructure. On the other hand, the revenue derives from picking people’s pocket. Granted, these are all willing “victims”, who flock to casinos with pockets exposed for the picking, knowing full well that they’re likely to get fleeced by the process.

And revenue is revenue, right? Though I suspect that – as is the case with all bureaucracies both private and public – those in power probably skim the cream for themselves, and The People receive only enough to keep them quiet…

For folks like me and Dave, casino’s are a great little boon. Dave and I share two qualities that help us a lot in the world of casinos. First, we’re absurdly cheap. Well, Dave is absurdly cheap, I’m just cheap. (I say this with envy and admiration of Dave’s cheapness…) Second, neither of us deals very well with the idea of being a sucker and a patsy. Gambling at a casino requires that the “victim” be willing to let go of money easily, with the full knowledge that in the big picture, the casino will keep most of their money and give nothing back but the experience of losing the money. Is it harsh to call that being a sucker and a patsy? Really?

Tuba City is a little (mostly) Navaho town, right at the edge of the Hopi nation. Dave and I pull up to the Moenkopi Legacy Inn, and check in to a really nice room. We easily settle in to the routine we developed last summer when we toured together, unpacking, showering, doing laundry in the sink, hanging clothes to dry, and walking to a relaxing supper.

Sitting with Dave at Denny’s and enjoying supper, I realize that my journey has changed now. It’s not a solitary journey now, but one shared with a companion who’s also a good friend. I’ve truly loved the solitary journey to this point, and I’ll miss it. At the same time, I realize just how much I enjoy and appreciate Dave’s companionship, and how much I’m looking forward to this next week riding together.

It’s a nice transition. By enjoying the solitary trip as much as I possibly could, I’m now ready to let go of that phase, and embrace the good things in the next phase.