But right now you can still meet a surfer from Devon there who attended the same boarding school as Winston Churchill yet walks and talks with the angels and aspires to draw all his sustenance from sunlight. Or spend the sunset hour over a cup of tea with a ex-SWAT team Memphis policeman turned soul searching beach bum. But I cannot claim that any of the charaters involved are fictional and their stories are probably not mine to tell.

You can lie on your back on a cliff top listening to the waves roll in against the shore and pick out the constellations you recognise in the night sky in real darkness. At this time of year, before midnight, Scorpio sits low towards the horizon in the south west. But if you happen to wake in the wee early hours not so long before dawn and raise your eyes to the heavens it is Orion, Pelaides, Tauras and Gemini that you will find there. And tonight Venus will rise just above the thinnest sliver of a new moon above the island.

You can find opportunity to ponder the statement that you are more likely to get struck by lightening than be attacked by a shark. And then be provided with proof through encountering a guy who makes his living diving, surfs in his spare time, and, of course, has never been savaged by any form of marine life. His father, who cannot swim and so clearly is more in danger of drowning than being eaten by a shark, has had the misfortune of having been struck by lightening twice. You can try to imagine the mathematical equation that might accurately describe the myriad possibilities and probabilities contained in those relationships.

In a village you can discover that what to some people are incorrigible problem neighbours, to you, turn out to be a series of shy and serious children who come to your door for help with their homework or to borrow the hoola hoops you happen to have leaning up against the wall by the back door or ask to use your bicycle pump or occasionally beg a little cooking oil or salt on behalf of even shyer adults. Their mother – or maybe it is an aunt - will stand quietly in the background observing. Later, if a horse happens  to wander through the yard in the rain and you manage to catch the beast and return it to its place, tethered to the shared fence, that same woman might promise that you can ride it on a day when the sun is shining.

You can observe first hand the relative merits of a big stick and harsh words or a small treat and a lot of kindness in the realm of dog management and use the information to extrapolate various other lessons about life.

The ferry between worlds.

I am sitting on a floating island made of garbage – plastic bottles, mesh bags, wood pallets, plywood,  fabric, mirrors, shells – all tacked and glued together with a greater regard for the aesthetic effect than practicality – and the result is a thing of shining beauty.

Another world.

The view from the living room.

The guest bedroom - my island home.

The upstair bathroom.

It is all in the details. The smaller shell is the tap.

One recurring motif...

...and...

...another. This is the 'intercom' system.

The island gym.

The solar oven with its eternal cake - a mixture of nuts and fruit that is constantly added to. On a hot day this thing gets hot.

Flag proudly flying over the house - a two story structure with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, kitchen, composting toilet, living room, bar, deck and pool.

The man who built the island believes, ultimately, he can make it fly. And who knows, maybe he can.

Big plans.

Two ducks stand sentinel on the roof of their duck house on the tiny floating duck island in the mini lagoon on the floating island bobbing at anchor on the Laguna Macax on the Isla Mujeres off the coast of Cancun. An endlessly repeated image – one nested inside the other – is one way to approach the infinite, I’m sure.

The ducks on their mini island.

Tropical storms have names and the one coming in this direction, as I write, is called Alex but, for the moment the island, is still bobbing gently on its anchors of old car tires filled with concrete. The island’s structures of wooden struts, covered with flimsy nylon netting and shiny baubles, are slowly disintegrating anyway under constant exposure to the elements – so, the fact is, many of the ‘roofs’ and ‘walls’ need replacing already.

Nothing actually keeps rain out because it doesn’t rain very often here, for most of the year.

The day bed tethered off one of the islands beaches, netting flying in the breeze...

...gradually disintegrating in the elements.

Rieshee lost his first island at Puerto Aventuras to Hurricane Emily.

Reishee, Richie, Richard. He believes that names have a power – and the fact that they do have power is hard to deny – contained in their letters and phonetic components and the different arrangements that can be formed with them. According to Reishee’s analysis my name is not auspicious – not the one I was given at birth nor the one I chose for myself at the age of eleven – so while I am on the island my name is Grace.

Emily is a name that contains the word ‘ill’ and is therefore ill omened but Alex contains ‘excel’ so we have nothing much to fear from the storm, with its 65 kilometre per hour winds, heading our way.

