Snow ‘n Mud Part 2: Antonito to Taos (with a little help), NM.
November 2, 2011
I seem to have a habit of getting myself muddy. First, there was the incident near Pie Town, New Mexico. Then, the attempted ride to Mirador, Guatemala. Not to forget, of course, those memorable miles on the road to Mompos, Colombia…
After weeks of Coloradan sunshine, it only took a relatively light sprinkle of rain to be reminded of the reason New Mexican mud is ideal for building adobe houses, and not for riding…
Leaving our campsite on the outskirts of Antonito, we thought the worst was over after a windy night in the tarp.
The advance party, Nick, Lael and Greg, had told us about a dirt road to Taos, some 13 miles south of Antonito. Follow BLM 120 for 14 miles, we'd been advised, then turn right onto BLM 130 for another 20, crossing the Rio Grande on the John Dunn Bridge, before climbing up to Taos.
BLM 120 started off as an enticing, hardpack, rocky trail to nowhere.
It was a perfect surface for fat tyres, completely free of traffic as it traversed the volcanic fields of the Taos Plateau.
Storm clouds huffed and puffed melodramatically around us, but so far, left us alone.
We'd checked the weather on Nancy's iphone, and had been promised a clear day, with rainfall scheduled later in the evening - time enough to make it to Taos. But that ETA quickly changed as the first droplets began to fall at 11am. Clearly the forecast storm wasn't listening to the weathermen.
By this time we were too far across the plateau to want to turn back. Rocks had given way to smooth, hardpack dirt, a perfect riding surface. In the dry. Unfortunately, New Mexican Dirt + Sprinkle of Water = Adobe Mud. With a little speed, the trail was still manageable. Knowing time was running short, we raced on as fast as we could.
Within a couple more miles, the fabled adobe mud was jamming itself under the arches of our forks, completely locking out the front wheels. It wasn't long before we couldn't even push our bikes without scooping out great handfuls of muck every few metres. We were literally stuck.
Things weren't looking too good. There was still at least ten miles to go to the bridge. So close, yet - when you're dragging a fully laden bike - so far.
For the record, the trailer was actually faring pretty well, with its single arm, mud-shedding design.
As can be seen from the above exhibit, New Mexican is highly adhesive and SPD-unfriendly. We clomped about in wobbly shoes that felt like lead weights. We'd grown a few extra inches of height too.
To make matters worse, the sky had taken on an angry shade of inky black. Abandoning any last lingering hopes of forward progress, we hastily pitched the tarp. Rain was soon beating down like a kettle drum, as we huddled inside, cooked up some food and mulled over the situation.
Unfortunately, our chosen camp spot didn't have the best drainage...
It was soon floating on a pool of murky water, which was icing over in places.
When the rain abated, we hopscotched our way around the puddles to analyse the conditions. Our dirt road, so bone dry and fast just a couple of hours before, had morphed into this ugly quagmire of energy-sapping, tyre-grabbing mud. Nothing to do but return to the tarp and deal with the situation in the morning.
Fast forward a stormy, snowy, windswept night, and our view the next day...
Upbeat footnote:
Luckily the photo above wasn’t taken from our tent, but from the lovely, toasty warm house of our Warm Shower’s host…
As darkness fell, the storm swelled and large flakes of snow began to fall, gathering around the tarp. We bedded down for the night only to be awoken a couple of hours later when, somewhat miraculously, two hunters passed by in their burly 4×4. With them came the offer of a ride to Taos. Hurriedly, in the biting cold and pelting snow, we pulled down the tarp and bundled everything into the back of the truck. The direct route via the John Dunn Bridge was by now completely impassable, so we backtracked onto the highway from where we’d come, slipping and sliding through a river of mud.
If not for our bail-out, we’d probably still be dragging our bikes across the Taos Plateau… Thanks guys!
Nancy and our Warmshower's host, Elizabeth, who kindly put us up as we to'ed and fro'ed between Taos and Santa Fe during the storm.
Snow n’ Mud Part 1: Del Norte to Antonito, CO.
November 1, 2011
There’s nothing like a little meteological spice to add flavour to a bicycle ride.
