Big sky

While the Cheyenne Rim may not compare to the more well-known Coconino or Mogollon rims in terms of sheer size or grandeur, it stands isolated in its own quiet magnificence. It's an area well worth exploring, especially now that there are some beautiful trails being built there. Caroline and I spent Saturday doing just that, scraping clay mud off our tires, hiking through drifted snow, herding antelope, and enjoying the solitude of the deserted High Plains.







I don't have a lot of words to go with the photos today. I really enjoyed this area, probably partially because I occasionally miss the wide open skies of the prairie. Even the mud, a non-functioning front brake, a seized-up rear derailleur pulley, and very fussy shifting combined couldn't quash the mood.

Snow, wind, and a fugitive

Time for a little bikepacking trip was due this past weekend. I drew up some plans for a big 360-mile loop in western Colorado and eastern Utah. Coincidentally, this loop overlapped the 360-mile Grand Loop, but the two shared only a few dozen miles. Caroline and I got up on a frosty morning last Thursday and were riding by sunrise, our bikes loaded with warm clothes and sleeping bags, plenty of food and water, and hers with some snazzy new Revelate bags. Just a few hours in, I was in new territory, and she hadn't ridden any of the planned route.


We rode deep into the Delores Triangle and were treated to a unique view of country with which I was very familiar, but from the other side of the Colorado River. After a long descent to river level, we turned and began slogging back up the same mesa a drainage over from where we had down, the consequence of private property issues Mike C has previously documented.



The wide, sandy road turned into a narrow, rough road, then a rocky two track, and eventually we turned off that and plummeted down a steep ATV track into the adjacent canyon. Snow and mud in places slowed progress, but not at all like the 6-8 miles of nearly continuous snow we hiked through from sunset until close to midnight. The full moon illuminated the route, but it did little to keep our feet warm.




We eventually topped out at well over 7000' and began descending, only to find an abandoned cabin just off the trail. It was, to say the least, a bit grungy inside, and the mouse droppings scattered about indicated that we'd probably be sharing the place with some hopefully friendly critters. I fired up the stove and cooked up some food as Caroline layered on all her clothes and immediately crawled into her sleeping bag. Food warmed us up, but as we ate, surprisingly large wood rat scurried down the wood stove chimney and past Caroline. She yelped as our furry friend quickly disappeared. It reappeared in the corner under the bed, and another one made some noise below the floor. Hmm. I wondered if we could call a truce and give them some food as long as they promised to not steal any other food or any of our gear.

I decided that there would probably be no getting along with the rodents, we reluctantly packed up and left the dry cabin behind. But not more than 10 minutes down the trail, we found a soft, sandy piece of level ground at the outside of a switchback, nestled at the base of a cliff. I pitched the shelter and we were asleep within minutes, free from having to worry about sharing with any critters.



In the morning, the following morning, I crawled out of the tent and gazed in amazement at where I stood. Tan sandstone monoliths towered above a steep canyon carved into deep red shale and sandstone, with the snow-covered peaks of the La Sal Mountains standing above.



The descent was steep, rocky, and loose, but we were out of the snow. A few miles later, we filled our empty water bladders and feasted on cheese and crackers at a gas station. And we waffled at length about what to do next. The snow slowed us down by many hours, and completing our loop in our allotted 4 days would require good conditions for the rest of the way. The La Sals had a continuous blanket of snow, and our route was supposed to follow the north end of the Paradox Trail around the shoulder at above 8000'. Once a year, I make a good decision to avoid making the stupid, overly adventurous choice, and we opted instead to ride pavement back to our starting point. 80 miles and one spectacular 40-mile-long canyon later, we found ourselves back in the car.


We decide to drive southwest the next morning to do a 2-day ride of the White Rim, starting mid-day, stopping for the night after a short distance, and then getting an early start for a long day on Sunday.


The washed out Mineral Bottom Road switchbacks are somewhat easily crossed with a bike, but a loaded bike makes the portage a bit tougher. The route was also much sandier, rutted, and washed out than it was on previous rides there. The storms really took their toll on the trail this summer!



