I squat in the dirt and begin work as the sun’s rays rise over the mountain.
With a pair of needle-nosed piers, I pull the broken spokes from their seats in the wheel. Seven of the long ones are broken but all of the short ones are intact. I stop in astonishment. The day before, when we’d finished replacing three spokes that had broken on my bike, Jiangshan handed me all of the extras in his toolkit as a parting gift. His spokes were made of steel and not the cheap aluminum that I had packed in my kit. Lee translated his message, eloquently presented with a small bow: “Seven is an auspicious number, and I predict you will break no more than seven during your trip.”
With seven of them broken on the first day out, it would be a miracle.
I take each end of a spoke and bend it slightly, maneuver it around a cross-spoke, then bend it back straight, pressing both ends into the threaded nipples sunk into the wheel. The nipples depress slightly into the wheels for this purpose. They’re threaded, and when I twist the spoke it catches the thread. It takes some work with a pair of pliers to thread each spoke in all the way, until the nipple pops back out again when it’s seated. Now it’s only a matter of banging the spoke straight. Easy enough, if you aren’t too attached to the definition of “straight.”
The sun beats down hard on the compound. It is difficult working bent over so low to the ground, forcing the spoke rods into the nipples with the tip of the needle-nose pliers. I sit back on my heels and spot one of the girls walking across the compound. Her hair is a rats-nest of black tangles falling out from the pins that had probably, the night before, formed an elegant coif. She glances furtively at me as she passes, holding her thin blue robe closed with tight fists. Her eyes are raccoon-black from smeared mascara and a red streak of lipstick stains her chin. She disappears into a darkened hallway and I hear the sound of water running.
Checking the oil is next. It needs about a quarter of the quart bottle I’d packed in my trunk. That isn’t bad, really, for the distance I traveled yesterday.
Then I touch all the nuts and bolts—some are loose and, not surprisingly, so is the electrical connection to a turn signal.
Back in the room I take a quick sponge bath with the remaining thermos of hot water and scrub the grease and dirt as best I can from my fingers. It would be interesting to find out a little more about the brothel, I’ll have to ask Teresa when I get back. I already know that, like most places, China has interesting and conflicting views on sexuality. For one thing, the government insists that homosexuality doesn’t exist, and even claims that HIV isn’t a problem. Condoms are not routinely used, and the condoms manufactured in China are of the poorest quality. Abortion is the most common method of birth control and is provided at no cost by the state, which supplies traveling doctors in medically-equipped vans for this purpose. As for the brothel, I surmise it is state-run, like everything else in the country, but still I’m uncomfortable with the thought of cops dropping by, just in case it’s run like the ones at home—an illegal activity sporadically enforced and profitable for corrupt officials.
I haul my suitcase, a soft-sided convertible backpack, from the room, and slide it into the toe of the sidecar. The motorcycle cover goes into a duffel bag with the tire repair kit and pump, which rests in the seat. I shove my maps (with town names printed in both Roman and Chinese characters) between the duffel and the seat back of the sidecar for easy access, and there is also room in the duffel for food. A trunk located behind the seat back is lockable and holds my valuables in its two-by-two foot compartment.
First into the trunk is the video camera, which lies on top of miscellaneous spare parts like an extra headlamp, signal bulbs, oil filter, voltage regulator, cables, and spark plugs. My laptop computer in its padded case slides upright against the back wall of the trunk and the toolkit against the opposite wall. This leaves just enough room in the middle for two cameras—one film, one digital—in their padded cases. A quart or two of oil can easily be wedged in the odd small spaces and a couple of rags keep the leakage from spilling onto everything else.
In the pockets of my motorcycle jacket is a small packet of tissue, small amounts of money for purchasing food, my passport and a phone number to call in case of emergency, the trunk key, and a phrasebook.
One final ritual look around the motel room for forgotten items and I am ready to go. However, the big wooden gates to the compound are still closed and locked. Just as I consider knocking on the office door, the compound gates are pushed open toward me as if I’d said “open sesame.” An adolescent boy walks through, key in hand, and stops, startled, when he sees me.