In fact, it’s one reason I love to travel on two wheels. There’s no sidestepping oncoming elements as you might within the cocoon of a car. No easy way out of disconnecting from the realities of the seasons. Like it or lump it, it’s part of the experience.
In this chapter, Nancy has her first taste of snow biking/trudging (best enjoyed after the event) as we bid farewell to Colorado, and cross the border into the Land of Enchantment, New Mexico.
Giant-sized cottonwoods in autumnal bloom.
It was almost like they were clamouring to wave us out of Del Norte, ushering us on towards the next challenge. Indiana Pass is perched at a lofty 11 920ft high - 3630m - and ranked by some as the toughest climb of the Great Divide. The first stretch was paved, a gentle climb through the valley, followed by steeper and corrugated sections.
A rich assortment of double tracks peeled off to reveal prime camping real estate.
Our reading matter for the evening, gifted to us by the kind folks at the idiosyncratic Subculture bike shop, back in Salida.
As October comes to a close, the hunting season begins. Unfortunately, this was also the cue for brigades of pumped-up pickup trucks - deploying mini-armies of Four Wheelers - to thunder by, leaving us to eat dust in their wake.
Up, up, up... Snow ahead...
Further on the air was clearer, as the views magnified in size.
Finally, after some 22 miles of upward peddling, we emerged at the top of the pass, facing the vast wall of the Continental Divide
On with the layers, then it was back down the mountain we went...
It was a fast descent, through a thicket of pines.
Our route passed by the environmental disaster that is the Summitville Mine. Gold was first discovered here back as 1870, but it was the process used to leach its remnants from the low grade ore, well over a century later, that contaminated the local creeks, adding to the area's already naturally high acidity . The clean up camping cost millions - possible more than the entire revenue earned by the mine.
It wasn't long before forward progress was drastically stalled. The advance party, Nick, Lael and Greg, had already texted us warnings of what lay ahead: some 4 miles of snow, leftovers from a previous storm.
The odd patch was rideable.
But for the most part, it was a slow drag 'n trudge.
After a few hours of pushing, we were grateful to be back on dry dirt once more.
Nancy, still smiling. Just.
When the descent did come, it was a good one. It unravelled in great loops down the valley, before crossing the Alamosa river. There was one last sting-in-the-tail climb up and over Stunner Pass to Platoro - a journey made by countless gold prospectors before us. The last light of the day highlighted the streaks of red oxide in the mountains, considered a giveway that gold was to be found nearby.
Somehow, pine trees found purchase on these near vertical slopes.
Platoro is so named after the Spanish words plata (silver) and oro (gold). We treated ourself to a night in a half-finished cabin built for Divide hikers and riders, in the appropriately named Gold Pan RV Park. It's neon sign enticed us in, while the rest of the settlement was almost completely borded up for winter. The campsite manager was a Texan escaping the summer heat. Beaming a gap-toothed smile, he told us he was from Lubbock, slap bang beside 'the largest military base in the free world.' I'm not sure if I was as reassured as he was...
A few more words on Nancy are perhaps in order for storytelling purposes at this point. While she may vehemently deny it, having moved around the US over the years, Nancy is in fact a Texas Girl herself. The border town of El Paso, to be precise. Which, she insists, is about as un-Texas as you can get.
This being her first bike tour, Nancy had sought a few words of advice on the intricacies of two-wheeled travel and its accompanying paraphernalia, so I'd issued her with a shopping list in a language she had yet to decipher. A little giddy with the idea of spending someone else's money, I argued the case for fitting a pair of Jeff Jones' curvy Loop H-bars. Over twice the $$$ of a standard set of handlebars, I assured her they're a steal at half the price of a pair of this season's knee-high leather boots...
I couldn't quite convince her to to invest in a Rohloff speedhub for her Surly Troll - that kind of cash can only be generated upon selling your car... Mine, however, is still doing me proud, shifting with reassuring clunkiness come rain, shine or snow.
Indeed, despite the temperatures, there's been no shortage of shine, bringing out the full splendour of Fall. But appearances can be deceiving, for after a mellow ride to Horca, we heard about a storm forecast that night. Our original plan had been to continue along the Great Divide and tackle the 10 000ft La Manga Pass. But as it was on the weathermen's hitist, it seemed prudent to detour off route.
