I have never been more nervous about any particular part of this journey than I was about the coming week. I would be heading into the snow-covered mountains and riding through towns higher than 7000 feet, a good 2500 feet higher than the highest peaks I've hiked in the Northeast. The forecast called for highs around 40 and lows around 10, not counting the wind chill, which I imagined could be significant.

I had not really equipped for this sort of weather, as I had originally planned to ride through the southern part of the state and stay out of the mountains altogether. So I did the best I could, dressing in a manner inspired by Noah's ark: two shirts, two pairs of pants, two pairs of socks, two jackets, and two pairs of gloves. Mike had given me an extra fleece sleeping bag liner, so I even had two of those in case I got stranded somewhere, but I did not want to camp if I could possibly help it.

I left Christina's place and promptly headed the wrong way on Route 60, realized once I hit the outskirts of town that I should have seen the turnoff for 60 West by then, rectified my error, and settled in to the road that will be my new home through the rest of New Mexico and all the way across Arizona. My ride began with a 12 mile climb. Let me repeat that: I rode uphill, consistently, for 12 miles, which took more than 2 hours. I can't tell you what percent grade this road was, but I can tell you there is something deeply cathartic about having one's butt kicked by such a long, intense uphill climb. Once the road leveled out I lost it and started sobbing uncontrollably. Somehow this hill dredged up every painful thing from my lifetime: every broken heart, every death of a loved one, every stubbed toe. I must have cut a pathetic figure, bawling, trying to stay on the road through tear-blurred vision.

When I recovered from that episode I felt surprisingly good, aside from my feet which I couldn't feel at all (which I suppose is better than being in pain) and could finally sort of enjoy the mountain scenery. I think I would have enjoyed it more had the cloudy sky not looked so cold and bleak. And there is something just plain disconcerting about snow-covered cacti. It seemed wrong, like the anthropomorphic tater tot dressed like one of Santa's elves Mike and I had seen the night before while dining at Sonic.

I picked up the pace a bit on the miles into Magdalena and arrived there around lunchtime, at least what I consider lunchtime. Would I eat at the Ponderosa Restaurant, with its cheerful multi-colored 50's-style lettering? Nope, closed. Another restaurant whose name I don't remember but boasted an old-fashioned soda fountain was also closed. I followed a sign to the Magdalena Cafe: closed. I spoke with a guy who's just come out of the restaurant, and when he learned of my plans to potentially ride to Datil, he eyeballed my gear and concluded I was not properly equipped to camp out in this sort of weather (he was right, and it annoyed me a little that he was right—how did he know I didn't have a zero-rated sleeping bag?) and recommended I call the one motel in Datil ("rustic, but comfortable") to make sure I'd have a place to stay, since they only had a few rooms. If they didn't have a room, he suggested I stay in Magdalena. That seemed like a wise and sensible plan.

So I settled for a hot coffee from a convenience store down the road and ate some of my recently acquired stash of groceries for lunch. The pay phone oustide had a big Out of Order sign taped over it that somehow I hadn't noticed earlier. I asked the cashier if there was a phone I could use, and he said yes, but only if I make a local call or bill it to a calling card. Somehow Datil, 35 miles away, is a long-distance call, and 1-800-COLLECT, bizarrely, only accepts American Express and Discover. So l left to search out another phone.

How about the Visitor Center? Surely they would make a phone call on my behalf. Closed. What about the Eagle's Nest Motel and RV Park? If the place in Datil didn't have a room, I'd stay there. Closed. Aargh!

At that point, unbeknownst to Magdalena or any of its inhabitants, that charming little mountain town became the object of my wrath and loathing, and I was suddenly seized by a fierce determination to get out of Magdalena and, for that matter, all of this snow-covered country as quickly as possible. I would take my chances on getting to Datil.

Fortunately I'd reached the San Augustin Plains, a relatively flat area surrounded by mountains, so I was able to cruise along relatively quickly compared to my morning of uphill climbing, which was helpful since it was unlikely I'd have enough time to get to Datil before dark. As I rode along I contemplated a backup plan in case there was no motel room. I could try the Datil Well campground—I was pretty sure there were showers there, and if worse came to worse I'd drag my air mattress and sleeping bag into the restroom and sleep there.

The one drawback to my impetuously created plan was that it did not leave me enough time to visit the VLA, or Very Large Array, an astronomical observatory with 27 huge radio antennae that were featured in the movie Contact (in which they were multiplied to about 150 dishes through CGI). I could see it from the highway, but according to the sign it was 4 miles away. I stood at the sign for a few minutes to contemplate riding over there, and sadly realized that by the time I got there, took pictures, checked out the visitor center, and rode back, it would cost me, conservatively, a good 45 minutes that I simply didn't have to spare. I was already on track to get into Datil after dark, and that assumed everything else went smoothly. Mountains lined the horizon. I saw more long slow climbs in my future.

I promised my inner science geek that I'd check out the VLA website and watch Contact again at the next opportunity and continued on my brisk ride (both in terms of speed and temperature) through the plains. The cloud cover meant that darkness came early, and the cold seemed to drain the sunset of its fire, leaving a washed-out sky of icy pale pink and peach sorbet.

It was, as expected, dark when I reached Datil, a town that as far as I can tell so far consists only of a post office and the Eagle Guest Ranch, my idea of heaven on earth. It features a tiny 8-room motel (I lucked out—a week ago it was filled with deer hunters, but tonight I'm the only guest), convenience store, restaurant with fireplace, and beer. I'm very glad I'm not camping out, especially since it took a hot shower using up the entire available supply of hot water to feel warm again. The fire sure helps too.