RR: Colorado Trail (Part 1)
Corvus Corvax
as real as the one we've experienced. We suffuse the model with the
emotional values of past realities. And in the thrall of that vision,
we go forth and take action. If things don't go according to the plan,
revising such a robust model may be difficult. In an environment that
has high objective hazards, the longer it takes to dislodge the
imagined world in favor of the real one, the greater the risk. In
nature, adaptation is important; the plan is not. It's a Zen thing. We
must plan. But we must be able to let go of the plan, too."
-- Laurence Gonzales, "Deep Survival"
Day 1: Letting go of the plan
The rock pile rises steeply beside the clear stream, rough and eroded
and slick with gravel. I have been spending too much time on the East
Coast: I forgot about the gravel. It is ubiquitous in Colorado, a dry,
fine gravel, not quite sand, that wreaks havoc on your traction. I
park the bike and hike ahead up the rocks to get a feel for the
situation. This one's a portage. It's a good thing it's short, because
the footing sucks. I have to be very careful even when I'm not humping
a heavy load or an ungainly bike. I climb back down to the bike and
disassemble the rig, about sixty pounds of gear and water on a BOB
trailer pulled behind my hardtail. The portage will take three trips.
The plan is four days from Denver to Kenosha Pass on the Colorado
Trail, mostly singletrack for the first thirty-five or forty miles,
then across two low passes by fireroad (another thirty-five miles or
so), along a twenty-mile stretch of pavement, then a twenty-five mile
climb on fireroad and singletrack to the 10,000 foot pass. After that,
it's up to twelve-thousand foot Georgia Pass and down into Frisco,
another thirty-five miles with more than four thousand feet of
climbing. I am on the first leg of the trip, ten or twelve miles back,
and the plan is about to go out the window.
The first stretch of singletrack started out well enough. I was fresh,
and despite the heavy rig, I made steady time on the smooth
switchbacks. The Achilles heel of the BOB trailer is tight
switchbacks: the trailer tends to lay down in the turn, and then there
is no choice but to dismount and horse it around by hand. I have been
doing this every few hundred feet for miles, and the effort is taking
its toll. I'm getting tired. The trail has gradually become more
technical as it climbs above seven thousand feet, and at points I have
been reduced by the poor footing to setting my feet, bench-pressing
the bike ahead of me, setting the brakes, climbing up to the bike, and
repeating the agonizing process, three feet at a time. I figure the
bike and trailer together weigh close to a hundred pounds, and the
slow going is putting me way behind schedule. I have already worked
most of the way through a hundred-ounce Camelbak, and as I finish the
portage, I stop to filter water from the stream, another time-
consuming task. I look at my maps and figure I must be pretty close to
the summit and the descent to the the South Platte River, which is
about half the planned trip for the day.
I'm wrong about the summit part. The trail descends briefly, then
climbs again through false summits for several more miles, alternating
between smooth singletrack and frustrating, rocky terrain. It is very
slow going. Every false summit drains a little more of my spirit, and
by the time I finally summit for real, I am exhausted and demoralized.
The descent is no better: the early season trail work has left the
trail soft and treacherous, and the switchbacks are even more
problematic for the trailer going downhill than going up. The trip
down to the river is frightening and dangerous, and I am too tired
from the climb to do more than survive it. I go over the bars once,
and manage to arrest a long tumble down the steep hill. By the time I
arrive at the county road and the South Platte, I am wobbly and
shaken, my gut hollow with fear.
I am at the bottom of a two thousand foot singletrack climb, leading
to nothing but backcountry for miles. It has taken me five and a half
hours to go seventeen miles. I lunch on sausage and cheese and
consider the situation. I'm not up for another five hours like the
last, that's for fucking sure. Camping options on the steep
mountainsides are pretty much nil -- if you're not at the top or the
bottom, forget finding a place to pitch a tent. The terrain is too
steep. I have my Camelbak and four 22-ounce bottles, and I am quickly
coming to realize that this is enough for travel, but not enough to
supply an overnight camp. I'll need to spend the night near a good
water supply, and I'm not sure of the situation in the high country. I
check my map. There is a Forest Service campground about four miles up
the county road, on the river. It's still early in the afternoon, but
my legs are dead, and my spirit is crushed. Screw pride. I limp along
the dirt road to the seedy riverside campground, and crash for an
afternoon nap.
It isn't until I'm having dinner that I notice that my rear tire is
flat. I have this covered: two spare tubes and a patch kit, so I can
swap out flats on the trail and patch them later in camp. I pull the
tire and the tube, and notice that the puncture is in a very curious
spot: on the _inside_ of the tube, toward the rim. I get a sinking
feeling and look at the rim: the rim tape has slipped to the side,
exposing the spoke ends. Shit. I try to re-seat the rim tape, but the
adhesive is weak, and the tape is twisted and ruined. It doesn't work.
Shit. While I mull over the issue of the rim tape, I decide to patch
the tire. I unpack the patch kit: the adhesive tube has a tiny
puncture, and has completely dried up. Shit, shit, shit. I am suddenly
down to one spare tube, and a rim that will puncture anything I mount.
I am nowhere near a town, much less a bike shop. The sun sets over the
river, and a chill descends from the clear sky. Looks like the trip is
over.
[... to be continued...]