Instead, we pedalled to the lower elevations of Antonito, one of the stops along the old narrow gauge railroad, originally laid down in 1880.
Since 1970, the Cumbres and Toitec Scenic Railway has been taking tourists over the Cumbres Pass to Chamba, 64 miles away.
Time-warped Antonito felt a little run down and financially depressed round the edges.
In the late evening light, the clouds looked benign and the air was cold but crystal clear. Even welcoming. It was hard to believe the state had been issue a severe weather warning...
While we munched thoughtfully on chocolate pistachio cupcakes in the oasis of the Pony Expresso cafe, we pondered the options. Find a cheap motel and sit out the storm, or ride out of town, bed down on public land, and see how things panned out the next day.
Placing our trust in a paper thin wall of tarp fabric, we opted to save the $50...
Since the BLM land proved worryingly vast and open, we nailed ourselves down with all the extra pegs and guy ropes we could muster. Which was just as well, as it was a ferociously windy night. The tent tossed and turned like a restless sleeper, flapping manically and smothering itself over our faces, as it buckled in the wind. But come morning, the sun was out, the wind had dropped, and the worst of the storm seemed to have passed us by, sponging away most clouds in its wake. We cheered! But little did we know...
Quick Links:
For 45 degree, curvy bars, have a look at Jeff Jones’ H-bar Loop. The aluminium ones are a third of the price of the titanium versions…
Want a tasty, homemade cupcake while you patch in to the internet? Check out the characterful little Pony Expresso in Antonito.
Fall/Autumn: Salida to Del Norte, CO
October 29, 2011
It’s that time of year, when vast brushstrokes of forest flare a brilliant burnt-orange, as trees turn in perfect, orchestrated unison: one last, startling swansong before winter takes hold.
Then, as the wind picks up, leaves begin to fall, collecting in great handfulls below pale, skeletal branches.
A contrary few always remain clad in colour, stubbornly resisting change until the very end, holding their breath as if maybe, just maybe, such behaviour might go unnoticed. But it’s a tenuous existence. One gentle shake from a passing giant and surely the last, lingering leaves would come fluttering down…
A cottonwood turns on the outskirts of Salida.
And a wrapped-up Nancy. To lighten her load, panniers have been shipped back to her hometown, Santa Fe. Her Surly Troll now sports a full Porcelain Rocket framebag setup. This, along with some new, burly 2.4in CST tyres (just $20 a pop) has transformed her bike into a petite, rock-munching rottweiller.
And here I am, pleased to have reached the top of Marshall Pass. We camped just below the top, at almost 11,000 feet - the coldest night so far.
It was a nose-running descent on the other side, through a ravaged, apocalyptic forest. Just a few splashes of colour remained.
Water, which had frozen overnight, remained in the form of sculpted, undrinkable chunks of ice until later in the day.
Down in the valley, it felt deceptively warm and welcoming. At this time of year, it pays to scrutinise the weather, and plan strategic leap frogs to basecamps, sitting out potential storms.
It's that ribbon of dirt again. More classic Coloradan riding.
With some three or four days before the next resupply in Del Norte, we plundered the gas station in the blink-and-you-miss-it settlement of Sargents, cramming the trailer with supplies.
Skirting round Upper Dome Reservoir, looking out towards the Continental Divide.
We were in the backcountry once more - a long way for the postman to travel.
Cycling in late October risks storms rolling in at any time. But the rewards are sweet - snow capped views like this.
Our view from the tent that evening.
Rejoining the route after a peaceful night's camping on public land. Wild camping is wonderfully easy in the open spaces of the South West, making bike touring accessible and cheap.
Cocheropa Pass, 10 032 feet, the Native American Ute word for 'pass of the buffalo'.
It was a ten mile descent through rimrock. After a brief stint on pavement, we began the next climb, working our way up towards Carnero Pass.
The sun was already low, backlighting the chimizo shrubs and lending them an ethereal glow.
Once it had dropped behind the mountains, temperatures quickly dipped too: all colour seemed to drain from the land.
