I discovered the flat tire just as I'd loaded up my bike for the day's ride. My first reaction was an indignant "What? Why do I keep getting flat tires?" until I realized my last flat tire was. . . where? In Memphis, Tennessee? I suppose it's understandable to get a flat after crossing three states (I don't count Oklahoma, but count Texas as two). My cranky side grudgingly conceded the point to my objective rational side. I patched the tube, packed up, and set about climbing back over the barbed wire fence and onto the highway.

I was delighted to discover that I was approaching an area containing STUFF. I didn't much care what sort of stuff, any old stuff would do. Hills, mountains, gas stations, post offices, all were welcome additions to my scenery.

Until someone coins a word for a named area with only a couple buildings in it, I'll use the word "town" in quotes. I entered the "town" of Riverside a couple miles into my ride. This "town" consisted of a gift shop, an RV park, and a currently non-functional restaurant, collectively known as the Riverside Stage Stop. Bella, the owner, kindly hooked me up with a cup of coffee and a couple bottles of local cider. As I sipped the former, she told me all about the incredible ordeal she's been through since buying the property a couple years ago. She moved out from California only to discover that the restaurant had lain dormant for over ten years in terrible disrepair, which had not been accurately represented in the contract. Now she's involved in a heated legal battle with the seller, a person who sounds like a pretty shady character on several counts. According to Bella, this guy has "low friends in high places" and seems to get away with all sorts of unscrupulous behavior. But it sounded like if anyone was going to stand up to this guy, it was Bella: she's a fighter.

When she asked me about the logistics of my trip and where I stay at night, it reminded me to try to find out what the low temperature had been the night before, for scientific purposes, as my dual sleeping bag strategy had worked beautifully. Bella called someone named Gail in Picacho, the next "town" over, home to (only) a post office and weather station, who informed her It had gotten down to 21 degrees. Excellent! Based how warm I'd felt, and how well I'd slept, I estimated I'd easily be able to withstand temperatures down into the teens.

Once our conversation and my coffee were finished, I continued on through Picacho to the "town" of Tinnie where I stopped at the Tinnie Silver Dollar and stupidly ordered a salad for lunch that seemed to leave me hungrier than before I ate it.

Next up was the "town" of Hondo. Actually, Hondo might qualify as a true town, no quotes required, as it contained a convenience store, a couple shops, a post office, a church, AND a cool metal sculpture. I stopped to take pictures of the sculpture and when I did I noticed my back tire, the one I'd just fixed that morning, had gone soft again. Thinking back, I remembered that I hadn't bothered to check the inside of the tire for pointy foreign objects that might still be lodged in the tire. Sure enough, when I took the tube out and checked it, there was a tiny point inside the tire, thus accounting for the second flat. Annoyingly, when I deflated the tube, the patch I'd put on that morning came off. That's it, I decided, no more pre-glued patches. They are useless. I vowed to pick up a real patch kit with the self-vulcanizing glue (this always makes me think of Star Trek) at the next bike shop I came to.

My next stop (yes, I did a lot of stopping, mainly because, for once, there were things to stop and see) was a gift shop outside Hondo, jam-packed to the rafters with all sorts of western decor and knickknacks and heated by a huge wood stove in the center of the store. I spent quite a bit of time browsing, taking pictures, and reading all sorts of funny plaques on the walls, bearing quips like "I'm a queen. My pantyhose say so," and "When I die, bury me at Wal-Mart so my wife will visit me." I bought an ice cream bar to supplement the insufficient calories I'd consumed at lunch (not enough calories. . . I still love the sound of that!) and to avoid the $1 restroom fee imposed on non-patrons. One of the store employees asked me about my trip and assured me that Route 60 through the western part of the state would be gorgeous, with winding mountain roads where cars can do only 20 or 30 miles per hour.

A few miles later I entered the town of Lincoln (again, real town, no quotes), the old stomping grounds of Billy the Kid. The town's residents have painstakingly maintained Main Street's Wild West appearance, including low brown stucco houses, shops with weathered wooden porches, the Ellis Country Store where Billy the Kid was once held on house arrest, and The Wortley Hotel which promises "no guests gunned down in over 100 years." I stopped in the museum to have a look around and read about the heated mercantile wars created when young upstart John Tunstall's new business ventures upset the delicate (and corrupt) balance of power in town, which utlimately erupted in bloodshed in 1876.

