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.
The Kokopelli Trail
November 19, 2009
I’ve long yearned to ride the Kokopelli Trail, a challenging 142 mile dirt track linking Fruita, in Colorado, to Moab in Utah. Here’s how it went.
The trail starts a few miles out of Fruita, in Loma. Kokopelli, the cheeky flute-playing, rasta-looking character, is actually a Native American fertility deity.
The first dozen miles - following Mary's Loop - are pretty full on and technical, so I stripped back the bike to really enjoy it. Kindly Skip had offered to shuttle my kit to an arranged point (a collection of rocks 22 miles into the ride), and Timoni and Max from Over The Edge had offered to join me for this first section. We didn't leave until 2.30pm, so the race was on to get to my tent before dark!
The trail unravelled high above the Colorado River. Fast and flowy singletrack, mined with rock gardens and awkward steps, wrapped around sheer sandstone ledges. This was superb riding.
Here's Timoni enjoying the trail. There wasn't much time to hang around and chit chat, as I needed to make it to the rest of my kit before sundown...
Which I didn't manage to do... Luckily, after some scrabbling around in the dark, I found the rocks Skip had stashed them behind. Phew!
The next morning, I loaded up the bike, keen to take to the trail while the weather was good.
Off I go, powered by neon rocket juice. Riding a fully loaded bike down big steps added to the fun...
Especially when they teetered round drop-offs like this. What a view! This was fast turning out to be one of the best trails I'd ever ridden.
What's more, it was really well signposted. Being so late in the season, I didn't see another soul.
At times the path was clear cut, undulating across the desert.
At others, it was broad and sandy, doing its best to gulp down tyres or throw me off the bike.
Some stretches were fast and hardpacked.
I'd sent a bunch of kit ahead to Moab, like my netbook and battery chargers. Which made slaby terrain like this much more do-able.
And hike and bikes like this a bit more bearable...
Finally, after a long day in the saddle, I made it to Dewy Bridge, just over half way to Moab.
The weather was turning, leaves were falling, and a storm was due in. Uh oh.
The Kokopelli Trail is all but parched dry, so Simon from Western Adventures had left me a stash of water and an isotonic drink to tide me over the night.
There was just time to find a camping spot behind some rocks and hunker down in the tent before the light dropped.
Beard progress. It's been cut back, so is looking a little subdued and trim at the moment.
Long distance touring, like everything in life, is made up of a series of repeated events. Like a bookend to the day, I like the ritual of priming the stove in preparation for the evening feast.
The night passed smoothly enough, but by morning, the winds were kicking up.
And the skies weren't looking too promising either...
Then it started to rain, hard. So knowing the trail ascended to 8500ft in elevation, and with a forecast of snow added into the mix, I made the difficult decision to bail, heading to Moab by road.
As I neared the town, a red sandstone wall rose sheer and dramatically above me.
To make up for the disappointment of cutting short the Kokopelli Trail, I headed straight off to ride the famous Slickrock Trail. To any mountain biker worth his salt, it would be sacrilege not to ride it.
It didn't disappoint. In fact, I'd never seen anything like it. These eroded sea beds looked more like a bizarre, polished Marscape.
It's hard to convey how unique this trail is in pictures, as they make it look decidedly tame. White markers painted on the rock tell you, literally, where to ride, guiding you up and down unfeasible steep gradients, along worrying sheer cambers. Despite the name, the traction on its sandpaper-like surface was phenomenal. I ran out of bottle way before I ran out of grip...
Don't forget to follow those white dotted lines, or 1/ you'll get lost, and 2/ you're liable to drop right off the map into the chasms below...
I was surprised to be see jeeps crawling their way up and down the rock too, ever so slowly. In fact, the original loop was first laid out for four wheelers back in the late sixties, and they've long rubbed shoulders with bikers.
Back in Moab, I was invited in by the local bike community. Kindly endurance biker Cullen, who won the Great Divide Race this year, offered to let me sleep on his porch. It poured and poured that night. As sorry as I was not to complete the Kokopelli Trail, I was kind of glad not to be camped out in the high mountains. Definitely one I'll be back for...
Fruita and the high desert
November 14, 2009
Although it’s Utah’s Moab that tends to swallow the limelight in mountain biking circles, just down the road in neighbouring Colorado lies Fruita, a wonderfully laid back little hangout that’s every bit as beguiling. So named for all the apples and pears planted there in the late 19th Century, Fruita’s home to a spidery network of high desert trails untangling above the Colorado River. And the town itself is just as entrancing, with little more than a collection of wood-fronted buildings along its old fashioned main street, a few cafes promising wifi and a dozen varieties of coffee and smoothies, and that vital last ingredient – two great bike shops.