We found a small clearing to camp and cook up food to keep warm, amid bean-pole, bleached white beech trees... Looking up at them reminded us of bronchials in a lung. My own, incidentally, are doing far better these days, as several 10 000ft passes will attest.
Unexpected patterns in nature.
Over the pass, Fall was well underway and leaves were in fast retreat.
In places, it looked as if the forest was literally ablaze.
It was an incredible descent, past weird rock formations of volcanic columns etched into the side of the valley.
Heading down into Coolbroth Canyon.
Life on the other side of the pass was a world apart: desert-like and barren. The Sangre de Christo - Blood of Christ - mountain range rose up dramatically behind us, the southern most subrange of the Rocky Mountains. It's so named for the red colour that bleeds across it at sunrise and sunset.
It was hot and dry, our frozen-finger-tipped morning a distant memory. Like desert rats, we stopped to bask in the sun and feed, examining the map for clues of what lay ahead.
In the space of a few miles, it was all change: mesas sprouted out of the land and baby cacti mined the trails.
Stunning desert doubletrack in these parts too.
Then, some tempting singletrack strayed us away from our route, depositing us on a local runway..
The gun slingin' settlement of Del Norte, in Rio Grande County.
There, we were welcomed in by our wonderful, bicycle-enthusing hosts, Gary and Patti. Like a foster home for Great Divide riders, we were the last of some forty cyclists to pass by this year.
Del Norte was the perfect opportunity to relax, ride singletrack and work on bikes amid the comforts of Gary's workshop. The photo above is from 1984, when he was riding unfeasibly steep terrain on a drop handle-barred mountain bike. No helmets in those days...
The Chain Tree - I duly found one of the few remaining branches over which to hang my well worn Sram 8 speed.
We had a chance for a quick spin on this 29er tandem monster, beautifully built by local framebuilder, A M Peirce.
Another of his creations: a simple, elegant 29er singlespeed, complete with Black Cat swinging dropouts and swoopy titanium handlebars.
The man himself, Andy, beside an old frame jig bought from iconic US bike builders Ibis. The location? A converted old potato barn in rural Del Norte.
I was hankering after those bars...
Need a haircut?
Not today...
Links:
In the market for a beautifully crafted custom frame? Check out AMPeirce. I know where I’ll be going if I’m ever after a 29er tandem…
Telegraph Road: Como to Salida, CO
October 25, 2011
This Coloradan leg of the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route continues to amaze and delight; a seemingly unending patchwork of dirt roads linking backwater settlements and their quirky mercantiles, through land peppered with sublime camping spots to rest weary heads. We’ve been lucky with the weather too, basking in wall to wall sunshine for the last week.
The riding has been almost exclusively on backroads. Some stretches have felt long and lonely. Others have been set, in these dwindling days, to splashes of autumnal colour. Mornings are so crisp and icy-cold it’s futile to resist cozy sleeping bags until the first fingers of sunshine have crept down from the mountains and tapped us gently awake. Then it’s time to gulp down a bowl of porridge, pack up our belongings, mount our faithful steeds, and take to the trail once more…
Leaving Como. An open road and Dire Straits' 'Telegraph Road' on the iPod.
Nancy and Greg hit dirt once more.
The tiny settlement of Hartsel, the geographic centre of Colorado...
As well as the eclectic South Park Mercantile Co and a wacky Mexican restaurant, it entertained us with this Godly-festooned truck.
JC's in the driving seat here.
Back on dirt. A classic Great Divide scene...
Blips in the magnitude of Colorado.
By now our travelling tribe numbered five: Nancy, Layl, Nicholas, Greg and me. Surly were well represented, with 3 Trolls clad in Porcelain Rocket framebags, and a Long Haul Trucker. Nick's Schwinn High Sierra flew the flag of 80s steel.
Talking of framebags... they're ideal for carrying jerky, a chewy, protein-rich US staple, omnipresent in every gas station across the state. These especially tasty salmon strips were posted to me all the way from Alaska. Thanks Marnie!
Camping out on public land, enjoying the late afternoon sun and a game of frisbee.
