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RR: Colorado Trail (Part 1)
"We all make powerful models of the future. The world we imagine seems
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 ****ing 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. ****. I try to re-seat the rim tape, but the adhesive is weak, and the tape is twisted and ruined. It doesn't work. ****. 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. ****, ****, ****. 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...] |
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