The island is also an ark – with its two ducks and two dogs and two cats – and this is not altogether by chance. Reishee would like to encourage all of us to prepare for the last days by building our own floating island because even if floating islands don’t save the planet then they might still provide an escape route from the dire catastrophes to come when the tectonic plates sink into the lava and the oceans start to boil.

Reishee has an elaborate, complex, flexible, grasp of the metaphysical. Anything is possible.

The islands animals come and go at will, waiting to hitch a ride on the ferry or, when necessary, swimming across to the shore. What they do ashore is anybody’s guess but on the tiny island they compete for a comfortable spot to be – not too difficult when the weather is fine but a dry spot is not so easy to find in the rain.

Joyboy relaxing in the corner of the guest room.

The cat lounging on a deck chair.

The larger duck appears to be finding its tiny duck island a little restrictive and clearly the salt water of its mini lagoon is not very much to its liking. I wake up on my second morning on the island to find the creature in my bedroom. I chase it out the door and it jumps into the fresh water ‘jacuzzi’ on the decking before finally settling onto the swinging seat with a view to the opposite shore of the lagoon.

Watching the sunrise from the swinging seat overlooking the 'jacuzzi.'

Looking out over the neighbouring boats. The island is actually also registered as a vessel.

Night time view from my bed.

And again.

More monkey business.

..

Bonampak is about thirty-five kilometres past the turnoff and so it is not long before I arrive at a village near the site and set about finding a base from which to explore the area. I pull into the first place that offers accommodation and ask if I can camp somewhere.

A man shows me to a ramshackle structure on stilts overlooking the river and says I can put up my tent on the verandah. We almost come to grief over the price – the man initially quotes 100 pesos, a ridiculous sum for camping, but he finally, and somewhat incomprehensibly, settles on allowing me to stay for nothing. Camping under a roof is not a bad idea in the rainy season and after checking out the attractions of the river, I am quickly won over.

The campsite...

...with a private beach...

... and a swing over the water,...

After a swim I contemplate getting on my bike and riding the 10 kilometres to Bonampak but dark clouds lowering in the sky prompt me to take an afternoon nap in the hammock instead.

...and a hammock to lie in...

... while I watch the rain fall into the river fall into the river.

A candle in a paper bag to light up my jungle night.

The following morning I decide to walk to the cascades, one of the local attractions. I am not so fond of ‘attractions’ but the cascades are situated in some old growth forest and I am absolutely entranced by the jungle. A forty-five minute walk brings me to the cascades which are, in fact, quite spectacularly beautiful.

Some of the most beautiful waterfalls I've seen...

... verdant grottoes...

... and crystal clear water...

... in a pristine jungle setting. The sum is close to paradise.

I spend a hour or so sitting by the waterfall before making my way back along the path winding through the trees. The sound of heavy wing beats stops suddenly me in my tracks. I creep forward and spy a riveting bird perched on the branch of a tree. I stare amazed. I feel myself, clearly, to be in the presence of an incredible being. The bird is enormous, with black and white plumage, a vivid orange-red head, a bright red ringed eye. I try to get a little closer but the bird flies off, ponderously, to another perch slightly further away. After a few more moments the bird flies out of sight into the forest and I continue on my way, wondering what it is that I have seen.*

A path leads through towering trees and I spot a number of amazing wild creatures.

Low light makes for a fuzzy photo but I was astonished to find a crab scuttling across the path.

A towering tree.

Strange fruit in the jungle.

In afternoon, after stopping by at my veranda campsite for a refreshing swim, I make my way to Bonampak hoping to get there and back before the heavy afternoon rains set in.

I ride happily on ten kilometres of gravel road through more virgin jungle to the site but I find Bonampak produces a feeling of overwhelming ennui in me. Initially, I attribute this to Bonampak’s status as a ruin because, traditionally, ruins function to produce a feeling of romantic melancholy. However, after reflection, I associate the feeling with the presence of bored groups of guides waiting for a likely tourist, and a dense cluster of stalls selling trinkets, a ticket booth, a snack bar and public toilets.

I walk around the site contemplating whether I should give up going to tourist attractions completely. I wonder what, if anything, I learn from visiting the crumbling remnants of a culture of which I know nothing and no answer to this question occurs to me.

Ancient piles of stone.

Murals inside the structures.

Elaborate carvings.

Tranquil lawns.

Encroaching jungle.

On the ride back to the village, I encounter a green python making its serpentine way across the gravel road. I am travelling fast and I am almost upon the creature before I see it. The snake and I both recoil, the snake more elegantly than I because coiling and recoiling are what snakes are made to do.

