Our plan was to take Upper Loop to Brush Creek Road, where we would take the Farris Creek trail, one of the more iconic CB rides we didn't do the first time. It was a pretty good morning after all the mist burned off. When I woke up, Mt. Treasury was draped with a single, fat line of mist. Both mornings so far our view was eclipsed, like a puffy white octopus cradling the mountain in the crook of its tentacle.
Normally mornings in town are really quiet, but this was the first day of an art fair. In addition to a couple hundred more people ambling up and down Elk Ave., there was also rumblings of the presence of Hell's Angels in town. Gunnison, the town directly south on 135, is evidently their main camp. The 25 miles between are a beautiful ride and Crested Butte is a great town to take in some street art. Who says Hell's Angels aren't cultured?
After I took in a couple blocks of the art fair while Eric called his wife, we pedaled over to Upper Loop, another ride that starts in town. You have to follow a dirt road through open valley before the single track starts, we actually blew past the trail head the first time. Eric swore, something about missing it in 2003 as well. No big deal, but Eric must've considered it a rookie mistake seeing as how there was nothing whatsoever obscuring it from view, causing a quick U-turn in some rich guy's driveway. The climb up to the ridge took a toll. It wasn't a severe incline at all, but it was long.
The altitude difference was really making itself known and I felt as though my lungs may well come out my ears. But while slogging along on the way up was a drag, the pay off was speedy and a bit challenging. After taking a breath and a drink I stopped and admired the view for a minute, and realized I had forgotten how much fun Upper Loop was.
The trail undulated at points, and if you timed it just right the inertia from coming down one slope would be just enough to get you to the top of the next. I caught on quickly and just rode those sections like I was on a carnival ride. There were a few parts that were swoopy too, with quick upward bowls that would kinda slingshot me into the air.The challenging part was the rock gardens. I'd call 'em 'baby-headed rocks'...if baby's heads had sharp corners. Thousands of 'em. Sometimes I could just rocket through and hope I didn't catch one just right and flat out, but most of the time I had to finesse my way through, quickly rocking the bike back and forth across the trail...just trying to find the right line in time.
Add to the equation exposed tree roots that were still damp from the previous day's rain and you've got parts that are slicker than deer guts on a doorknob. Slicker'n snot. And sometimes...they go up...and as soon as I'd put weight on my fork to raise up on the pedals it would slide out from under. And just for good measure, roots show up at least once in every rock garden. Every...jagged...baby-headed rock garden.
Now I know what you're thinking...”This sounds harrowing...it can't be!”Well, to be honest I was really in my element on this trail, despite the long climb out of the valley floor the first few miles. My time spent at Lebanon Hills before the trip prepared me perfectly for this trail. Everything from the swoopy bits in the Aspens, to the rocks, the roots, the quick, sharp descents. I played it like a violin. If I had been in just a bit better shape cardio-wise...I bet I could've ridden this whole section without putting down a foot.
I stopped and struck up a conversation with some hikers where the trail met the Whestone Rd turn. It seems if you live up in this area, you get a private trail. Anyway, right around the time I started explaining that I wasn't alone, but rather riding with a buddy that should be coming along any...
“DAMMIT!” Eric yelled from beyond the turn, followed by a string of obscenities that would put you in mind of the Old Man in A Christmas Story, swearing at the Bumpus's dogs next door. Or a foul-mouthed Yosemite Sam.
Two things were wrong here; Eric always swears, but never this much. Something must be seriously awry. He sounded angry, not puckered up. The other and somewhat less important (from Eric's point of view) was that this couple had a kid with them. Eric's swear throttle must've nearly exploded when he came up and saw that the couple had a little person with them.
As it turns out, Eric tried to adjust the air in his frame shock on the trail. He wanted a bit more plush. He pressed the release valve quickly. “Tst!” Just a little. Well, in a shock...a little is a lot. The pressure is much higher in a frame shock than in your tires. Even in your front shock, for that matter. He wanted a bit more plush and ended up with all plush. Or, nothing. Depending on your point of view. The end result was bottoming out on every drop and a hard rebound after every obstacle, makes you feel like the bike is going to buck you off.
Obviously Farris Creek wasn't going to happen today. We were already more than an hour from town and storm clouds were gathering. A more foreboding looking octopus was approaching the range. The new plan was to ride back to town at Brush Creek Rd, have lunch and increase the shock's pressure at the car, then ride Upper Loop again.
What a great day. It was clear and sunny, maybe 85 degrees and no humidity in town. There was a rumble of thunder every now and then, low. You had to kind of be listening for it, otherwise it just blends in with the town noise. Like when you lightly pound against your neighbor's aluminum horse tank swimming pool, leaned against the shed for winter storage.
If you sat too long in one spot in the sun, you'd start to feel scorched a bit...then a breeze would come through and cool everything down. A Toyota with a huge dog in the back drove by. Twice. On the second trip, Eric hollered at the driver and asked him what kind of dog it was. A Malamute. A real mountain-type dog. Hair all matted and nasty. Right next to him was a Shih-tzu in the ultimate pet owner paradox. I'll bet the guy's wife is high maintenance. That or else he's a dainty mountain man trying to express his duality.
The second time up the mountain to Upper Loop was no better than the first. However this time, I knew exactly what was coming. Eric wasn't nutty about taking the same bit of singletrack we did last time, but I saw this as a chance to play his normal role for a moment. See, Eric is a very driven guy. He is adventurous and pushes himself to excel all the time. Many times he has spurred me on in situations like this, so I responded in kind.
“Don't you think this part would be easier, now that your bike is adjusted properly?” I asked.
He took a drink and and motioned for me to take point. He only needed someone to ignite the drive. Out of all the times he's given me an option in the past, one that makes the trail a little tougher or a climb a little higher, I have about a 60-40 record. I usually decline, taking into account how I feel or how optimistic I am. So far this trip, I hadn't declined anything and I was hoping to maintain that momentum and to somehow have it be contagious to Eric.
The adjustment made all the difference. He held my wheel the whole way down the descent back to the car. Just as we were loading up to go back to town, we caught a glimpse of what we would've been in if we had gone on to Farris Creek the first time around.
Huge, inky black clouds rumbled heavy all along Strand Mountain just above the valley we would've been in. Completely exposed. With lightning strikes. We had made it back to the car about 5 minutes before the serious rain started, and rolled back into town in time to find vendors scrambling to get their shit covered.
But meanwhile, inside Maxwell's, we discovered another local treasure. Crested Butte Rodeo Oatmeal Stout. It's black as motor oil with a brown foamy head. Not as foamy as Guinness, and it dissipates quicker. Just a little smokey. It's lighter than you'd expect it to be, and a fine way to wait out a rainstorm.
Back at camp we found that the storm had rolled through before it hit town. Everything had a dirt coating around it, about seven inches up from the ground. Like a dirt skirt. On the upside, everything in the tent was bone dry. Good purchase.
I crawled in bed at 9:30 or 10 and read for a bit. It started raining again, not hard but consistent...and went all night as near as I can tell.
Journal entry for the day:
10pm Day 2
Altitude really messes with your lungs.
Rode 14 or so miles – big, big rainstorm
interrupted things. Camp wasn't hit hard,
but everything in the tent was bone dry.
Good luck! Tomorrow – farris loop.
Thanks for the push. Seriously.
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