Refuel: guilt-free chocolate spread. Best eaten straight. With a spork.
It's late October and we're on the cusp of winter, teetering on the knife edge of Colorado's incredible fall colours.
After climbing up through the San Isabel National Forest, we crested the watershed divide. An imposing wall confronted us - the '14ers', the fourteen thousand foot peaks of the mighty Sawatch Range.
Down, down, down amongst the juniper and pinyon...
... with occasional breaks to take it in this incredible vista.
The outskirts of Salida - or Sa-Lie-Da, as it's pronounced locally, despite its hispanic roots.
Downtown politics. This immaculate little liberal mountain enclave abounds in characterful coffee shops, hip galleries and independent stores.
It's a mountain biking utopia, where bikes abound of all colours and creeds.
A sun-bleached Nick and two dusty dirt drop tourers.
Thrift store shopping, cowboy style.
Yep.
Fresh kale from the farmer's market.
And good bread too...
Salida enticed us with miles of mellow singletrack unwinding straight out of its historic downtown.
We were staying a few miles out of the centre, with a Warmshowers host. How many places boast singletrack like this you can ride home with your groceries?
A little further afield, there's also the IMBA Epic Ride, the high altitude Monarch Crest Trail. We tackled it on our 'day off', rounding it off with the whirligig Rainbow Trail. A big day out!
And finally, a lovely surprise. I'd stayed with in the wondeful home of Chloe and Alexei up in Sitka, Alaska, back in 2009. Chloe, who happened to be in Colorado, drove over to Salida to visit and introduce me to their lovely little baby, Phoebe Snow.
Drift and Swift: Silverthorne to Como, CO.
October 23, 2011
Some days drift. Others are swift.
Riding from the concrete/condominium megapolis of Silverthorne to the ramshackle, timewarped settlement of Como seemed to fuse the two. In one languid day, we journeyed from glitzy ski towns to a lost world of forgotten railroads and abandoned junk, traversing the beautiful, mellow Boreas Pass.
It’s an area rich in frontier history. This Continental Divide crossing was the stomping ground of prospectors flocking to Breckenridge during the Colorado Gold Rush. This history has the added perk that the pass is perfectly graded for cycling, a throwback to the railroad layed down by Union Pacific in the late 1880s, linking the once thriving communities of Leadville and Como.
A buttery smooth bike path to Frisco weaved us through luxurious condominiums scattered around the Dillon Reservoir, in the shadow of snow capped peaks - a magnet to skiers come the winter months.
Who lives where: knowing your Kowalskis from your McKaics.
The bike path wound on past Frisco, towards the luxy ski resort of Breckenridge.
After a refuel in Breck, we began the climb over Boreas Pass. This Continental Divide marks the 15th crossing on the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route.
Pavement soon turned to hardpack dirt, affording far reaching views of the Blue River and reservoir far below.
A railway water tank from the 1880s, where steam trains loaded up with ore from the nearby mines.
Then it was onwards and upwards, towards powdered peaks.
The top of the pass was still crusty with icy snow; tyres struggle to find purchase as we slipped and slid our way forwards.
11 482 ft. That's around 3500m in new money. Named after the Greek god of the North Wind, it was perhaps fitting that a biting wind whipped through abandoned buildings at the top of the Continental Divide. We wasted no time in donning layers before the ten mile descent to Como.
Dense forest and mountain views opened up as we hurtled our way back down.
The gentle glow of sunset as the sun dropped behind the mountains.
The temperature had plummeted too. The local populace (aka Ricki Ramstetter, owner of the Mountain Man Gallery) kindly offered us the keys to the civic centre, complete with massive, roaring heater. By now we were a roving posse of five: Layl had rejoined Nick, and we'd finally met up with Greg, who'd also ridden down from Alaska.
After a good feed and plenty of tourer chat, we bedded down on the floor of the centre. Sweet dreams ensued.
Morning brought sun and warmth once more. Just 20 miles from picture-perfect Brecken, overgrown and dishevelled Como felt like a completely different side to Colorado. The Colorado of yesteryear...
Semi-abandoned junk cluttered every yard, lending the place an end-of-the-earth, Alaskan feel.
