Day Thirty-Four: Pagosa Springs - Chama, NM

Our tent was covered in dew when we woke in the morning, probably due to our 1-foot proximity to the lake. I wasn’t feeling well, so packing up moved quite slowly. Slate grabbed breakfast for us from the camp store, and I swallowed down what I could so as not to upset my stomach, then we rode about a mile down the road to fill up a mug of coffee and let my system sort itself out (if you know what I mean). I was feeling much better after an hour or so, but by that time it was already 12:30 and the nagging reminder of a 65 mile ride lingered obnoxiously in the backs of our minds. We succumbed to the pressure and rode uphill, once again, through a whole lot of nothing.

Our handy-dandy Wal-Mart atlas marked an ever so tiny town called Chromo at the halfway point of our ride, which we reached midday, and found it to be not a town, but rather, a long, desert road, freckled with a few shacks here and there and a small post office with a country store. Deserted as it was, we lost all hope of a lengthy sit and fresh lunch when we saw the ominous “CLOSED” sign pressed against the inside of a grimy window. We pushed our bikes against the tattered wood panels and sat upon a dusty bench to enjoy miscellaneous snacks in place of a meal, all the while dreading another 40 miles to our destination. Just above us in the rafters of the overhanging roof was a small straw nest with quietly chirping baby birds, and we knew that was our cue to leave—because in case you haven’t read prior entries, we have seen an off-putting pattern of baby birds falling to their death over the course of this trip—and we weren’t about to experience that again.

To be quite honest, I’m finding it a bit difficult to remember what happened during the rest of the ride aside from crossing state lines. We made our way into New Mexico, realizing that neither one of us had any clue what New Mexico was actually like; I pictured it to be a bit run down, much like abandoned desert towns with tumbleweed bobbling up and down cracked highways. We were still in the northern part, however, bordering Colorado, which meant that it actually looked more like, well, Colorado. We rode and rode with aching legs to our destination: Chama, NM. It was a spread-out town with a few restaurants and one grocery store, and to our advantage, a Subway. We ate footlongs in a spacious dining area that was much too large for the location and debated riding another 15 miles, but decided against it after hearing that there was nowhere to stay or to camp for 90 miles.

After dinner, we rode back to a large campground, hovering over our bike seats so as not to irritate our sore asses, then stopped into the office to check in just five minutes till closing. A chipper mother and daughter duo showed us around the site and made sure we were comfortable before clocking out for the night. We set up camp alongside a few vacationing families, all traveling in tour bus-sized RVs, then retreated to our humble abode for a night of reading and journaling. Meanwhile, the sound of a nearby bar rang loudly through the trees, as a half country, half mariachi band played for their wild Friday night dance gig; the sound of drunk 30-somethings’ god-awful singing voices overpowered the lead vocalist and we finally drifted to sleep after the enforced noise ordinance took over the city.