“N ho,” I say, casually, and push the bike through the gates. I quickly put on my helmet and start the engine. The cacophony of the engine warming up rattles through the canyon and echoes from the cliff walls. Without waiting for it to warm up I take off over the wooden bridge, peering carefully over the side. Shuddering, I can’t believe that a constant stream of heavy blue supply trucks roar over it. It is even more rickety than I had imagined the night before. If it collapsed, I’d be immediately swept away in the whitewater that rushes through the rocky canyon two hundred feet below.
Without thinking about my doubts of the previous night I turn west, away from Beijing. From a height I can see the brothel in its U-shaped configuration and some other buildings, also sloppily made from concrete blocks and plaster, scattered on a very flat area of dry dirt between the river and the road. It would have been a perfect escape, the setting for a fishing lodge or a campground and a base camp for hiking trips. But the only travelers in China are truckers.
Suddenly, I can’t stop laughing. If I had wanted to alter my reality, achieve a true escape from my life in San Francisco, I had certainly succeeded. It’s so far away I can barely imagine it—my apartment on Nob Hill on the cable car line, my boyfriend Michael making coffee after an all-night party in some Multimedia Gulch warehouse with electronic music and designer drugs, not to mention the everyday realities of refrigeration and indoor plumbing. And for fun, an afternoon at Baker Beach under the Golden Gate bridge, a motorcycle ride to wine country, or a weekend at Harbin Hot Springs for baths and massages.
I rumble past the now-lifeless gas station and head into the green mountains, passing a village with houses made from mud and straw. It’s a tight jumble of rectangles standing on a natural shelf between the road and the river with smoke rising lazily from metal pipes sticking sloppily out at angles from red-tiled roofs.
The sun is bright and hot but the air is still cool. The only other person on the road this morning is a man in blue Mao pants, jacket, and cap pulling a cart of twigs toward the village. He must have been up to gather them before dark.
Centuries ago the peasants lived the same way, in mud and straw houses with wood-fuelled cooking fires. I catch a whiff of smoke and then it’s all wilderness again, only mountains and trees as I make my way up a series of switchbacks.
Carla King is an adventure travel author who specializes in riding unreliable motorcycles around the world. Her Motorcycle Misadventures dispatches have been published on the Internet since 1995, in realtime from trips around America, China, India, Europe, and Africa. She is a member of the Wild Writing Women and co-founder of Self-Publishing Boot Camp. You can track her down at carlaking.com. The story “Alone, Illegal, and Broke Down” is excerpted from her upcoming book, The China Road Motorcycle Diaries.
MARY CAPERTON MORTON
Wilding Horses
In wildness is the preservation of the world.
—Henry David Thoreau
NOT FAR FROM MY HOUSE IN THE HIGH DESERTS OF northern New Mexico is a large tract of land held by the Bureau of Land Management. It’s wide-open land on top of a plateau above the Galisteo River dam. Some years ago two horses were dumped there and left to fend for themselves. Nobody looks after them, but they seem to do pretty well. They have the Galisteo for water, a few cottonwoods for shade and several hundred acres of scrubby grass for grazing. Now unapproachable, t
he horses are not wild by birth, but made so by circumstance.
One January morning I was walking my dogs across the BLM tract, following a rutted path that snakes across the vast treeless plateau. As my two dogs and I came over a small rise, we found ourselves less than hundred yards away from the wild horses. We were downwind and both grazers startled when they saw us. I had seen the chestnut and palomino before off in the distance, but never so close. Now I could see the scruff of their red and cream winter coats and the snarls of tumbleweed in their tails.
My older dog and I stopped and stared at the horses, but they ignored us and focused on my puppy Dio, who had been racing on ahead. He was much closer to the horses, curious and oblivious to any danger. Worried, I whistled for him and at the sound, the horses charged.