Judging by the amount of outhouses, much of it doesn't even have running water; its barebones outhouses must make for frosty ablutions come winter.
There was a small artistic community. A couple of signs suggested 'antiques' might be for sale, though it was hard to tell junk from art. Shopping in Como is more like a forage...
Como humour: I shopped till I dropped.
The Mountain Man Gallery also doubled up as the community post office. Its historic brass letter boxes had been tranplanted from a closed office in Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming.
Meanwhile, Greg and Nick ponder the finer details of bike touring setup.
Bingo night in Como.
Into the Rockies: Steamboat Springs to Silverthorne, CO.
October 16, 2011
Yet again I find myself overwhelmed by the sublimity of the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route. In September 2009, I used this series of backroads and forest tracks, neatly sewn together by the Adventure Cycling Organisation to trace the Rocky Mountain chain, as a means of crossing the US, linking Canada to Mexico. By the time I hit the border I was hooked on quiet, traffic-free dirt roads, and did my best to extend the experience through the rugged Sierra Madre mountains of Northern Mexico. This in turn influenced the rest of my journey through Latin America, igniting my passion to follow dirt roads where possible.
I’d even go as far as saying the GDMBR makes an all but perfect bicycle tour. It’s both remarkably remote yet eminently do-able. A good part of its accessibility is no doubt thanks to the maps published by the Adventure Cycling Organisation. The level of detail is astonishing. Every last ripple in the land, water point, camping spot, site of interest and backcountry grocery store has been exhaustively catalogued over its 2745 mile length. Complete elevation profiles allow round-the-tent analysis and easy planning for the days ahead. In fact, all you need to do is ride. Eat. And sleep.
After crossing the Canadian border into Montana, the GDMBR wends its way through Wyoming, before ramping up into the loftiest passes of the Rockies. In 2009, storms forced me to detour off route. I retreated to the lower elevations of Utah, before rejoining the GDMBR again further south in New Mexico. Not that this proved to be disappointment at the time – Utah is an incredible place in itself, a majestic desert where silence is overwhelming, and the night sky teems with stars.
But I have to say that this missing piece of the jigsaw – the mountain state of Colorado – is fast proving to be a highlight of the entire route. I’m glad to have returned to complete it.
An auspicious start? Nancy, Nick and I left Steamboat Springs, an old ranching community turned glitzy ski resort - and the toasty warm apartment of Andy, our Warm Showers host - to be semi-blinded in a snow flurry. One passing driver, hailing from Notting Hill, London, almost insisted we hole up in his home for the night. But no. We were a determined crew, and pushed on.
A world away from nearby Steamboat, aged and characterful wood clad dwellings speckled the backcountry.
This wonky outhouse made a good lunch spot. Pictured here is Nancy and her SurlyTroll, with Rockshox Recon fork, Ortlieb panniers and a diddy-little Porcelain Rocket framepack.
After leaving pavement, we made our way along a quiet dirt road, which in turn gave way to gentle, meandering singletrack round Stagecoat Reservoir.
Winter looms: a fallen aspen leaf.
The light was subdued by a coating of snow clouds overhead. Bizarre shaped rocks poked out of the land.
The hard pack road was muddy in places, and wound its way up towards Lynx Pass, 8937 ft.
Colorado. Sprawling ranches nestle in remote, lush valleys and snowy peaks tower over mountain passes. It's both wild and mellow.
Early morning view from our first camping spot. I expect it will take a good few days before I adapt to outdoor living again. My resolve may not have wavered, but my body has certainly been softened by a few months of UK living.
Nick's Big Agnes Seedhouse SL2, tucked away amidst a clump of trees that provided shelter from the wind.
A well-layered Nancy. As her first bike tour, she'd thrown herself (or been thrown) in at the deep end: Colorado and its 12 000ft passes, on the cusp of winter.
Her mantra?
Nick and I first met in Anchorage, Alaska, back in 2009. Here he is striking a meditative pose while awaiting his morning brew.
He travels impressively light, and enjoys breathing life into old kit. Look closely and you'll see his homemade beer can/penny stove, with supports fashioned from bicycle spokes.