In fact, the snake recoils and I jump, if it were possible to jump while riding a bike. I fling the leg closest to it into the air and grab the brakes. I come to a stop as the snake undulates off the road and into the bushes. Once it has achieved cover, it stops, draped along a branch – vivid green, orange eye unblinking, tongue flickering – and then slowly, in control now, it flows into the dense green foliage

*Internet research and the assistance of a knowledgeable person on an internet forum reveal the bird to have been a King Vulture

The road at dawn.

As the sun rises the steamy air heats up. I soon turn off the main highway onto a diversion that will cut eighty kilometres from the journey and the road rolls through dense jungle. I am looking for a place to eat lunch when I am seduced off the road and my bike into the jungle by a beguiling path.

A path lures me off the road and my bike into the jungle.

I wander among towering trees, festooned with vines and creeping, host to riotous life of all sorts. Birds flit from branch to branch and the whole forest vibrates with the hum and whine of various insects. Flashes of movement, here and there. A stately tall black bird stalks across the path and vanishes. A frog jumps away from a carelessly descending foot and then freezes.

A well camouflaged frog.

The path winds seemingly at random into shallow gullies that hold barely moving streams of water; leaves floating, sinking, decaying, leaving the water a vivid brown. I walk until the foot path crosses a wider straight track – broad enough for a vehicle to pass on but for the saplings growing up to reclaim it – before returning the way I came.

Intact jungle canopy.

A rustle of movement above stops me in my tracks. Peering upwards into the canopy a lithe black form attracts my attention; muscular curling tail, lush black pelt, long limbs, elegant articulated fingers. The beast lies along a tree branch plucking leaves and stuffing them into its mouth. As I watch a smaller monkey appears. A group of four of the animals gather in the tree, two adults and two young, one very small and the other larger. The two young are more active and playful but all four are clearly resting, lounging relaxed along tree limbs in the midday heat.

A sleepy and uncharacteristically silent howler monkey.

Picture book shapes.

I return to my bike but I am keen to spend more time in the forest spying out its secrets. I ride on and signs appear advertising an indigenous eco-tourism project so I decide to investigate, hoping for a cheap place to camp with easy access to some walking tracks. Las Guamayas is community established by a group of Oaxacans who moved to the Chiapas jungle in search of a better life than they had in Oaxaca – one can only imagine how difficult things must have been there.

On their patch of land they have established a sanctuary for the threatened Red Macaw, and a sizable tourist centre with cabins for visitors wanting to experience the jungle. They also have cleared land set aside for food cultivation and cattle. I check the place out but the camping opportunities it provides don’t appeal to me and so I go on.

The mid-afternoon sun is strong and I stop by the road next to a cattle yard to hang out all my soaking gear to dry while I lie in the shade and read my book. When everything is as dry as it is ever going to get in the tropics in the wet season I pack the bike again and go to leave but some raucous shrieks attract my attention and I see a pair of large parrots land in a tree a couple of hundred metres away. I grab my binoculars and tackle the barbed wire fence barring my path and creep closer to the birds. They are huge – red, blue and yellow – so magnificent that I feel the need to use more splendid names for these colours, the scarlet they are named for, azure, perhaps, and saffron.  I creep as close as I can watching the birds play in the trees before, screaming, they take to the air again.

It is late in the day by the time I am back on the road.

The next morning, armed with further information to reinforce the directions I have already been already been given, I set off out of Zitacuaro and start to climb yet another mountain. I have left about 5 kilos of luggage stored at the hotel and so I make pretty good time but as I didn’t get off to particularly early start it is still about 2pm by the time I arrive at the butterfly sanctuary.

For the next day and a half, I wonder the mountains and valleys of this area and words do little to describe the experience.

I have only one thing to say really – I never imagined that butterflies make a sound as the fly but I now know that when there are several million of them in one place you can certainly hear the sound of butterfly wings flapping.

The pathway up the mountain.

Flying high.

A million butterflies on a tree.

And millions more hanging in bunches.

A mountain meadow.

Blue sky and butterflies.

Butterfly squadron overhead.

Butterflies on the path.

Looking down.

Tree trunk.

Tree trunk.

Sudden flight.

Countless millions...

...everywhere.

...feeding up for the long flight home.

The springs are something of a disappointment, however. When we arrive we are confronted with a family group is sitting on the ground, next to some abandoned huts, graffiti covered and windowless. The family’s laundry is spread out to dry on bushes and trees, they have clearly been capitalising on the availability of running hot water.

