Recap: Real Life Western Adventure
Earthen Surface Engagement Therapy
Sometimes the pause to hold a view in pixel permanence is awareness begotten of the need to rest a moment, to breathe more deeply the rarifying air of connection in unfamiliarity; oh, all creation calling into me and through all reverberation I begin to believe I am coming together – no matter how deeply my tissues testify of breaking down.
With empathy for video-blogging travel and thrill seekers to simultaneously escape and build connection, the borderline narcissism of presenting oneself may yet be a pure quest to entangle the rest of us in an experience we long for yet are long-shot to manifest; it’s so beautiful out here, wherever one’s heart is open and alive… How often do you eat to feel, to sense becoming that which you ingest; it is a mutual becoming, but most of us, most of the time, are oblivious to the becoming beyond the aroma tantalizing our olfactory system and subsequent, momentary bloom of our taste buds.
For this trip, purpose was provided in the returning of my eldest child to the Ohio from Utah. It should be noted that when I lived in Utah some twenty years ago, when bike suspension engineering was yet in the dark ages and my Klein Mantra mountain bike granted me springy passage upon the mountain trails, I had a desire and unfulfilled plan to ride the legendary slickrock trail in Moab. I’m well beyond the oingo-boingo bike appeal, but Moab never stopped calling, not to mention (yet) the epic riding opportunities from Kansas through Colorado; so, the trip to bring her home readily developed beyond a 26 hour slog each way in the family van into a travel-vanlife-gravelplus-adventure opportunity – pretty sure there should be some hashtags in there. So, 3600 miles, I was happy to take it, and now attempt to peel and share with you the fulfilling fruit borne of this adventure – I hope we at least get some pith mist to refresh or appetize our senses.
It’s a long way, and a pretty familiar lay of land, but somewhere in the transition between what should actually be called the mid-east and the mid-west I realized I was enjoying the variation in road surface colors, like the differences in wildflowers across the country. Spilling out into more vast and open land where summer storms sweep with unrestrained power, taking 20+ degrees from the air and pouring rain seemingly sufficient to restore the ancient seas to this green land, yet as quickly as storms come, they go and the sun restores all as it was. I’m headed near to Manhattan, KS for a sample of the famed Kansas gravel on a route called Schoolhouse Rock, there will be my Sunday school and communion. Following the sun, time is given and the day is stretched out; but when I return and run toward the rising, it’ll race over my head and take back the time that had been extended – such are the credit and dues of travel. Driving on and on the sun finally goes before me and beyond, trailed by a crooked smile crescent moon fading to red as it kisses the horizon while I warm dinner over my little stove fire at the Shamrock Café. Stars, so many overshadowing one another they’re hard to distinguish, but its light from afar, rather than reflected from man’s making; that’s refreshing to witness. Frogs honk below, insects twitter and rattle, a strangely quite din absent the cicadas I’ve become accustomed to lately, and though night sure and dark, a bird broke forth in song as if it were day. Lightning bugs flashing their first excitedly rapid blinks of summer; I feel it too. Only a gravel seeker could perhaps understand the excitement I felt as the tarmac ended within feet of the interstate exit ramp, and every cross road as I drove the few miles on ‘worsening’ surfaces also are gravel – and it’s not just flat! Parked along the gravel road I’ll ride come morning, I managed quite a creative parking spot on an elevated patch of grass quite ill-suited to the suspension parameters of my family van, I stand on tomorrow’s ride tonight washing my dishes and teeth and stretching before laying down in my van-tent to sleep.
Real sleep. Awakening with the lighting sky and alighting songs of winged life. Breakfast with the sunrise – what fast do I break? Insensitivity I pray. Peace here, bustle and insensitivity, from thee I break. A stream of ants, going up and down a long arched blade of grass, those with, testing wings, while the mass without – do they some duty or practice in anticipation of being winged?