In my experience most horses will run down a dog if they have a chance. My own childhood pony loved to harass any strange dog, cat or small child that dared enter her pasture. Some horses chase dogs just for fun and some will kill a dog if they catch it. These shared their land with a pack of coyotes and while no coyote could take down a healthy horse, these two evidently had a strong distaste for anything resembling a four-legged predator.
Little Dio took one look at the onrushing horses, turned and ran for me full tilt. My other dog, having learned his loose horse lesson before, bunched close beside me. The horses galloped towards us, ears back, teeth bared, intent on running Dio down, but I could see he would make it before the horses caught him. I stooped low and clapped, keeping Dio’s attention, encouraging him to run fast and not look back. The panicked puppy reached us when the horses were about ten yards away and once he joined us, I stood up straight, raised my hands to the horses, palms forward, fingers tense like claws and yelled “Hey!”
The charging animals stopped short as if I’d reached out and held them back. They didn’t stay still for long, snorting and tossing their heads, looking for weakness. I held my ground and kept my hands up. Staying close together, the horses began circling the dogs and I tightly, in hurried canters, eyes rolling, ears pinned back against their heads. I turned with them, hands still raised and talked to them softly. After a few passes, their ears relaxed and I felt their tension ease. I lowered my hands and the two of them came to a stop a short distance away and faced me. The whole dance had probably lasted no more than a minute or two.
I stood still for a minute, catching my breath, watching the horses. They were unkempt but beautiful, as wild horses always are. The chestnut took a step towards me and I raised my hands again, stopping him. I wanted to touch him, to run my fingers over his rough coat, but even more so, I wanted him to stay wild. Stepping forward I said loudly but evenly, “You two are lovely, but you’d better give us some space.” The horses took a few steps back together, side-by-side, in pace with my advance. I stopped and so did they, their eyes softer now, ears forward, watching and listening to me, more curious than aggressive or afraid.
Then one of the dogs whined, reminding me both were still crowded around my feet. I waved them on ahead, keeping myself between the dogs and the horses. I faced the horses another moment to make sure they were going to let the dogs go, but they ignored them and kept watching me. I studied their blazed faces and long whiskers and watched recognition come into their eyes. I wondered if they were remembering a person they trusted long ago, before their wilding. Slowly, I lowered my hands, turned my back to them and walked away, continuing down the path towards home. As we headed across the open field, every few steps I glanced back, and each time the horses were still standing where I left them, still watching, still wild, letting us walk away.
Communicating with unruly horses is an artform that I began studying at an early age. I grew up in Strasburg, Pennsylvania in the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch country. When I was twelve, I bought a pony, complete with cart and harness, at auction. An Amishman I knew gave me a quick driving lesson on the spot, told me to stick to back roads, and sent me home at the reins. My parents were shocked, of course. But I had taken riding lessons for years and knew how to handle a horse. I named the little red mare Saturday, put her up in a big stall in our big red barn and grazed her in circles in the backyard on a dog tie.
My pony, cart and I fit right in on Strasburg’s already rutted country roads and in time, Saturday and I drove up and down all of them. Once, in town, Saturday untied herself from a hitching post and set off on her own for home. An Amishman who recognized my rig and managed to catch her said she’d been following the rules of the road “like a proper pulling horse.”
At home, however, Saturday was not at all proper. Somebody in her past had been cruel to her and she had gone past the point of cowering and had learned to fight back. The first time I entered her roomy stall, she pinned her ears and charged. I spent weeks earning her trust, feeding her carrots and apples and her favorite treat: hard candy. I soon discovered that while Saturday feared space between us, she loved to be touched. I learned how to sidle up next to her shoulder, where she felt unbalanced between using her feet and her teeth, and to put my soft hands on her. After a few gentle touches, she’d follow me around the barn like a lamb.