Just north of Fruita, towards the Book Cliffs and beyond acres of large, flag-flying farms, lie the fabled network of singletrack trails known as 18 Road. To there, follow these Harry Potter-esque directions: ride down 17 1/2 Road, hang a right on N 3/10 Road, and left onto 18 Road until pavement disintegrates into gravel...
Over The Edge Cycles, where a passion for two wheels has even spilled out onto the sidewalk. It seems all you need to do is stand outside this shop to meet the most wonderful people.
Enjoying the evening light on the ride up to the Book Cliffs.
Up at the trailhead, there's a collection of simple camping spots tucked in amongst the rocks, dirt and juniper bushes.
For the most part, the riding here is mellow, laid back and flowy. Ribbons of trail unravel out into the stillness of the desert.
Teeter your way along Joe's Ridge, one of my favourites.
Silent desert shapes.
Home sweet home. It's nice to be back in my little cocoon.
Good singletrack doesn't have to be that complicated.
Skip Hamilton, sage of the desert, and his sweet dog Zoe. I was lucky enough to meet Skip outside Over The Edge Cycles. He practically insisted on helping me out, by kindly bringing me out water to my campsite, and offering to drop off my kit 20 miles into the Kokopelli Trail the next day, just so I'd be able to enjoy the singletrack the way it's supposed to be ridden, unimcumbered by panniers. At the time, I had only intuited a fraction of what a legend Skip is in these parts. As well as being involved in trail advocacy, he's won the gruelling Leadville 100 Ultramarathon four times, and he even features in Wikipedia! Out in the desert, we had some wonderful conversations on the subject of the commonality of man; it was a real honour to meet him.
Vernal, UT, to Fruita, CO
October 27, 2009
Vernal. Once home to cuddly dinosaurs. Now home to mormons and singletrack.
Loaded up with a breakfast of sugary-coated cereal, then resting my backside gingerly on the newly-welded Brooks saddle, I bade farewell to my sunglass-toting hosts, Jim and Barbara in Manila. It was a long climb out of Flaming Gorge; hot and interminably rolling. A climb that forever seemed to lose as much altitude as it gained, it did finally breach the 8500 foot pass forty miles later. My original plans involved a dirt road detour beyond the top but in light of my damaged perch, I dove straight back down on pavement, finishing the day with a ten mile, ten switchback descent that unravelled almost into the backstreets of Vernal.
Ten blissful miles of descent.
The bike shop where I hoped to invest in a new seat was shut by the time I tracked it down on the fringes of town, so in a moment of wild abandon, I booked myself into a discounted room at the Sage Motel. Such indulgent luxury! As it happened, it was just the kind of independent motel I like. Cheap and quirky round the edges, it was run by a friendly Indonesian family, and when the back door opened, I caught a waft of Nasi Goreng.
Just a few miles from the main drag in Vernal, a web of trails criss-crossed the desert.
To be honest, I wasn’t expecting much from Vernal. But as it happened, it had just hit the big time in mountain biking circles, thanks to a magazine feature on its brand new network of trails within easy reach of town. I liked its desert heat and oddball feel; the enormous, surreal and almost cuddly dinosaurs poking their heads high into the clear blue sky, and the faded, classic Americana shop facades in the older part of town.
Blue skies in Utah. Thanks Troy at Altitude Cycles for donating me a saddle to keep me rolling.
Two other mountain bikers had booked into the same motel, brothers Jim and Tim from Salt Lake City; Jim a keen mountain bike racer and Tim an extreme distance runner, before fatherhood took over a chunk of their lives. Over at Altitude Cycles, owner Troy’s unremitting enthusiam for the trails he’d been working on inspired me to strip down the bike and spend a ‘day off’ riding lovely, dusty singletrack out in the desert with the two brothers.
Jim throwing some moves in the desert.
Brothers Jim and Tim. They invited me to join them for a day's mountain biking, then kindly treated me first to lunch, then to a gargantuan Mexican dinner. I slept on their motel room floor the second night - thanks guys!
So as often the case when travelling, a turn of bad luck was far outweighed by the experiences that came from it. Breaking my saddle rails resulted in a night at Jim and Barbara’s, and an impromptu stop in Vernal. Which in turn introduced me to Jim and Tim, whose company both on and off the trails I really enjoyed. ‘It’s a good earth’, said Jim. And I agreed.