As for the gravel, you know it’s a good sign when the wildflowers are encroaching on the roadway and even serving as the center line. Swarms of little butterflies rather than cicada, I ceased to swerve as there are so many; and when I am stopped they flutter about me and sample me like a salt block – slathered in sunscreen as I may be. Squat oak in patches among the hills periodically provide welcome shade as the gravel surface infinitely varies from tarmac smooth to fresh and loose bridged together by brutal washboards. Paused on a little shady ridge I become aware of a river falling swiftly down below, and looking on I saw a car bumping their morning hymns from the bass loaded trunk being slid about for fun in a few inches of water on the slippery ledge where the roadway passes through Deep Creek at Pillsbury Crossing above the waterfalls; though not on the route, I, of course, went down to check it out. The guys in the car were making fun with the morning and hoping I was making video for YouTube, despite my more benign purposes they offered me a Modelo and made friendly with me! This excellent local feature belongs in this route and would be an ideal start/stop point as there is actual parking, and a great opportunity to rinse/cool off after a ride; I drove here after my ride and washed in the creek downstream of the waterfall (since in the reality of #family-van-life I had only wipes for post ride washing if no such natural feature furnished running water). Despite an ancient recollection of appreciation for Modelo, I stuck to my electrolyte enhanced water and rolled on with more smiles to come. As I came to an intersection with the interstate I was thrilled to find that even the entrance ramp was gravel! Endless is the only word that fits (pardon the pun) these gravel roads stretching out beyond the horizon dividing grassland spread rolling forever with occasional herds of cattle (smaller than I would I would expect for so much land – I saw about as many horses as cattle). So few miles, yet such a great distance, often as straight a line as could be drawn through such endless, mark-less land rolling up and down infinitely; oh, ye pioneers, how much hope you must have had to plod on. Never has such a small loop felt so great, the longest miles, not for lack of beauty or even boredom, it’s a fast paced ride of great pleasure in hot, endless rolling creation. I’m grateful to wander, and given to wonder: how did so few come to think they could need so much.
I enjoyed the time in Kansas (read: bathing and appreciating the falls) enough not to think about its passing, and so, knowing I needed a good night’s sleep before my main planned gravel ride from Vail Pass, I cut an hour and a half of drive time and brought about a fortuitous chance van-camp at Matthews/Winters Park just west of Denver. No loss, only gain as I found that this park’s bike trail connects to Red Rocks trails and amphitheater! Monday morning breaks and welcomes another kind of glory, and whereas yesterday I didn’t use my top three gears, today I’d hardly leave them. In all my wonder, my discernment was lagging as I asked some obviously casual riders about the trail conditions regarding tire choice; they indicated they’d only ridden a little there but there was nothing too gnarly, they then returned after a short loop. I should have dismissed their perspective, but about a quarter mile of riding clued me into the fact that I needed more volume on the ground, so I made the short loop back to my van-shop and swapped my 42’s for 2.1’s; while doing so I overheard a couple of fully suspended legit MTB’rs talking about the need of a dropper post…prescient.
Now where do I get more lung volume – where do I get more anything – enthusiasm! But that will only do so much – enough. Lost somewhere between inspiration and acclimation – oh wonder, these are mountains and not a gravel road, but an MTB trail in earnest and those dropper post comments were not superfluous; but I almost always find a line, love to try, and appreciate how these Small Block Eight’s grab rock like Sasha DiGiulian, unfailingly withstand rim smacks and hold bead like a cactus holds water. So many flowers and views of beauty, my lungs and sweltering in the sun aren’t the only driving desire to pause; feeling beauty is a condition to take in. Back at the park, Mt Vernon creek provided shady and pleasantly cold post-ride rinse and refreshment. The drive east would be coordinated to focus a hike on these same trails for another pace of joy, during which I’d warn my daughter that we’d have some pretty hard climbing, and after we’d been scaling the hardest section of Morrison Slide Trail for some minutes she asked when we’d come to the hard part; a manifestation of perspective driven by our 27 year gap perhaps.
Venturing on to Vail Pass in the early evening gave me time to chat with a local mountain biker State Highway Patrol officer about bikes, rides and the like, and show him my setup, then scout out my parking campsite and do a little recon ride up tomorrow’s route. Due to the Shrine Pass road being closed for winter still, the 43 mile, 4k’ route would necessarily become a 54 mile, 5k+’ route. Snow pack in streaks on the peaks and slopes rushing down in the heat, heat that would follow the sun and leave the air about 40 degrees through the night. Gratefully I brought my sleeping bag in addition to my blanket, and that through the medicine in my first aid kit was 5 years expired, the ibuprofen managed my altitude headache. As light faded, the clouds would swell up from mountains like slow explosions, white to yellow to red, then fill with lightning and dissipate in darkness; then a pleasant rest until the 5am light.
