Dirt Worship 2010 Pt. 1

I'm sitting on my front porch with one of the few remaining beers from the camp cooler. Session 9. Fat Tire would have been my first choice, but you need an opener for those bottles and I don't feel like going into the house.

I'm tired. 1,142 miles in two days. As much as I like road trips...that one got a little long. I look up and still expect to see things whizzing by at high speed. It feels good to sit and not have to worry about steering. And to not be in the passenger seat afraid to take a nap for fear the driver will nod off after 4 hours of Interstate 80 in western Nebraska.

But the real reason I don't want to go in the house is because it's out-take from a Tommy Bahama ad in there. Tropical. I closed all the windows when I left for Dirt Worship 2010: The Crested Butte Edition, and evidently it was pretty grim heat and humidity-wise here while I was gone.

In 2003, Eric and I took a trip that we believed at the outset was to Durango, to ride mountain bikes. Crested Butte was to be a stopping point; a two day layover on our way to bigger things.

After the first day we realized we had already arrived at our destination. If the skyline of Mt. Crested Butte giving way to the Slate River valley leading down to Mt. Treasury wasn't enough to make us stay, the unimagined exhilaration the riding gave us was realized day one. The map to Durango could now be used for kindling.

Now that Eric is living in Omaha, our annual mountain bike sojourn found us going back to where it all started. We rolled in to Crested Butte late on July 28th. Poignant conversation had given way to zombie car ride exchanges by the time we hit Ogalala, which has to be some kind of a record. It wasn't long before the sight of the Rockies on the horizon caused us both to get a little goofy. That kid-on-Christmas-Eve kind of goofy. Shortly after taking a left turn at Denver, we came upon Fairplay. Fairplay is made up of several flecks of trailers, dilapidated homesteads, and expensive looking cedar homes. They're scattered around the valley floor and the foot of the mountain like the last few drops of water whipped from a paint brush. The pass gives you your first real taste of the views to come.

We grabbed a spot in the same camp area as before. I think its the perfect spot; about 6 miles from town in National Forestry land. A fire ring is all you get. And there's a picture perfect valley at the base of Mt. Treasury that you never get tired of looking at. Since there isn't much else up the road apart from a few private parcels, this would be a John Muir cul-de-sac.

For the first time, we were car camping. I say 'for the first time', because while in fact our past outings we were technically car camping, but it was just a home base. We had few frills; light tents, a mat, a bag, a book, backpacker food. That was all that was necessary. And bikes. Those are necessary.

Calories were maximized in the smallest possible vessels for the ride, with bigger carb and protein laden dinners cooked over a single burner MSR stove after the ride. Compared to the way we've done trips in the past, this year was first class. Eric spotted my queen size air mattress while packing up, and I braced to defend my position on improved camp comfort only to be relieved to find out that he had the idea too...he just didn't act on it because he thought I'd give him shit. He did however bring two sleeping pads, thinking that the double-decker foam pad theory would save him from my slings and arrows while simultaneously affording his back a bit more relief at the end of a day of riding.

But wait, it gets better.

We set up in the dark. Just a bit of spitting rain and cool enough to see my breath in the light from my headlamp. Crested Butte sits at 8,862 feet...or 9,241, depending on which novelty shirt you believe. Anyway, the point is we've been in a car for the last 12 hours and are suddenly exerting ourselves at altitude.

"Great. I'm already getting winded," I thought.

I was excited about my recent purchase; a three man tent. A real splurge thanks to REI's online clearance propaganda email. After I got everything set up, I went back to the stuff sack I propped up against the trunk of the pine above my tent.

Eric was evidently feeling optimistic about the weather and asked if I was going to use my tent's rain fly. Since it was already kinda raining as we were finishing up, I figured it was a good idea to go ahead and put it on. The last thing I wanted was to climb into my sleeping bag only to get back up just before dozing off to put the rain fly on in my shorts.

"Yeah." I said flatly, although it must've sounded something more like "yeah, dipshit" when I said it out loud, because after a pause you can insert your one word, two syllable, insult of choice for Eric's response.

Inside my tent, I laid out my prized air mattress and plugged in the handy-dandy rechargeable battery operated air compressor I picked up when I scored the mattress. Damned parallel marketing. That little gizmo fired up with a high whir and within a few seconds had my valley floor suite taking shape.

"What the...? Oh...My...? You got an inflator too??" Eric shouted from his tent. It wasn't thinly veiled envy, it was the ire of a man who held this option in his hands at his local Target store only days before, but chose to save his $34.99 instead.

You should've heard the tone in his voice when he walked back from the car and saw me tucking in the sheet.

Anyway, just as I got in, kicked my shoes off and zipped the door closed...it started to rain in earnest. This...was the sound every Sharper Image alarm clock fails to capture; a full on mountain rain shower punctuated by larger drops, randomly slipping through pine nettles. For the first time since mid-June, I welcomed the sound of the rain.

Little did we know at the time, this would be the norm for every night but one.

Journal entry for the day:

11:50 pm (mt time)
In Crested Butte - same
old camp – falling asleep
to the sound of rushing
water 20 yards away.
I have to poo.