Axolotl
0
Zaragoza to Galeana
From El Salto we turned around, retraced our steps to La Escondida, then continued north on Route 2. It was good riding in the cool late afternoon light, a narrow road with quite a few twists and turns up around San Juanito de Solis and Poblano, and for a good stretch we saw more livestock on the road than vehicles. In places it reminded me of arid mountainous northern New Mexico or southern Colorado, where I had travelled some a few years back. Some of the southern routes in Rich Gibbens' book come along this road, and I saw quite a few intriguing looking dirt roads shooting off east into the mountains. It feels so tempting to turn and explore just for a few minutes when you see a road like that, but... another day, another trip, another ride.
At one point I stopped to get a picture of the clouds kind of foaming over the side of the low mountains ahead of me. (The picture is below -- but it looked a lot cooler in real life). In the picture you can see a motorcycle coming toward me -- that's Jim, who turned around to check on me when I faded out of the pack. He was always keeping an eye on the rookie to make sure he got back in one piece. I really appreciated that about him.
We got back to Galeana about an hour before dark. I have to say the comfortable, affordable Hotel Magdalena felt like home. The people there are friendly -- there was a girl who helped behind the desk and also played a couple songs for us on her guitar. She had a pretty voice.
Jim and I sat on the green steel benches in the square outside the Magdalena and talked about different things. The hotel, a police station, a pharmacy, a market, a church, and a few other restaurants and stores all faced the square. The square was peaceful, clean and well maintained, with a few vendor carts, some ornate victorian lampposts that looked like gas lamps, a gazebo and various trees -- palm, oak, pine, and pencil pine, trunks painted in calcium hydroxide. Even at its busiest there was a sense of serenity and somnolence in this windy valley under high mountains. In the evening teens would come out to talk and flirt and get an ice cream. Elderly men would trudge across the stone and call out a hearty greeting to one another, then shake hands. People walked around and talked to each other, rather than staying indoors glued to the internet or a giant screen TV. The town had employed a number of people to clean the square, and they did a good job. Occasionally a police officer could be seen walking around, enough to know there was law and order, but a discreet presence. It seemed like there was a place for everyone here on the square. The town had a heart. “This is something we’ve lost,” Jim said. I agreed.
Around this time I was getting text messages from friends in various parts of the US, who had heard there was someone in Austin leaving package bombs in mailboxes and on doorsteps. Was I OK? Had I heard about it? Did I know those neighborhoods? I had to tell them I was far away from all that, but I'd be coming back soon.
From El Salto we turned around, retraced our steps to La Escondida, then continued north on Route 2. It was good riding in the cool late afternoon light, a narrow road with quite a few twists and turns up around San Juanito de Solis and Poblano, and for a good stretch we saw more livestock on the road than vehicles. In places it reminded me of arid mountainous northern New Mexico or southern Colorado, where I had travelled some a few years back. Some of the southern routes in Rich Gibbens' book come along this road, and I saw quite a few intriguing looking dirt roads shooting off east into the mountains. It feels so tempting to turn and explore just for a few minutes when you see a road like that, but... another day, another trip, another ride.
At one point I stopped to get a picture of the clouds kind of foaming over the side of the low mountains ahead of me. (The picture is below -- but it looked a lot cooler in real life). In the picture you can see a motorcycle coming toward me -- that's Jim, who turned around to check on me when I faded out of the pack. He was always keeping an eye on the rookie to make sure he got back in one piece. I really appreciated that about him.
We got back to Galeana about an hour before dark. I have to say the comfortable, affordable Hotel Magdalena felt like home. The people there are friendly -- there was a girl who helped behind the desk and also played a couple songs for us on her guitar. She had a pretty voice.
Jim and I sat on the green steel benches in the square outside the Magdalena and talked about different things. The hotel, a police station, a pharmacy, a market, a church, and a few other restaurants and stores all faced the square. The square was peaceful, clean and well maintained, with a few vendor carts, some ornate victorian lampposts that looked like gas lamps, a gazebo and various trees -- palm, oak, pine, and pencil pine, trunks painted in calcium hydroxide. Even at its busiest there was a sense of serenity and somnolence in this windy valley under high mountains. In the evening teens would come out to talk and flirt and get an ice cream. Elderly men would trudge across the stone and call out a hearty greeting to one another, then shake hands. People walked around and talked to each other, rather than staying indoors glued to the internet or a giant screen TV. The town had employed a number of people to clean the square, and they did a good job. Occasionally a police officer could be seen walking around, enough to know there was law and order, but a discreet presence. It seemed like there was a place for everyone here on the square. The town had a heart. “This is something we’ve lost,” Jim said. I agreed.
Around this time I was getting text messages from friends in various parts of the US, who had heard there was someone in Austin leaving package bombs in mailboxes and on doorsteps. Was I OK? Had I heard about it? Did I know those neighborhoods? I had to tell them I was far away from all that, but I'd be coming back soon.