For Christmas that year, my parents promised Saturday and I a fence and the following spring, I helped dig postholes all around our half-acre. Once she was loose, Saturday reverted back to her wild ways. Every time I left the house she’d whinny a greeting but as soon as I neared the fence she’d start pacing nervously and those ears would go stiff. Out in the field there was too much room for her to maneuver her feet and teeth so I couldn’t use my stall tricks to get near her. So instead, I plied her into coming to me. I would jump the fence far away from her and without looking her way begin walking slowly around the field.
I always brought a pocketful of hard candy—butterscotch, peppermint, fruity—any kind worked as long as it had a noisy wrapper. I’d walk around, ignoring my nervous pony and crinkle the candy wrappers. After a few minutes, enticed by the sound of the wrappers, Saturday would slowly sneak up behind me. If I ignored her for another minute or two, she nudge her nose against my back, begging for attention. Only then would I turn, sidle up to her neutral shoulder and say “Well hello, girl,” and give her a piece of candy.
By the following summer, Saturday had learned to play tag. I could jump the fence, go right up to her, slap her playfully on the rump and run away. Saturday would run after me, beside me, ahead of me, delighted, as all horses are, to have somebody to run with. Then she’d bump me with her nose, whirl and take off, prancing showing off her high-kneed hackney gait. My neighbors found our games highly entertaining, so much so that one of the neighbor boys hopped the fence one day, hoping to play. Saturday nearly trampled him.
Saturday did mellow with age, but not before I got years of practice saving unsuspecting children and small animals from her hooves. By watching her ears and body language, I could read her moods and with small gestures and changes in my body positioning, I could control her. Nobody was ever seriously hurt—though she did leave a tiny hoof print in deep purple on my thigh once—and I treasured her wild side.
My next encounter with the wild horses came months later, in late fall, as the first licks of winter wind swept across the high desert. After spending the summer in Montana, I was back for another winter and my return to New Mexico had felt like coming home. My footpaths still lay waiting, radiating from my home across the desert and the wind still blew from the West every afternoon, carrying the familiar scent of dry air and junipers.
But not everything was the same. Over the summer somebody had abandoned a dozen or more horses on the BLM tract, and what was two strays had become a herd. None of my neighbors knew who had dumped the horses; nobody had seen a trailer come and go. But in a few short weeks the desert began to wear under all those hooves and most of the already struggling grass was cropped close. One night the herd broke through the BLM fence and pillaged my neighbor’s barn for hay and grain. Once they were loose, the horses began roaming, creating well worn paths
up and down the mesas, plundering the prairie for grass and drinking stock ponds dry.
Calls to animal control were futile. With unemployment rates in New Mexico at an all time high the agency was already overrun with unwanted horses. Even if the herd could be caught, no small task in such open, rugged country, they would almost certainly be euthanized. My neighbors who’d lost hay, grain and precious water to the marauders were told to put up fences around their own properties. This land is zoned as rangeland and the old Wild West laws still apply: roaming animals must be fenced out; they are not required to be fenced in.
New Mexico is not the only place overrun with wild horses. Parts of California and Nevada are so beset, the federal government has taken to rounding them up with helicopters. The animals are run for miles—they have to be exhausted before they’ll go quietly—and led into chutes and onto trailers by tame Judas horses. Hundreds of horses die in the roundups each year. Many suffer horrible injuries. Young horses are often run off their feet, their delicate ankles reduced to shreds by their panicked poundings. The injured are shot and dragged onto slaughter trailers, in haste, before animal rights advocates with long lenses can get a shot of their ignoble deaths in the dust.
Those that survive are hardly the lucky ones. The majority are shipped to Kansas and Oklahoma, where more than 30,000 wild horses and burros languish on private ranches, awaiting rare adoption or common death. Having known no barriers but the sky their whole lives, the animals are reduced to milling in endless circles, enclosed by metal pipes. Family groups, with their carefully sorted hierarchies and politics are separated and remixed. Crowded into the corrals, they fight and panic and call for one another, for the range, for their freedom. They will never gallop to the horizons again. They are the symbols of the once wild American West, reduced to flightless birds in corralled cages.
The Best Travel Writing 2011 Page 23