Pausing at the top of Lynx Pass, Nick and Nancy take a few moments to study Adventure Cycling's incredibly detailed map. Note Nick's minimal gear stowed in a well-worn Carradice saddlebag, tiding him through both winter storms and desert heat. His bike frame is a much loved Schwinn High Sierra from the mid '80s, fitted with with cantilever breaks, narrow drop handlebars, platform pedals and mudguards. Not that this old-school setup deters him from tearing down washboard-surfaced mountain passes, or exploring the lesser-travelled backcountry. If he'd been born in the UK, Nick would surely be a member of the Roughstuff Fellowship.
Riding the Divide. What's not to like?
A seemingly never ending ribbon of dirt...
The Rock Creek Stage Station, an old Wells Fargo stagecoach stop/post office/hotel dating back to 1880, would have made a good shelter for the night.
Thankfully, our snow storm had blow over by now, revealing a warming, energising sun, that took the bite out of a barefoot crossing of Rock Creek.
Home: the Black Diamond Megalite tarp, known affectionately as the circus tent. It's carried in a Tout Terrain Mule trailer.
An icy High Sierra.
The view as we climbed away from our second campspot, on BLM land a few miles short of Kremling.
Rejoining the route once more.
A taste of what lies ahead... snow-covered peaks.
Sleepy Kremling, and another Ford F series for the photographic collection.
After a brief stint on pavement, we were free from traffic again. Just us and the sagebrush.
And that dirt road, wending on and on...
Nancy stops to befriend a curious llama.
20th Century wheels. 21st Century communication.
Eventually dirt gave way to gravel, sapping our progress. It was shared with occasional pumped-up pickup trucks that thundered by, spitting out stones like buckshot.
Only a gallooping horse needed to complete the scene.
Deceptively pretty, but actually packed with chemicals from the Henderson Mill above Williams Fork Reservoir. Not the best place to fill up on water...
After a long day in the saddle, we crested Ute Pass, 9524ft. Darkness was falling, so we camped right at the very top, rewarded with this last-light panorama.
And moments later, a moon rise...
The next morning, a paved road fed us quickly down into Summit County. By now we were ready for break, and only a dozen miles to Silverthorne lay ahead. Unless, of course, you take a wrong turn at the one and only junction of the day. Which we did, adding some 25 miles to the tally.
Still, the views around the Green Mountain Reservoir just about made it worth it.
Odd one out?
No doubt Silverthorne was once a laid back mountain town, a welcome stop for exhausted cowboys. Nowadays, it's imposing setting is somewhat blighted by the concrete megalopolis that is the Interstate 70...
Though imposing those mountains certainly are...
Time for a shower. Interstate and Proud. Our $40 motel.
Breakfast neighbour.
Eggs, bacon, hash browns and the strange, fluffy creation that are American 'biscuits'. Fuel to take us over the Boreas Pass to our next stop, Salida...
Divide and conquer: Colorado once more
October 12, 2011
This is just a brief update to announce, with little fanfare but much delight, my return to the road. It feels good to be back.
The journey thus far has taken many unexpected twists and turns. Although my aim is to head back to Ecuador and continue where I left off back in July, as a prelude to Latin America, I’ve flown into Denver, USA. My plan: to cross the state of Colorado, the soul of the Rocky Mountains. Thwarted by the onset of winter, I reluctantly missed this rugged piece of the Great Divide Mountain Bike Ride on my original journey south from Alaska. This time I’m a little earlier, but not as much as I’d have liked – the first of the winter storms are already barrelling in, so we’ll see how the next couple of weeks fare.
Right now, I’m lucky enough to be enjoying the company of Nancy and Nicolas. More on them, and this beautiful, mountainous region, coming soon…
It's that time of the year again. Telltale signs of winter's approach...
With it, comes inky black, brooding skies...
... and the sound of scrunching snow on mountain passes.
Snow + dirt = muddy riding.
Time to wrap up warm. Thankfully, frigid snow flurries...
.... have given way to crisp mornings in the sagebrush.
And pin-clear autumnal days.
Riding the Divide. When the sun shines, perfect lounging conditions abound...
... along endless ribbons of hardpack road.
