Nine Hours Through Hell: A Nevada Desert Survival Story

CHAPTER VII – Hour 1 | 9:25 AM & The resident cop

Hour 1 | 9:25 AM Since the path slopes slightly downhill from our car, the bike rolled all by itself. Meanwhile, I sorted out my gears. After not even ten seconds, I turned the first right corner, only to carefully roll over the bump—an asphalt speed bump—twenty meters later. These bumps force drivers in the complex to drive slowly. A car came toward me. Before I could turn left toward the exit, this driver steered to the right, directly toward the gate.

A Little Side Story After slowly rolling over the speed bump and the car in front of me stopped to wait for the automatic gate to open, I slowly rolled up behind the vehicle—right up to the bumper. Since I came from the other side, I had to turn left. Inside the car sat Moerl and Bessi. The two American retirees are around 80 years old. Bessi is severely ill and can no longer climb stairs on her own. He, too, suffers from his own ailments. While the gate opened agonizingly slowly, I couldn’t help but grin behind his bumper. A bizarre episode that had taken place right here exactly three years ago flashed through my mind.

The Resident Cop Flying Low Moerl is actually a very nice, small, old man. His shoulders are built completely normally, but he walks with his head so extremely bowed downward as if he had a hunchback. But he doesn’t have one at all! That’s just his very specific walking style. For years, he had voluntarily made himself useful as a kind of “resident cop”. Every morning at exactly 7:00 AM, he unlocked our clubhouse, and at 10:00 PM, he locked it again. He also ensured with iron discipline that every car had the required parking permit sticker for our community on its windshield. He actively looked out for unregistered vehicles that didn’t have Nevada license plates. He reported such cases immediately to management. If he discovered an unfamiliar car without a sticker, he didn’t hesitate to call the towing service. The illegally parked cars were removed from the property in record time. Since our old neighbor’s husband across the way passed away, Moerl often visited her in the mornings. He would spend at least half an hour with her on the balcony. Their voices were the first thing, aside from the birdsong, that we heard in the mornings when we opened our bedroom window.

The Crash into the Guardhouse When we returned from Germany at midnight three years ago, we could hardly believe our eyes: our entrance was completely altered. The Guard House, the small security booth, was no longer in its place in the middle. It had been completely shifted and utterly destroyed. Only the American flag still waved unimpressed on its thirty-foot (ten-meter) pole above the ruins. Our old neighbor finally enlightened us: Moerl had crashed his car into the booth unbraked on a Friday afternoon. He was driving home, stopped at the barrier, and stuck his left arm out the window to enter the code on the keypad. Unfortunately, he slipped, stomped full force on the gas pedal, and shot straight into the hut. Because he had presumably parked too far from the keypad, he must have leaned clumsily outside. The Guard House stood only ten feet (three meters) from the pillar. When he slipped off the brake pedal, he instinctively gripped the steering wheel tightly and steered the car straight to destruction. Someone had watched the incident via the security cameras, and the police showed up at his front door immediately. At first, Moerl stubbornly refused to open the door. Only when the officers acted more aggressively did he finally open it. The accident was officially recorded. We later learned from our neighbor that he had probably been drunk that afternoon. That also explained why he initially didn’t want to open the door for the police.

The End of a Career Bizarrely, he later wanted to sue our homeowners’ association—for whatever reasons. In the end, he had to grudgingly report the damage to his own insurance, after which his premium skyrocketed astronomically. Since this incident, good old Moerl no longer shows his face at the pool. He no longer visits the old neighbor, nor does he unlock the clubhouse. His career as the self-appointed head of the Neighborhood Watch ended abruptly. The homeowners’ association had the destroyed guardhouse completely torn down and erected a round pavilion, a so-called gazebo, in its place. Actually, it had been much better with the Guard House. It served as a real deterrent to strangers or potential thieves. After all, they couldn’t know that we hadn’t employed real security personnel for a long time. The community used to pay for guards, but they slept more at night than they kept watch. It had been a waste of money, which is why the service was abolished.

The Privilege of the Desert Whenever I see these old people, it gets me thinking: you should enjoy your life as long as you somehow can. Once it gets to the point where those two in the car in front of me are, it’s simply too late. I enjoyed my healthy state to the fullest as I left the complex behind and passed through the gate. It was time for the desert. What a privilege to even be able to hop on a bike in this inferno! I did it for my health. Who knows what the retirees in the car in front of me thought when they spotted me in full gear on the saddle. Moerl steered his car ten meters forward to the cross street and stopped at the stop sign at Las Palmas Lane. I rolled past him on the right and waved. Hidden beneath my blue-and-yellow full-body disguise, I was unrecognizable, but perhaps Sally, our 80-year-old neighbor, had told him about my desert training. In any case, he smiled and nodded at me through the window. While he stayed behind, I rolled down the street to the right. To my right, the 500-foot (150-meter) long perimeter wall of our community stretched to the Needles Highway; to my left lay the deserted library parking lots. A glance in the rearview mirror showed that Moerl was only now slowly pulling away.