We dip our fingers in the pools, ignoring the rubbish strewn about them, and decide that the water is probably tolerably warm. A little further exploration downstream reveals a magic waterfall tumbling into a warm rock pool. All in all, our feelings are mixed but after the effort exerted to get here there is no question of not spending the night here.

The pools are, unfortunately, surrounded by all manner of refuse.

These buildings were probably intended for a tourist trade that never eventuated.

The place nevertheless contains some magic: a steaming waterfall in a hidden grotto where the river, warm as bath water, tumbles over rocks down the canyon.

We set up camp and I, still feeling sick, collapse in a heap on the ground for a good part of the day. However, by evening all of us have spent at least some time in the warm pool. I feel somewhat daunted by the prospect of retracing our path over rough roads back to the highway the next day.

In the morning, while Jeff and Jason are still soaking in the pool, I set off early into a strong icy wind,  knowing that I will be slower than the guys.

Jeff and Jason in the pool. The spring is not super hot but it is a far better temperature than Recowata Springs, near Creel.

Cass catches up to me as I leave the canyon and we ride together for a while but when some pick-up trucks pass us, still feeling below par, I succumb to temptation and flag one down to beg a lift to the highway. The occupants of the truck are happy to oblige and load my bike into the tray where I sit next to it to secure it as we travel over the bumps and potholes.

Pig wandering across the field.

About 20 kilometres later, I am deposited on the highway at Bacariachi, a small village, a few miles from the turn-off we took two days before. The icy wind is still blowing strong and I try to find somewhere sheltered to wait for the guys to join me.

A sign indicating the distance to the hot spring: information that might have come in handy a little earlier. A 40 kilometres side trip is not one taken lightly.

I find a bench outside a building, fronting the highway, which is slightly sheltered by a wall, and sit down to eat some lunch. I have barely opened my food pannier when the door opens and a lady ushers me inside to eat. My benefactor offers me hot coffee while I make myself avocado burritos and I spend the next two or three hours sitting in this unexpected refuge waiting.

A refuge from the howling, icy gale outside.

This woman is a kindly soul who provides me with a warm place to sit and cups of coffee while I wait for the guys.

An injured chick also finds refuge in her kitchen.

When the guys finally arrive around 4 o’clock, we set off together down the highway and are treated to a long descent through glorious country-side into the township of Belleza, where we stop at dusk to restock our food panniers and then camp just out of town, next to the highway, in a little dry wash.

Twenty five kilometres of downhill riding through stunning country side is an unexpected gift.

I have no idea when Cass and Jeff will arrive so I set about making myself at home. I start by setting up my tent and then address myself to picking a range of salad greens, Swiss chard and green beans. Keith donates some pesto to my repast in exchange for a dinner invitation and Cass and Jeff arrive just in time for me to include them in the feast and so we end up eating Christmas dinner together.

Harvesting from Keith's abundant green garden. Photo: Jeff Volk.

The next few days are spent in a positive orgy of eating. Fresh grapefruit juice for breakfast is a daily highlight.

Fresh grapefruit juice for breakfast - one of the treats available at Entre Amigos, if you are willing to put the effort in.

Dinner options include fresh pesto made from coriander (or cilantro for the Americans in the audience) and salads with delicious dressings of Jeff’s invention.

Jeff sets to work in the communal kitchen to make coriander/cilantro pesto...

...which is a lot of work with only low tech tools at his disposal.

A green dinner from a green garden: coriander pesto, green beans and fresh salad with avocardo and grapefruit juice dressing. Photo: Jeff Volk.

We are so happy in our garden paradise that we barely leave Keith’s premises, eating and relaxing in the sun. When Cass unexpectedly has to leave for the UK just after Christmas leaving the plans for a trip to the coast in disarry, Jeff and I start to hatch an alternative plan to take a walk in the canyon. We decide to make our way to Batopolis, another small village in the neighbouring canyon, for New Year’s Eve.

The road stretches 45 miles south to the border.

The road on the US side of the border is heavily patrolled by well equipped border guards.

Yuccas dominate the landscape with their alien punk forms.

I like the heart shaped seed pods...

... and the crazy silhouettes .