In the morning, we rode McCoy Flats and in the afternoon, we squeezed in a ride around the Red Fleet Trails.
Then it was time to load up once more and head south, via the dirt roads of Baxter Pass, which would lead me me over the mountain range into Colorado.
As I rode south to the wonderfully named but sinfully ugly Bonanza, the desert took on a surreal, wind sculpted, biblical quality.
I would have had the valley to myself but for the profusion of hunters stalking the mountains for deer and elk, garbed in full camo gear, somewhat incongruous with their day-glo orange waistcoasts and baseball caps.
All the creeks had dried up, so I flagged down pickups and asked for water. Everyone quizzed me on where I’d ridden from, and what I was doing out in the middle of the mountains alone. When I told them, they forced out whistling sounds from their mouths and shook their heads. Just to temper their perception of my madness, I often added that there was a couple on a tandem homeschooling their kid, and two brothers on a similar journey, one of whom was towing his dog in a trailer. ‘Well, I sure as hell don’t blame him for that,’ said one of the hunters, to unanimous nodding from his camo-clad friends, as if leaving a dog behind would have been far more of a surprise than the journey itself.
One couple asked me simply, ‘So what are you going to do when you get there?’ It was a question no one had put to me before. ‘Er, fly home, I guess,’ I answered, seeing in a moment of clarity how so many people must view this journey.
Happy to be camping out in the mountains. Do I look a bit like a stickman? Maybe I need to eat more.
A biking trail! After a few ambiguous turns and some compass squinting, it was good to see this sign and know I was on the right track.
The border with Colorado was cattle ranching territory. I stopped in at a hunting outfitters, and was warmly welcomed in by Bruce - see cowboy hat below - where I was offered a giant platter of elk meat cooked up by his wife.
A group of hunters had gathered in the barn, where huge carcasses were hanging like pendulums from the rafters; one man was busy severing an elk's head from its 700lb body. For someone who's not been brought up in this kind of world, it was pretty gruesome watching him working away at the animal with his knife. But I figure that if I'm prepared to eat meat, perhaps this is a more natural way of experiencing how it gets onto my plate, rather than neatly embalmed in a styrofoam packet, purchased from the disconnected convenience of a supermarket.
Rick was one of the guides, and we talked about the ethics of hunting. He argued that that many people are happy to eat meat pumped with chemicals from McDonald's, but balk at the idea of the 'blood and guts' of hunting. To him, living off the land and understanding where your food is coming from form the essence of hunting - the size and majesty of the antlers comes second. To me though, I still find the 'trophy sport' aspect of it - hunting for the thrill of the kill - hard to deal with.
With a belly full of elk meat and a generous slab of carrot cake to top it off, I left the outfitters. From there, the track deteriorated as it began to switchback up the pass.
With the approach of winter, the aspens were turning, a blaze of colour burning across the hillside. When the wind blew, bright leaves fluttered to the ground like snowfall.
At last, the top of the pass, at 8650 feet. From here, I'd been promised a white-knuckled, pedal-free descent.
Which it was for the first 10 miles... Then a howling wind stirred into life, threatening to blow me back up the hill. And the rock-strewn and washed out trail swelled out into a body jarring, filling-loosening washboard road. Both of which I were taking their toll on my spirits and energy supply. You can't see the two evils of bike touring in this picture, but they were there, believe you me.
I'm now largely beyond bear country. Here, critters take a different form. Being an arachnophobe, I wasn't impressed to hear there are small but lethally poisonous spiders the size of a penny scuttling across the desert floor. Further down the pass, I nearly ran over this camouflaged snake. I'm not sure if it was dangerous, but it certainly had the attitude to be. It did the iconic snake dance - raising itself up on the ground and bobbing its head from side to side...
As I closed in on the highway came the incongruous sight of gas and oil stations, sprouting out of the otherwise empty desert like sets from a post-apocalyptic movie.
Reaching sun-kissed Fruita has suddenly injected a little holiday-like spirit into the journey. There's two great shops in town, Single-Tracks and Over The Edge, where a steady stream of visiting riders check in before hitting the trails.
Pedalling into such a formidable headwind, I didn’t make it into town until dark, and luckily ended up sharing a campspot in the overpriced State Park ($20 for a tent!) with Craig, Bonnie and Dean from Canada, who’d been mountain biking in twin meccas of Fruita and Moab.
All in all, it had been a great segment of the journey. One that had been incredibly varied: from snow to mud to dust to desert to highway, with some wonderful encounters in between. Next up is the Kokopelli Trail to Moab…