Strong winds battered the area all afternoon, and as soon as we crawled into the tent, a sharp gust snapped one of my apparently insufficiently strong home-made poles. Nuts. I was proud of those, but they're now only to be trusted good in calm conditions or sheltered locations. Back to the drawing board on that design.

Early in the morning (barely past evening!), rain moved in, and we got up to try to put as many miles in as we could before things got muddy. I wished we had ridden more in the evening, but at the same time, it was nice to not have to ride with the lights for a change. I'm used to getting up at obscene hours to ride, but Caroline's body isn't, so she was dragging, battling an upset stomach and heavy eyelids. The rain quit and the sky began to clear, and the bright full moon illuminated the cliffs all around us. I rode around in awe, but Caroline was stuck in her battle with the sleep monster. While walking up a short climb, I convinced her to stop and take a quick nap. Even five minutes of shuteye can make a huge difference in both your frame of mind and ability to keep the peepers open. She unpacked her sleeping bag and crawled inside, falling asleep as soon as her eyes shut. I wandered around taking photos, entertained a raven (or perhaps being entertained by the raven), and then curled up against a rock and caught quick nap myself.


The full moon disappeared below the distant cliffs when I woke up, my butt cold from the ground. Caroline sat up with a smile as the world around us was suddenly bathed in a reddish-gold glow. She clearly felt much better, and back on the bike, her pace probably doubled. A rainbow and wind-sculpted storm clouds to the south warned that we probably wouldn't be enjoying clear skies all day.




Heading generally south, the wind was in our face most of the time, but the sun kept us comfortably warm. We stopped frequently to take in the views and eat, since the route is often just a little too sandy or rough to eat while pedaling. Crappy pre-packaged pastries, granola bars, chocolate muffins, and old (I mean REALLY old) energy bars were on the menu for the morning.



As we rounded the southern end of the loop, we began to parallel the Colorado River and were rewarded with a strong tailwind for some stretches. Our pace at least doubled, and there were grins abound.


A few hours later, we found ourselves at the bottom of the one big climb on the loop, and beyond that, we only had 8 miles of pavement to finish things off. Wind gusts were getting stronger, and a squalls with occasional claps of thunder blew through, briefly wetting us down before moving aside so that the sun could force us to pull off our rain gear. Another beautiful rainbow, diving all the way down to the depths of the canyon, seemed like an appropriate reward for reaching the top of the final switchback.


Shortly after, I rounded a bend to find a park ranger standing in front of his truck looking sternly at me. I stopped and greeted him, and he asked where we had been. I explained our route, and he asked if we had seen anyone. The gate at the bottom of the climb had been closed, so I was thinking we were in trouble for riding on the closed road. But then I notice that he had a Utah State Parks emblem on his jacket. He explained that they were in the second day of a manhunt for someone who had shot a park ranger at the Poison Spider trailhead. A second ranger emerged from the bushes and said that they had been called down from Duchesne to assist. We showed them our IDs, wished them the best, and continued on (24 hours later, they still haven't found the suspect). They were the first people we had seen since passing a couple cowboys just a few minutes into the ride.

The tailwind blew us north quickly, but not quickly enough to keep us ahead of the approaching black clouds that were producing thick shafts of rain where we had been earlier in the day. Within a mile of the car, a series of powerful wind gusts suddenly pummeled us with painful snowflakes and ice pellets as we struggled to stay on the road. Conditions went from pleasant to absolute blizzard in a matter of seconds, but getting up at 2 am paid off, and the car was loaded and we were enjoying the snow from behind glass within minutes.

As always, I learned a lot on this trip. Caroline probably learned a lot more, and somehow, she never punched me in the gut despite the variety of, uh, challenges we faced. We still managed ~270 miles, and my knees held up fine, so I'm pleased. Now it's time to start planning the next adventure and make some redesigned poles for the shelter. I also procured a sewing machine, so I need to figure out how that thing works.

