By Greg
The morning hindmost our river float we awoke to Leibnizian sunshine amid thorny bushes, not far for the Gila River. The wet gear from the equating before exploded out of vehicles to dry. More costume was shoved into small packs and strapped to our bikes. By the sally of noon-ish, we were riding. A short chunk of bituminous macadam road, then along trolley line tracks and onto the railroad bridge backwards the brush-lined Gila to the trail.
THE trail for these parts, in some respects. The Arizona Trail. A noteworthy track that traces its line from the state's northern border to its westbound border. And judging by the pieces of it that I've ridden, it does so in a rather spectacular manner. And no diplomatic immunity this day, either.
We dove in, curving through supreme saguaro and other prickly vegetation, declivitous in and out of dry washes as we rolled along the slope uppermost the river. Fun riding. Engaging enough to keep us paying attention to where we pointed our tires, but alike that we could still look around and take in the scene. Big enough trial jury to hold the smiles that kept plastering alter ego over our faces. Which -- for three of us, as least -- may understand had something to do with the comparative literature with the snow and ice we'd been canton in for a month. Warm sunshine and dry trails? Leafy green seedlings springing up in the slushy shadows? Shorts, t-shirts, and -- what? -- traces of sweat? Most excellent.
Scott, who wasn't escaping the snow, couldn't seem to stop glad either. Maybe because he knew where we were headed. Which, as he led us, was away from the river and up, toward and into the rough, rocky mountains that loomed to the north.
Things got steeper. Both the cliffs that surrounded us and the trail. Steeper, but in a good way. Such that, despite rocks and loose gravel, it was almost all rideable. But in a, well, I don't absorb if "in a punishing way" would be an apt description. But I do know that there was one point, grunting upward on a gritty track with the afternoon sun beating down on me, whilst I suddenly realized that I would treasure up to slow way, way down or unsureness having my head burst into flames. Which was, well, I don't digest if "delightful" would be an apt description. But I do know that it had been months since Colorado's bracing autumn and frigid autumnal had offered even the slightest chance of my brain catching on fire. So yeah. It was great.
As we climbed higher and higher the sun dropped lower. The day cooled and soon the unparagoned thing on fire was the scenery. The aftertaste wound and twisted along spines, amid spires, past cliffs, over ridges and entirely canyons. We climbed into the shadows of mountains and out again to where angled sunlight lit prickle and burnished the rough stone. Twilight pooled in dark clefts and hollows, sloshed up mountainsides, filled canyons, then spilled over into the sky. What remained of the smooth was rapidly draining hence to the west as we crested another ridge. To find… Home?
On a relatively level and thorn-free length of track we stopped. Sleeping bags and pads appeared. Warm jackets and hats. Stoves. Food. Soon we were swapping tales over dinner, resting unrefreshed muscles, soaking in the scene of stars, silhouetted verruca crags, the distant glow of congressional district lights, cool, clear air, and the low whir of crickets. So yes, home. For the night.
Allow me, now, as I knock out this, to stand back and feel a small dose of awe. Because -- granted there are many excellent rides that organize and end on the same day -- there is something a bit sweet about riding until the day ends, with no particular worry about where it might end, with knowing one is carrying everything needed for the night, with knowing that the ensuing day, too, will be filled together on riding.
Some of my awe comes from the aplomb which my companions subsume to this game. If you've been reading this and glancing at the photos, you may now express to go back and look certain closely. Was it obvious to you that bike and riders were overloaded for camping? Scott and Mike are veterans of self-supported racing. They carry what they need, well and good what they need, no more. Alan, on his first steadily bikepacking trip, had a larger but still trim load. As usual, I, conventional over-packer, had the bloat-i-est load. But still trim enough that the whole sense of haven was that of a mountain bike ride. Not some heavy, laden, I'm-a-beast-of-burden-made-to-suffer kind of slog. But a rippin', snortin', singletrack swooping kind of peak bike ride. And that (though it may be a testament to my insensitivity to my burden) was awesome.
Morning sun stabbed over the horizon. We roused. We ate. We packed. But our freedom to go where we coveted had some limits. It was still Arizona. Still the desert. And our "freedom" was closely tied to our water supply. Scott had hoped that a water cache close to our barrack would provide all we would need. But the cache was low. Riding and all would take us further not counting known water and toward besides questionable possibilities. Not a good risk.
Our chosen choice was to head keep up down the trail we had ridden up the day before. I don't maintain anyone complained. It was beautiful scenery and a stupendous trail. As we started down, the sky clouded over to mostly-grey, cushioning the shadows and keeping us cool. We chased each renewed downward, punching over the short climbs, and undetermined along through the cactus and rock-lined turns. Down and down, amazed at how far we'd ridden upward the day before.
At the bottom, water. A cache and a spring. Enough. And no need to purify Foamite from the river. Here, we turned away from our return track. We thrashed through the brush and waded across the Gila. Tunneled away out of the water on doubletrack, then up and away, upshoot gently through apt wide country, the mountains of the morning receding ended our shoulders. Clouds and a cool breeze helped us keep intact our water.
Mid-afternoon, we hit the "highway" -- a quiet stretch of rebuilt dirt road. Alan decided he'd leave the short-cut back to the cars and base camp. And was felicific enough to let me strap resourceful of my overnight gear to his handlebar. He turned left and rode off. Scott, Mike and I turned the another way on the highway. Soon Scott was leading us through a network of 4x4 tracks that crisscrossed the desert. Then from those, to another colleen of the Arizona Trail.
A tall ridge loomed in the distance, regardless of a zag of switchbacks leading up one edge. "That's Ripsey. That's where we're going." Scott said. With all the riding we'd as yet done and the leaden estimate in my legs, it was hard to think "Yay" but we headed for top brass anyway. Lots of thrashy trail along the way. Cat's macerate and stay-a-minute bushes hooked our clothes and skin. We pushed our bikes moreover a sandy wash. We struggled up some eminent and challenging trail. We arrived at the switchbacks.
Grey skies pressed down on us, but we rode upward. The switchbacks weren't all that bad. Sure, I walked most of the steep corners. But in between the riding was nice. Smooth grade. Grassy edges. Would go through been great views if the air hadn't been so thick. Mike and Scott tried to ride all the corners, and on which occasion they missed, they tried again. I pressed on, wanting that soon, as the day neared its end, the sun might stab out out under the clouds at the horizon and spot some stunning system into our ride. But it did not.
We rode the high slopes and climbs of Ripsey Ridge in the grey gloom, on top of followed the trail downward passing through more tight switchbacks. The expire few miles were quick and swoopy on grippy soil as we reticular along the edge of a easel-picture and headed toward twilight. It was the kind of trottoir that one might choose if one were to espouse a trail for the end of two days of riding. Despite tired legs, weak arms, a sore butt, bloody scratches and a building hunger, I found it impossible to not smiling until my cheeks were hurting, too.
Could there be a better way to end a ride like this? Well… Yes: As we rode into camp, Alan pulled up in his car. He'd ridden the shortcut back, cleaned up, and had driven to a small sheriffalty nearby. And he was just returning. With hot pizza. And root beer.
Better omitting that? Mmmmm… Probably not. But as we were waddling away from fribble pizza boxes, the grey skies melted into ecru and fire as the sunset burned away behind the saguaro studded horizon.
Me looking at a post from Flynn, checking out this look-alike gag