CHAPTER II:

Needles Highway I turned right, directly into the steep incline of the highway. Ten minutes of hard climbing lay ahead of me—and that in morning temperatures of 95°F (35°C) in the shade. I used the bus lane on the far right. Towering over the sidewalk was the west side of our residential complex. While our apartment rested quietly on the east side, from here on the outside you looked at magnificent white oleander bushes lining the perimeter wall. Las Palmas held true premium status here on the edge of town. Every time, the Moorish architecture fascinated me: light brown and pink walls, palm trees, and red roofs under a radiant blue sky. This sight filled me with pride. We had found an undisturbed paradise. We lived better than in Berlin; I had my car, my windsurf boards, played tennis, and went swimming. Casinos, a lake, and a river were right at our doorstep, with Las Vegas and California within striking distance. We lacked nothing.

A Ton of Weight in Second Gear Reality, however, caught up with me quickly. After a twenty-day break from sports, pedaling felt extremely difficult. My legs were soft, my stamina was shot. In third gear, I agonized my way upwards, feeling the ton-like weight of the cooler on my back. The eight frozen bottles made their brutal presence known. I had to shift down to second gear. As if that weren’t enough, the bike began to squeak pitifully. Rhythmically, with every turn of the pedal, always in the exact same spot. It was exasperating. I suspected the front shock absorber. A real annoyance, while the first drops of sweat appeared on my forehead. At least my improvised sweatband made from the old Hawaii rash guard under my cap worked perfectly—the sweat finally stopped burning my eyes. Even before reaching the crest, I reached for the first water bottle in the handlebar bag. Since it was exposed to the sun, I wanted to drink it while it was still cold. I instantly regretted not covering the bottles with a T-shirt as I usually did. Cars zipped past me on my left. In the valley beyond the oncoming lane lay the gray roofs of another residential complex. I thought every time: My God, who buys a place there? The residents looked out from their valley directly against the massive walls of our west side—with absolutely no view. The dead silence of the desert was interrupted only by my chain rattling and this monotonous squeaking. I felt like I was riding a hundred-year-old clunker. Occasionally, a car sped past me by a hair’s breadth, pushing its engine up the incline. The noise blared so unfiltered into my left ear that I had to plug it with my finger. Again I thought: What luck that we live on the quiet east side. We would never have bought an apartment here on the street.

The Temptation to Turn Back I had divided the tour into stages, just like the Tour de France. The first goal was the intersection of Bruce Woodbury Drive and Needles Highway. Up there, the climbing ended, followed by four miles of flat, gentle rolling hills to the Laughlin Highway (163). But right now, midway up the mountain, my courage failed me. In this brutal heat, I was already completely drenched in sweat and doubted whether I should even head for Highway 163. I was still wavering. Should I really risk the route via 163? The heat was murderous, my body completely wet. When I reached the intersection, perhaps I would surrender and turn right onto Bruce Woodbury Drive. From there, it was just five miles downhill to Casino Drive—right to the cooling river.

Ants on My Back The sun burned into my back from the right, while my bike provided a rhythmic double concert of a rattling chain and a squeaking shock absorber. It was maddening. Beneath my T-shirt, the sweat felt like hundreds of ants crawling down my back. Mentally, I was at my limit; in my thoughts, I was already up on the plateau. Normally, I conquer this incline in third gear in five minutes. Because I was saving strength in low gear today, I crawled forward at a mere 7 miles per hour. They became endlessly long minutes. Except for pedaling, staring, and thinking, there was nothing left for me to do. There was absolute dead calm. I silently begged for a breeze—whether from the front or the back. The forecast called for a strong 25-mph south wind, but in this region, the wind usually only wakes up in the afternoon. For now, the calm reigned. The high outer wall of our complex, which ran in a slight right curve here, blocked any hint of a tailwind anyway. I was completely alone on the asphalt. A yellow-and-blue mummy in self-sewn cycling shorts, agonizing my way up the incline in crackling heat and dead silence.