After another morning of my favourite camp breakfast of quinoa, dates, walnuts and honey, while trying to keep warm around my little stove fire in the wind, I’d don long sleeves on my arms and knees and begin from 10480’ up 3 miles to 11180’ and over Shrine Pass. A notice there read: road not suitable for passenger vehicles, could also be interpreted to read: you wouldn’t begrudge riding a full suspension mountain bike – thankfully I had left my 2.1’s” on; but that 10 mile 2400’ descent on rough gravel and sand laden with huge rocks would’ve required a lot of brake action on any bike – so with my helmet on and a few miles down to the route junction, my smile full sail as I continued opening to majestic views, along the creek and under the shade (which would be a great source of relief this afternoon) of tall pines, I made the descent into Red Cliff. Through the tiny town, under the green bridge and along the creek for a few miles of tarmac feeling reminiscent of Vermont, then onto Homestake Reservoir Rd slipping across the sand and chattering over the washboards. No shade but as gradually up I go finding moments in the shadows of tall enough pines as I ride on the English side; a pleasant tail wind boosts me on the false flats and cools pleasantly as I slow up for the long, gradual ascent – as soon as I say gradual I reach for another gear to find I’m already turning my 46…maybe in 4 years I’ll see fit to step to 50 – the long and winding road repeats in my mental soundtrack. After a brutal couple of miles to the reservoir, a lunch break sitting in the shade among patches of snow, it was time to reap the rewind – mostly down about 13 miles back to the town then 10 miles of constant up to the pass. The Green Bridge Inn provided a pleasant pause, a needed water refill and some ice cream and pastry for motivation before the climb out of Red Cliff. The wind is my blessed companion, forgive the moment it swirled a cloud of dust against me, and was in my face for a section as I chattered along the washboard flats where the creek was fit for fly fishing and beaver dams; at my back, or at least at my side most of the time it has chosen to abide. I Notice the washboard loses its burden if I’m going fast or slow enough. The snapping of little pine cones under my tires is cute, needing to stop every few minutes to breathe isn’t so much. My mantra above 9500’ became: no, don’t stop, at least until that next spot of shade ahead; there’s nothing to do but keep grinding – except of course enjoy the majestic views and stop for pictures. But for heaven’s sake, stop looking at the route torturing yourself with what you already know; elevation isn’t the only thing to measure in feet at this point. Just hug the shade, breathe, try to take the false flats without the 46 tooth and like Dory says: just keep spinning. Well, that was amazing and I’ll admit to feeling like: Wow, I did that! Having exhausted my supply of Indian food meals and with a growing hunger, westward I drove through the amazing mountains, canyons and tunnels along the Colorado River, on to Glenwood Springs for a fantastic meal at Masala & Curry; then into the night for a post-midnight arrival in Moab at the Slickrock MTB trailhead.
As I closed in on Moab, having been in the oblivion of darkness for a few hours, it appeared that UFO’s were cutting low across the sky, then I realized they were cars winding down from Arches Park, as we would be doing the next evening on our way back home; Arches – emphasizing the beauty of creation and erasure.
So much for a long night’s sleep, and the 30+ degree temperature increase from the previous night was not sleep ideal for my van-camp even with windows cracked, nevertheless, a few hours of rest and I woke with the light upon another world; ready to explore. The only warm-up here would be the temperature, to the mid-eighties by mid-morning when I wrapped up after 11 miles and 1400’ of wandering, maybe it’s more accurate to note there would be no cool-down. Wondering whether I could, and why I would ride up…but I could, and did, and was answered throughout by doing and by expansive views; so much grip on the rock, so many views to get a grip on – the asking is the answering. And in-between, quicksand, the sort that looks such a soft relief from the stone and saps any quick from one’s legs, was more likely than the punchy climbs to compromise a dab-free ride as floating across was harder than for a flailing child learning to float in water. I purged quite a bit of tire sealant twisting and slamming tires but they held like Velcro.
The west was won, or rather won me, with five days driving, four fantastic rides, four nights of pure quality travel-vanlife; then packing up my vanlife space, condensing my gear, loading it full with my daughter’s boxes of clothes and random first apartment accessories, the van made its transformation back to awesome family hauler/moving van and I went onto enjoy some great hiking and adventuring on the Northside of Mt Timpanogos at Stewart Falls, Arches National Park and Red Rocks with my first child…home again, yet may the journey continue to open!
