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RR: Colorado Trail (Part 2)
Day 2: Luck
There is a scene in the old Clint Eastwood movie "The Eiger Sanction", when the climb has gone totally to hell, death is in the air, and Clint looks at a fellow climber and says: "We'll make it." "I think not," says the climber. "But we shall continue with style." It is well below freezing at sunrise when I climb out of the tent, make coffee, and contemplate my crippled rig. I have two problems: even if I fix the rim tape, one spare tube is not enough margin for where I'm headed. Anyway, nothing works if I can't fix the rim tape. I pull out my first aid kit and unroll a length of surgical tape. I try it on the rim. It's a little wider than I might like, but with care it fits nicely in the space. I have no idea whether it will hold over the long term, but it will definitely do for the short term. I mount a new tube and tire, toss the (now useless) punctured tube into the camp dumpster, and pack up to go. My schedule puts me at Buffalo Creek by the end of the second day, but this will be impossible to accomplish on the singletrack. I am already way behind. I check the maps, and plot a workaround on County and Forest Service roads, maybe about twenty-five miles, with a couple thousand feet of climbing. I consider the reliability of my MacGuyver'ed rim: from Buffalo Creek, it is an easy bailout to the (aptly named) town of Bailey on U.S. 285. Ten or eleven miles. I can ride for the day, camp at Buffalo Creek, and then cross over to Bailey where I can get a cell signal to call my contact in Boulder for a pickup. My new route avoids the nasty possibility of getting stranded with a mechanical in the backcountry. OK then. This works. I have recovered well from the brutal day before, and the ride along the deserted road up the river in the cool morning air is beautiful. My spirits rise, and I make good time, climbing steadily beside the river. I bear left at an intersection of County Roads 96 and 97, and climb past the tiny towns of Foxton and Ferndale, really nothing more than a couple of roadside lodges. My legs feel great. At the end of the county road is the town of Buffalo Creek, and I don't expect much more. Much to my surprise, at the roadside in Buffalo Creek is a run- down Conoco station housed in an 1880's stone building. I peer in the window: it looks dark and closed. Damn. I wander around back, and find an open door, leading to a dusty, dark store with Gatorade and corn chips and Spam squatting on the dusty shelves. And a patch kit. The patches are useless, thick things intended for car tires, but the adhesive will work for me, and I still have plenty of patches from the kit I packed. I can't believe my luck. I buy the patch kit and a quart of Gatorade and check my maps. From here, I have a short stretch on pavement and then cut onto Forest Service doubletrack up Buffalo Creek, climbing toward Wellington Lake, and Stony Pass beyond. It's an easy ride into Green Mountain campground, a beautiful spot with campsites nestled along Buffalo Creek, swollen with runoff from the big snows in the high country. I pitch camp on the sunny afternoon and do a little laundry, washing my sweaty gear in creek water and hanging it to dry in the parched Colorado air. I see lots of people here, families who drove in through Bailey to car camp, and clutches of clean-cut teenagers from "Camp Firewalker", which I discover is a Mormon Church youth camp at Wellington Lake. They're all on mountain bikes, and regard me with wary curiosity. To go or not to go? I have a choice. From here, it is a quick ride to Bailey, to cold beer and hamburgers and rescue. Five or six miles the other direction is Stony Pass, followed by a long descent into a deserted backcountry valley. I am getting a feel for my physical limitations: I can tow the trailer for five, maybe six hours, and then my legs simply cease to function. No amount of willpower will make it possible to turn the cranks further than than that. With the glue from the Conoco patch kit in hand, I have adequate coverage for the possibility of flats. The rest of the gear is working nominally. The only (internal) variable is the MacGuyver with the surgical tape on the rim. I pull the tire and check the rim tape. I have no idea whether it will hold for another week, but a day of fireroad riding has left it none the worse for wear. I make a fire to ward off the chill, pour myself an absinthe, and weigh the risk. The external variables of weather and terrain and luck are always present, but the gear is sound. Looks like a go. I sleep like a baby, rise with the sun, and break camp in the chill morning air. The mountain peaks are hung with low clouds, and I begin to worry about the weather. I stop and ask a car camper if he's heard a weather report, and he says ten percent chance of rain. I hope he's right. I climb past Wellington Lake and head toward Stony Pass, nestled in the aspens at about 8,500 feet. I am pretty decently acclimated to 5,000 feet, but up above 7,000 my heart rate soars with the slightest effort, and I stop frequently, gasping, and stay still until the racing of my heart recedes, then continue, and repeat. The trailer is very heavy. I crest Stony Pass at around 8:00 A.M. Behind me is civilization and safety. Below me is the Hayman Burn, destroyed, abandoned, haunted. I begin the descent. |
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