Uncle Pistol needs no introduction.
From: Pistol Pete
Subject: Re: Where’s WInter???
The ol’ Dark Star had had enough of sittin’ around bein’ good. It kicked me in the behind today sayin’ “let’s go, Lunchbox!”. So, off to Bishop on the Eastern Sierra bus transit thingy. A good thing, public transportation. Fuck drivin’, you gotta PAY me to drive. So, we cruised Bishop an’ the area, makin’ friends an’ seein’ the sights. Everyone says how “Red” Bishop is. Ha! goldangit, I’m from Apache County! Now there are more than a couple o’ giant stupid pickups around, but there’s even more Subarus. Mostly the folks are O.K.
So, anyways, we cruised, bought some bean burritos an’ beers to go then rode the bus back to Lone Pine, home sweet home. Got back here, put the cervezas in the creek an’ I’m thinkin’ “Now what?” It’s too early for drinkin’. Ol’ Dark Star, he ain’t done. We cruise through town, out to Tuttle Creek rd. an’ roll. Past the Indian Cemetery, past some kind of crazy Ashram into the Alabama Hills.
Whoa! There’s Tuttle Creek on the left an’ these giant fuckin’ rocks on the other side looks like Joshua Tree Monument. So, I’m climbin’ an’ rollin’ an’ climbin’ an’ lookin’ at crazy rough granite giant boulder rock formations an’ climbin’. The sun goes behind the Sierra an’ the temperature drops like instantly. It’s cool though cuz I’m climbin’ an’ diggin’ the sights.
Fuck me, geared bikes aren’t all bad. I get out of the giant fins an’ rocks an’ arches an’ caves an’ shit an’ it’s all open sagebrush, saltbrush, rabbitbrush, snakeweed BLM kinda country. With the biggest fuckin’ mountains you could ask for lookin’ down kinda smug like, all snowy up high an’ skirted with oaks an’ PJ an’ shit. The Real Thing. So we pedal along smellin’ the goodness of clean air an’ willows, all that stuff. Finally we “T” off at Lubken Cyn rd. an’ start to drop.
Holy Shit! Did we climb this much? It’s like 2000+ foot of sceamin’ descent. To tell the truth I don’t much care for those giant drops. It’s cold and a little too fast. Fuck me, are my brake shoes gonna melt? No helmet, just my standard boony cap, balls out. Down through this WAY bitchin’ canyon of willows an’ quail an’ a big ol’ heard o’ ponies all ears up lookin’ at me fly by. Back to the highway an’ like eight miles back to town, sweet! Uh, I think I like it here… Pistol out.