We ride until dusk and set up camp in a paddock to the side of the road. We are relaxing, after dinner, by the campfire when a border patrol van pulls up a few hundred metres away by the fence. They remain there for some time and we theorise that they are studying us in the darkness with infra-red night vision binoculars to ensure that we are not a bunch of careless illegal immigrants who haven’t considered the possibility that a fire might make them obvious. I have a moment of anxiety, inspired by The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada, that they might simply open fire but after a time they clearly decide we are harmless and roar off into the darkness.

Campfire - more than a luxury in the sub-zero temperatures.

Morning dawns and we discover that we have set up camp where the sun must top the highest of the local mountains before warming us and starting to melt the ice crystals on our tents and bikes. I make coffee and porridge on the embers of last nights fire, huddled shivering in the shadow of the hill.

Cass making a warm drink in the morning over a revitalised fire. Sun rising slowly over the mountain.

The sun finally frees itself from the mountain...

... and starts to thaw everything out.

When the sun finally rises we pack and set off to the border post. On the US side we are greeted by signs warning of poisonous snakes and three uniformed officials. Despite an officious demeanor the guards are relatively friendly and chat about other cyclists who have made the crossing here recently, including a couple who completed the Great Divide Ride on uni-cycles and another on a tandem. We spend some time hanging about, filling our water bottles, checking the exchange rate on the office computer and taking photos before the guards remember their official duties and ask us to move on.

The US side of the border. Beware of poisonous snakes.

The border fence running away into the distance.

We make it as far the actual border, the strangely abstract concept of nationalism embodied in barbed wire and high security fences, and stop again to take photos. The sign on the Mexican side of the border warns of children at play, rather than poisonous snakes.

As we enter Mexico, we are warned of children at play rather than poisonous snakes. Does this say something about national psychology?

The dirtbag gang poses in front of the US inspection station. From left: Cass, Jason, me and Jeff.

Goodbye, US. Hello, Mexico.

Moments later we line up on the Mexican side.

The pair of Mexican border officials are more laid back than their US counterparts. They are casually dressed in what can only be considered a uniform at a fair stretch of the imagination. When they see Cass on the ground trying to set up his camera for a time release photo of us all in front of the sign welcoming us to Mexico they wander over to assist before eventually we get to business of passports and stamps. Oscar, who appears to be in charge, informs us that since the border post is without electricity – there is no way to tell if this is a temporary or permanent situation – that it would be better for us to drop in at the Immigration Office at Janos, a town some fifty miles distant, tomorrow to get ourselves sorted out there.

We wave affectionate goodbyes to Oscar and his companion and set off, in high spirits, on an unpaved road into Mexico – an environment that seems magically warmer and sunnier than the US only a few hundred metres away.

We are a rag-tag gang of dirtbags, happy to see unpaved road again.

Jeff and Cass race over the mountain to try to catch the store before it closes at 4.30pm while I follow at a more sedate pace. I arrive just before 5pm to discover the guys deep in conversation with Klara, the manager of the Gila Hot Springs camp site. Jeff had arrived at 4.20pm, ten minutes before the store closed, to find the doors already locked and the store owner not disposed to reopen them despite our dire foodless predicament. Klara, the store owner’s sister-in-law, obviously a far kinder soul has raided her larder to provide us with ground elk meat, pasta and a tin of tomato sauce for Jeff, who is vegetarian. Dinner assured, all that remains is for us to set up camp before submerging cold, tired, aching bodies in natural pools of hot water.

"Here you are!" "You are here!" Read it as you wish. I am pretty glad to be here at Gila Hot Springs.

We ride down to the campsite by the pools and hurriedly put up our tents. I am first in the water and it is only hunger that drives me out a couple of hours later. After a fine elk bolognese with pasta, I am back in the pool until after midnight. The water is warm but the outside temperature is well below freezing. Finally I fall into my tent and sleep but I am up long before the sunlight spills over the rocky bluff to the east and back in the hot water.

Hot water! Pure bliss. Jeff soaking it up.

I could have spent a long long time at the Gila Hot Springs. Photo: Jeff Volk

Lying in the water looking up at the rocky cliffs and rustic wooden structures. Photo: Jeff Volk

Whimsical artworks surround the hot pools at Gila Hot Springs. It was beautiful place in every way.

More art work surrounding the pools. Photo: Jeff Volk

Hot springs.

Warm in the water but still icy out...

...an icy seat waiting for me.