Scouting

Winter has arrived. A damp cold gnaws at your bones as soon as the sun sneaks behind a cloud or drops below the horizon. A fresh white coat of paint covers the peaks above town, and upon closer inspection, this paint is crunchy and cold. I spent the weekend riding at elevations higher than I should have been, chasing goals a bit too lofty for the changing seasons.


On Saturday morning, I found myself somewhat excited to do a sort of repeat of my stupid ride from several nights prior. Except this time, things would be different. I spent a while staring at maps and located a new place to ride. I use the term ride loosely, because there's no trail there. There are no old mine roads, 2-tracks, or moto routes. There's merely a striking ridge, standing high above the plains to the east and the sub-summit surface to the west. After a few hiccups, this ridge steadily descends 2500' over 5 miles. There needs to be a trail on this ridge, so I headed up to scout it out before winter really sets in.


A snowy 2000' climb up steep jeep trails kept me warm in the freezing temperatures. No one was out in the hills despite it being mid-morning. I had the trail to myself and enjoyed the painful climb that I've come to love. This is one of my most common winter rides, yet my doppelganger is the only other rider that seems to frequent the area.


Leaving the jeep trails behind, a burn zone prevents the first obstacle. First down, then up. 100% unrideable.


Then I struck off to the north on an old mine road that is now littered with downed trees. Strangely, this road often seemed to have more trees on the ground than anywhere around it, so I spent most of the time bouncing around next to it. Another steep uphill portage followed, bringing me to a high point with grand views. To the east, spots of sun decorated the plains, and to the west, snow squalls shrouded the landscape to within a few kilometers of my lonely peak. I wandered around for 15 minutes, trying to find a way down.


Thick woods and incredibly precipitous slopes on the north side were particularly uninviting. Eventually I found an elk trail which was so well trodden that I could follow it beneath 4" of fresh snow. My brakes bugled all the way down the 800' descent as I slid over and down hidden rocks. I popped out in an isolated meadow, feeling especially isolated from the rest of the world.


I again hoisted my bike across my back and began another long slog up to the highest point of the day, 1000' above. The sun warmed my back, and I thought about the pizza in my pack. I settled on taking my first break of the day atop this peak to enjoy the leftovers. Then, I looked forward to the beginning of the long descent.


An approaching wall of snow cut my break short as I realized it was already 2:30 pm. That gave me only 3 hours to return to known territory by dark, so I hustled on. Downed trees on either side of the ridge crest made forward progress far slower than I had imagined it would be. Half a mile later, I still had not even gotten on my bike. A sidewall puncture from a pointy log slowed me down a bit more. An hour later I had only covered another mile. The snow had stopped, but the skies were dark and visibility was low. And the frequency of some slightly troubling cat tracks was increasing, causing me to look over my shoulder more and more often.


It quickly became clear that this ridge would not be conquered with a bike in tow and in waning daylight, so I bailed off the east side. Two hours later, I was home, completely convinced that this trail I'd been imagining could be one of the best tracks around Boulder.

Flat out stupid

Sometimes the stupidest ideas for bike adventures turn into amazingly rewarding experiences, often with more than their fair share of toil and suffering. And sometimes, the stupidest ideas are just plain idiotic, like today's mountain bike affair. The profile looked something like this:



Note the total distance of 6.8. That's in miles. In terms of time, this "ride" took 3 hours. And looking at this profile, I was sitting in the saddle for something like 5 of these miles. For the rest, I was pushing, dragging, throwing, and falling upon my bike as we together tried to make our way through several steep burn zones.


The second major hike-a-bike involved dropping 1200' down into a canyon as darkness descended upon the stark landscape.


Why did I take this route? Because I wanted to go to the top of the tallest peak around, and private property makes the logical and far easier route to the summit impossible. The canyon downclimb resulted from my stubborn desire to ride down an ancient mine road that just got steeper and steeper before promptly ending. Not wanting to push my bike back up, I instead pushed it down. I think that was the wrong decision.