Deadly Silence No cars, no birdsong. Only this monotonous squeaking sawed through the silence. As I reached the end of the community wall, I took a deep swig from the bottle. The water in the top part was already lukewarm. I shook the bottle vigorously to mix it with the cooler contents at the bottom—after that, it tasted tolerable again. Because I was panting from the exertion, I had to be extremely careful when drinking. Anyone taking large gulps while inhaling heavily risks getting water into their lungs. At the end of our complex, the wall transitioned into Mountain View Park. From here, 150 meters of hard climbing remained to the park entrance. The few drivers who passed me must have thought I was crazy. To my right, the concrete wall now gave way to a ten-foot (three-meter) high mound of sand, decorated with cacti and desert plants. Jim, a gardener from Kingman who maintained the area, had planted them. The whole thing was financed by the municipality of Las Vegas, which Laughlin belongs to with the same area code.

The Circulatory Shock My focus now lay solely on my circulation. Last year, I had ridden at 95°F (35°C); today it was almost thirteen degrees (Fahrenheit) hotter. Back then, after the tour, I made the mistake of immediately pouring liters of cold water down my throat in the cool apartment and lying flat in bed. The brutal temperature shock caused my circulation to crash. I became so nauseous that I thought I was going to die. I should have acclimatized in the shade for fifteen minutes. I wouldn’t repeat that mistake today. The squeaking was my constant companion. I prayed that the chain would hold, the tires would stay intact, and I would return home healthy. A few minutes later, I reached the crest and passed the park entrance. My legs suddenly felt lighter, and a massive relief set into my mind. The torment was over. Now it was just about concentration. At the desert intersections, you constantly had to dodge slippery sand and sharp, small stones that the wind and vehicles had carried onto the roadway.

CHAPTER III:

Mountain View Park Up here, level with Mountain View Park, I shifted back into third gear for the first time—and cursed the squeaking for the umpteenth time. It was maddening. I actually just wanted to ride my bike in peace today and forced myself to do it simply to finally do something for my health again. But in this eerie heat, it was pure torture. Was I supposed to lubricate these shock absorbers regularly? I had absolutely no idea. In that moment, I deeply regretted not treating the fork with a good dose of WD-40 spray from the garage before leaving. But it was too late for that now. At least I had almost reached the crest and was now moving significantly faster than during the entire agonizing slog up the steep highway.

A Small Miracle Sweat clung heavily to my upper back and under the sewn-in fabric strip of my cap on my forehead. When I finally shifted up into fourth gear, a small miracle occurred: The rattling sound of the chain disappeared from one second to the next. Only now did the scales fall from my eyes: I had exactly the same problem the year before. The chain only ran completely silently from the fourth and fifth gears onwards. So this problem had fortunately resolved itself. As I left the park entrance behind me on my right, I looked into the barren landscape. From here on, only the naked desert reigned. A high security fence ran alongside the road. However, it wasn’t erected to keep wild animals from crossing the highway. There used to be a large power plant there. Since it was a strategically important facility, the entire area was massively secured. The land and the entire landscape belong to the state of Nevada. A few years ago, they completely demolished the power plant, so the eye could now stretch across a vast, untouched plain all the way down to the casinos on the riverbank. Although it was a desert, besides the parched, dry earth, there was an incredible amount of green. The entire territory extending about five miles downhill to the river from here is state property and has not yet been released for private sale.

The Crossroads of Decision On this now flatter stretch of road, and thanks to the higher speed, breathing finally felt noticeably easier again. Shortly before the intersection at Bruce Woodbury Drive, I fortified myself with one last deep swig from the bottle. I cast an assessing glance into my new rearview mirror, which had cost me almost thirty dollars at the store. Since I had to cross the intersection soon and my destination lay dead ahead, extreme caution was required. A look back: no cars from behind. Bruce Woodbury Drive branched off to the right and led down the mountain for five miles (eight kilometers). If you followed this road, after about 500 meters you passed a low-income housing development on the left, which was built there three years ago. Just before this residential complex stood a bizarre sight: a tiny, old post office—completely isolated in the middle of the dusty desert. From there, the road continued straight down to the glittering casino towers by the river.

Endless Expanses Cars coming up the mountain from the casinos had to stop at a stop sign up here at the intersection. Since I had the right of way and continued straight on the Needles Highway toward Route 163 and Las Vegas, a driver waited patiently for me at the stop sign. He probably had pure pity for me, seeing me pedaling away in this murderous inferno. He willingly let me pass. Once I rolled past him, I could watch in the mirror as he hit the gas and turned exactly in the direction I had just agonized my way up from—he drove down the mountain. On my right side, the high metal fence had now completely disappeared. My gaze swept over the endless desert expanse down to the post office and the residential complex behind it. Beyond that opened a gigantic panoramic view of almost four miles (seven kilometers). Nothing but sandy desert, yet covered with an incredible number of sturdy green bushes.