I got talking with one of the museum employees and asked about camping options in the next town of Capitan. She offered me a ride, but I still had 45 minutes of daylight so I figured I could make it at least as far as the RV Park about 10 miles away. But along the way, I paused to observe a flock of wild turkeys who'd convened at a small roadside picnic area, and as I did saw a sign with an arrow pointing down a gravel road to something called "Baca Campsite." That sounded worth investigating. About a quarter mile down, I found a fire pit next to an old boxspring mattress that had been propped up on its side against a tree. No table. No signs. Nothing indicating any sort of official campground. Could this possibly be it?

I didn't relish the thought of sleeping at this dodgy-looking campsite, right off the road, so I left my bike there to scout around on foot (I was skittish about riding on this rocky road after two flats in one day) and see if I could find something closer to my mental image of a campsite, or at least more secluded. I followed another branch of the dirt road across a gully, turned a corner, and there I beheld the somewhat shocking sight, out in the middle of a clearing surrounded by huge hills, of a guy with a tent and a blazing fire. I'm not sure which of us was more surprised to see the other—after all, I'd just walked in out of nowhere with no vehicle.

I asked the guy, Mike, if he knew anything about the whereabouts of the campsites and he didn't—he'd just arrived a couple hours before to meet up with his father and hunting buddies who'd camped there all week. But he invited me to camp with them if I wanted to. Wow! A bonfire, and. . . people! I double-checked with him to be sure I wouldn't be intruding, and when he insisted that nobody would mind one bit I happily bounded off to retrieve my bike. As I set up my tent it occurred to me that there was only one thing that could possibly improve upon this stroke of good fortune. Mike, as though reading my mind, came over with a bottle in his hand. "Want a beer?"

So we hung out by the fire, drank beer, and talked for a couple hours. Mike's a native of Roswell, a Marine Corps combat veteran, and now works for a potash mining operation in Carlsbad. It turns out we have a pretty similar lifestyle at the moment, as he camps out most days and rents the occasional motel room when the weather is bad. "It's by choice," he explained. "I just can't stand the idea of paying rent."

Whenever I find out anyone's about to turn 30 I ask how they feel about it (I was very happy to turn 30). Mike said he's more looking forward to turning 35—he'd asked his dad and uncle at what point a guy stops feeling like a scared little boy and starts feeling like a man, and both of them said 35. I was surprised at the idea that an ex-marine and miner who lives outdoors could possibly feel like a scared kid, but I guess we all do at times.

A couple hours later, Mike's dad, Harvey "Stormy" Storms, and friends Ronnie and Chris returned from their day of hunting with much loud revelry at Mike's arrival and my guest appearance. They wholeheartedly welcomed me into the festivities on their last night of the trip, which included much drinking of beer and trading of war stories, some figurative (like the time Stormy sent 12-year-old Mike "bird-dogging" for him on a hunting trip and Mike misunderstood his instructions, wandered miles off into the wilderness, and sent Stormy into a panic trying to find him) and some literal (Mike had seven confirmed kills and earned a Purple Heart in Iraq, and Ronnie served in the Navy). They all expressed their deep admiration, respect, and envy of my cross-country excursion. Stormy said, "I don't have enough sand in my britches to do what you're doing."

I was thinking as we all stood around the roaring fire, plenty hot enough to keep us toasty in the cold mountain air, that these were the best kind of men: rowdy on the outside, boisterously teasing each other, drinking, smoking, and spitting into the fire, but kind and considerate gentlemen with soft hearts on the inside. Stormy became solemn when describing his daughter's battle with breast cancer and her scoliosis operation ("They cut my little girl in two.") and Mike freely admitted to crying when he got back from Iraq and started processing everything he'd done. And all of us, at one point or another, would interrupt the raucous laughter to point out a constellation or shooting star, or just to reflect on the perfection of this night, something truly out of an Old Milwaukee commercial: "Guys, it doesn't get any better than this."

I had already assumed I would not be able to keep up with all of them when they indicated they'd be partying until dawn, but in actuality everyone got tuckered out around the same time I did. "I hate to break it to you Stormy, but the sun doesn't rise at 10:30PM," I teased, as we all headed off to our tents.