Okay, I'm back to it! I got whacked with work the past few days. Excuses, excuses...
After almost a full night of rain, we woke up to cloudy, but mercifully rain-free skies. The temperature was perfect, the trails were tacky, it was going to be a good one. We dropped off of Crystal Peak and shortly thereafter found ourselves entering the mighty wastelands of Nevada. Little did we know that the majority of our formative memories would be made here. For the next few days, our contact with our fellow species will dwindle to nearly nothing.
Right at the border is the aptly named Border Inn. We get gas, call home, and, praise lil' baby Jesus, take a shower. Well, I took a shower. After his phone call, John was missing the girls and antsy to get back on the road. Diamond don't need no stinkin' shower! (yes he did)
We decided later that out in the middle of BFE, no business can survive if it just does one thing. This place was a gas station, a motel, a cafe, a laundromat, and a casino. If you can't do it at The Border Inn, you shouldn't be doing it. With both of us gassed up and half of us clean, it's off into the desert, which looked suspiciously un-desertlike on this particular day.
Somehow we chased storms all day but never actually got rained on. The temps we fantastically mild and the trails were bordering on muddy all day. It was like every section of trail got rained on 20 minutes before we got there. It made riding an absolute joy.
"Grip it and rip it!"
Today was our introduction to ranch land as well. We'd be seeing a lot of these in Nevada. Eventually I started getting annoyed by all the stopping, fence undoing, bike pushing, and fence redoing, but at this point it was still sort of novel.
Sam mentions private property a bit in the maps and charts, but we never really got comfortable with the idea of trespassing. On this occasion, we came out of the desert into somebody's yard and had to drive down their driveway and go out through their entry gate, which was emphatically marked NO TRESPASSING. Since we came from the back side of their land, we couldn't have known, but we both felt a bit guilty about being there. We closed the gate and moved on, secretly glad to have avoided being shot at.
From here we got a bit of pavement en route to our next gas stop. There is, shall we say, tremendous opportunity for expansion in Nevada:
A bit of pavement leads us to the booming metropolis of Preston. 'Town' is probably a big word to describe Preston. More like a few trailers, some houses, a lot of cars on blocks, and the ubiquitous motel/gas/cafe/casino/laundry/shooting range/taxidermy/haberdasher/cheese operation on the outside of town.
This one left an impression on both of us. The gas station was manned by a high school kid who looked like a fat Napoleon Dynamite. I'm not thinking he got much business in his little 6x8 gas shack. When we rolled up, he was staring at the wall, sweating and swarmed by flies. Just sittin' there...wearing a huge 'Just Do It' T-shirt. We tried to talk to him, but he wasn't much of a conversationalist, probably because he was in a rush to get back to sweating and staring at the wall. That's Preston for ya.
"I'll sweat whenever I want...GOD!"
We saw some for sale signs on the way out of town and got into a contentious bidding war. We were both captivated by this beautiful mountain hamlet and were loathe to leave it's beauty behind us.