The Green Miracle of the Desert It was still an absolute mystery to me how anything could be so lushly green in this extreme heat without ever being artificially watered. Since I had now left the intersection behind and the route transitioned into a gentle, barely noticeable incline compared to the hard climb earlier, I shifted another gear higher into fifth. Cars rarely strayed onto this stretch of the route. Because Laughlin is a rather tranquil town and this part of the Needles Highway sweeps widely toward Las Vegas, drivers hardly used this route. The early morning was an exception: The students had built their college right in the middle of the desert somewhere a mile downhill; it couldn’t even be seen from the highway. I wouldn’t reach their turnoff for about two miles (three kilometers). Since today was a holiday, the highway was yawningly empty anyway. This road was normally used mostly by Californians coming from the direction of Needles, or by locals on their way to the Indian reservation eleven miles south and the casino there.

Playing Poker without Health Insurance It was a great, liberating feeling to be completely alone in the desert here on this stretch—even in this brutal heat. Although it still went slightly uphill, I could increase my pace without much effort. For the first time, I felt something like a cooling breeze from the front all over my body. It was pure speed that created the wind. In about fifteen minutes, I would reach the end of the Needles Highway. However, while flying fairly fast over the asphalt, a momentous question ran through my head again: Should I really charge up the pass on Route 163 later? Wouldn’t it be far wiser to simply turn around just before the junction and just do a few safe laps back and forth here on the Needles Highway? If I started feeling sick here, I just needed to turn my bike around and let it roll down the slight incline completely on its own all the way home. I was suddenly seriously worried because I didn’t have health insurance in the States. Then the next clever thought shot through my head: At the end of the Needles Highway, I could just turn right onto the 163 and let myself roll down the mountain. Without having to exert myself in the slightest, I would dive-bomb on the bike all the way down to the large bridge over the Colorado River. From there, I could comfortably ride along the river via Casino Drive and finally pedal back up the mountain via Bruce Woodbury Drive as an athletic challenge. That would be the perfect solution and a great challenge in this heat!

The Path Through the Hollow Way The Needles Highway stretched from the Bruce Woodbury intersection, where I currently was, for about four miles (six kilometers) to Highway 163 (the Laughlin Highway), which led away to the left toward Las Vegas. From the intersection, the slight incline continued for about another mile (1.5 km), where I was currently moving at a rapid pace. After that, the road flattened out and transitioned into a slight downgrade. When I reached the next small rise on the bike, I would be right at the right-hand turnoff to the Laughlin College. The annoying squeaking of the shock absorber had meanwhile become less frequent and not quite as loud due to the higher speed, but it was still there. The road planners had cut through a small hill here to level out the grade of the highway. As a result, the road ran flat, but I was now riding as if through a deep hollow way, flanked by steep walls of dry, brown sand. The college itself remained invisible; it lay half a mile off in a depression in the middle of the desert, connected by a fresh asphalt road. Most students arrived befittingly in their own cars; for the rest ran the typical American school buses.

CHAPTER VI:

I Leave the Needles Highway To this day, it often happens to me: when something flashes in the desert sand in the distance, my first thought is that it’s another one of those special stones. But when I get closer, it usually turns out to be something completely different—like the broken glass of a turn signal or a car headlight.

Victory Over the Mountain I am sweating, breathing heavily. Despite my rash guard and the yellow T-shirt, my back burns. My gaze is fixed rigidly forward. I can hardly wait to finally reach the summit and spot the signs far ahead of me: the signs for the Laughlin Highway. With the right gear, I fight my way up the last hundred meters. In my calves, I already feel that the hardest part is done—pedaling becomes noticeably easier. Mentally, too, an enormous weight falls from me. Yes, the time has come! When I stand at the top in a moment, I will have unexpectedly put the first big stage behind me. And that despite my toe, which still hasn’t fully healed.

Solitude at the Landfill Just a moment ago I was battling my way up the exhausting incline, and now I passed the entrance to the landfill on my left. The facility lay about a kilometer away, isolated and embedded in the no-man’s-land between the Needles Highway and the red mountains that jutted sharply into the deep blue sky. Beyond this entrance, the road finally leveled out. It was the last three hundred meters of the Needles Highway, which tapered off here in a shallow depression. There was still no car to be seen. No oncoming traffic, no one in the rearview mirror. The glowing heat seemed to have swallowed all life. Everything that breathed had retreated into deep caves or the rare shade.

The Junction with Highway 163 As I approached the intersection, an oppressive dead silence lay over the desert. I couldn’t help but think of the people back home in the city, who were barricading themselves in their houses with roaring air conditioners right now. A look at the speedometer and the clock told me: I had been on the road for almost half an hour now. Finally, I reached the junction of the Needles Highway onto the Laughlin Highway (Highway 163). The sign in front of me was unambiguous: to the left was the direction to Las Vegas.