Sadly, I cannot stay soaking in hot water forever. The frosty prospect of packing up an ice encrusted tent lies before me. However, Klara, very kindly, has offered us a lift to the top of the mountain we crossed yesterday and we are all grateful to be spared the prospect of a 2000 foot climb, with severe grades, on our bicycles to get back onto the road to Silver City. We pile our bikes precariously on the back of her husband’s flat bed truck and enjoy the luxury of motorised transport for a short while, feeling that life doesn’t really get much better than this.

I leave June Lake mid-morning, intending to have a relaxed day covering the thirty odd miles to the springs. Finding the green church just south of Mammoth Airport is no problem and I stop after the turn off to stock up on drinking water at the county animal refuge. However, as I continue the tangle of gravel roads leading in every direction over the flat landscape confuses me.

The green church marks the turn off from Highway 395.

I am just so excited to be in the desert!

Typically, I am trying to find the most obscure and distant of the springs in the area and I cycle in circles for a while flagging down passing cars for advice. A surprising number of people are in exactly the same situation as I am but luckily there are enough locals to put me right and I eventually find my way down a bumpy sandy road winding its way down a shallow canyon to a steaming series of creeks and pools just as the shadows are starting to lengthen in the afternoon.

Several large pools with muddy algae-covered bottoms have been roughly dammed up to supply a more refined concreted tub. I test the waters and find that the tub is rather too luke-warm for my taste, whereas the siphon pools are several degrees warmer.

When I arrive the place is deserted but while I am checking out the source of the hot water, further up the canyon, a car arrives back at the baths. Since I am planning to spend the night here I assess the newcomers carefully and find they only barely pass my security criteria. The fact that one of them is a woman is the only factor that reassures me.

Investigating the source - a steaming stream.

Investigating the source - getting closer.

Hot water coming out of the ground.

The couple makes some overtures of friendship before stripping off their clothes and jumping in the tub. I am happier opting for one of the slimy muddy pools, both for the sake of privacy and for the warmer water. I sit on a flat rock as wads of green algae float to the surface and drift away but I am happy soaking by myself in the hot water. Eventually I decide I should address myself to setting up camp for the day and emerge from the pool. I manage to dry and dress myself just before the arrival of another vehicle.

This battered pick up truck and its the occupants in no way pass my not-very-stringent security assessment – these two guys look like they spend most of their time in a seedy bar and the rest of it driving around in the bush in decrepit vehicles, with a crate load of tinnies, hunting and causing general havoc. They stop to chat and I am polite and friendly but don’t encourage a lingering conversation. They soon go and settle in by the side of the tub with the others and I desperately hope that they aren’t all up for an all night party. It is Monday night – but then none of them appear to be gainfully employed.

I push my bike up the canyon to a place where people obviously have camped before – large groups of people, it seems. I disappear into the bushes and hope that the people at the springs will forget my existence. I sit watching until first the car disappears and then the two men get back into their pick up truck. The men alarm me considerably by heading in my direction but they continue past where I am sitting, still screened by brush, and drive up and over the hill on a bumpy gravel track and disappear. The only thing to do is to forget all about them – but I do keep my bear spray close to hand for the evening.

Looking down towards the springs from my camp site.

Evening sky over the springs.

Evening light on the grass - the desert is just so beautiful.

Sunset.

I set up my tent and cook dinner before returning to the pools. There is no such thing as too long spent soaking in a hot spring and so, as the last light disappears and the temperature falls, I get back into the pool and lie under the stars until I start to fall asleep. I fall into my sleeping bag, so relaxed I can barely move but during the night a wicked wind springs up and I wake to my tent flapping frantically, as the poles twist and flex, like a living creature trying to escape a snare. I try to sleep through the commotion but it’s hard to drop off again.

My tent is hidden up among the rocks on this hill. The landscape seems very Australian to me.

In the morning, the wind is still strong and bitterly cold. I cook breakfast and pack my belongings onto my bike wrapped in all my warmest clothes. I am about to set off down the road with ice-block hands and feet but the warm waters lure me back to them. I strip in the frigid air and submerge myself in the pool. I sit watching storm clouds gather over both mountain ranges. The occasional tiny flake of snow swirls around my head before melting on contact with the water.

Pretty skies at dawn, too.

This photo does nothing to convey the icy chill in the air.

It’s very comfortable where I am but the weather doesn’t look like it’s going to improve any time soon and it eventually occurs to me that I should get going before I get stuck out here.

This weather looks like it could turn pretty nasty.

The Glass Mountains are shrouded in cloud, too.