But the sunset was nice. And a few giant bull elk showed up to greet me before pounding down a steep slope and disappearing from view.


The moon stuck around long enough to keep me company as I tried to find a faint trail I had ridden a year ago in the bottom of the gulch


And that trail is short but sweet and chunky. The problem is that there's no reasonable way I'm aware of to actually get to this trail unless you're an elk, so I was pleased to get the chance to ride it again, even if it was dark, my bottle was full of ice, and my handlebars were accumulating a thick coating of frost.


Well, despite this being one of the stupider rides I've done, there's some more poking around to be done up there, and I have visions of a long trail descending gently for miles to the north. It's all USFS land . . .

Hard-earned success

After cranking out a long month of huge hours at work rather than on the bike, I took advantage of having no immediate deadlines to get out on a string of great rides last week and over the weekend. Last week was also my birthday, so I used that as an added excuse to spend more time steering my knobby-tired bikes through the hills.

Caroline shows off her new bike. Why did she get a new bike for my birthday?

It's now snowy up high. This was probably the last ride up above 10k this season.

These creepy statues emerged from the brush after the Fourmile Fire. I had apparently ridden past them countless times, not realizing I was being watched. I do feel a little bad for the bighorn sheep that's keeled over, though.

The weekend was spent trying to find a connection between two parts of my local pedaling world that is notably blank when it comes to trails. Day 1 ended with private property blocking off the two possible exits from the area. An hour spent looking at maps and aerial photos Saturday night revealed the existence of a third possible way through, so we headed back up to this area for another day of recon.

Hike-a-bike was the name of the game for much of the weekend

One of the grandest views around

New views of Long's Peak and Mt Meeker

Heading out under sunny skies and warm temps on Sunday morning

Abruptly, the skies turned black, snow began to fall, winds gusted to over 40 mph, and the temperature dropped 15 degrees. Not armed for a cold ride, we contemplated turning back. Climbing steadily wearing all my clothes and struggling to warm up, I questioned our decision to continue on. But before long, the clouds blew through, the sun returned, and the layers were slowly peeled off. Very strange.

Caroline on a long-abandoned track

Climbing one of the steepest routes around. For some reason, I like this climb. I always feel like I should visit it more often.

My doppelganger (a story for another day) was ahead of us on this big climb. His car was parked at the bottom, and I saw his giant tire tracks and footprints in the soft sand. Then toward the top, I caught a glimpse of him pushing his bike up the next section of trail above. I think I've followed him a dozen days or more on other particularly steep trails in that canyon, but this was the first time I ever saw him. Perhaps some day I'll actually meet this guy who shares the same apparent love of steep climbs and even steeper descents.

I started to wonder about the sanity of this particular route after descending 1000' on a steep, heinously loose, rocky trail. . .

. . .but a beautiful stream at the bottom reassured me that this would be worth the effort

A short detour to explore this faint singletrack led to the conclusion that elk do not always make bike-friendly trails

After several hours plugging away in this marginally-rideable terrain on a trail that grew steadily smaller, ever so gradually, the track became slightly more worn, slightly wider, and after some more trudging up steep, loose climbs, it was clear that we were on our way back into more well-traveled country. After a few turns onto progressively larger forest roads, we found ourselves on a trail I had ridden on my first bikepacking trip a few years ago. Caroline and I grinned at each other as we shivered in the strong winds that swirled through the pines around us and whipped them back and forth. While we were back on a familiar trail, we were still a long way from home, and the sun was already dipping behind the peaks to the west.

Fire in the sky warning that this would be yet another ride that would not end before dark.

A magical new link now connects trails in two different worlds without resorting to more than a mile of pavement. Even if I never "ride" this again, I at least know in my mind that it's there. But I have a feeling that next weekend I'll be back, exploring slightly farther north to find the next link required to complete a horrible idea that remains steadfastly planted in the back of my mind. This idea is so awful that I only know of a handful of other riders that would ever consider entertaining such a concept.