I mentioned it before, but let me just say again that the new little Coleman stove was the belle of the ball. Your food choices change drastically when you've got one of these babies. We had tried pancakes in camp before, with dismal results. Campcakes.This is the true test.
If you're sitting around camp one morning, with just one MSR WhisperLite camp stove, and some guy says “Hey, want some pancakes?”, just go ahead and refuse. They might as well say “Hey, want some half cooked batter wrapped in scorch?” That's what happens with campcakes. You start pouring the batter into an 8” shallow pot and invariably overshoot on how much batter is going to come out. So as you jerk your hand to the next available spot when that cake gets too big and the batter slops over one side causing you to shuffle as you sit there on your haunches, thighs burning from the length of time you've hovered over the thing. Next thing you know you're flat on your ass and the bottle of batter is headed for the dirt. Lurching up to catch the batter bottle causes a bit of a splash and by the time you've cleared the globs out of your eyebrows you realize the one big one you poured only seconds ago is starting to burn because you left the stove on high.
This was different. There was plenty of room for a 14”, non-stick pan. The heat was even and controlled. The stove was at a comfortable height. There was no sticking. We had nice, warm pancakes with syrup.
“We shoulda brought bacon.” Eric said.
I dropped my fork on the plate. “Aw man, bacon. I almost did. I didn't think it would keep.”
Bear in mind that I also had the foresight to bring two complete sets of cutlery. Eric has two, but the set I always end up with isn't good for much. It's plastic, and the tips of the spork are all boogered up, so you can't really get a handle on anything you're trying to cut with the accompanying knife.
Pancakes were the perfect fuel for the day, the complete ride we had intended for the day before. We knocked out Upper Loop in no time, second nature. We hit Brush Creek Road and gained a little elevation before descending into the valley between Double Top Mountain and Mt. Crested Butte. We bombed down the other side with confidence; we had seen this road before, twice on our previous trip. Plus the clouds had cleared off, leaving an idyllic mountain morning.
You can take all the pictures you want. You can write songs and sonnets. You can spend an entire night of bacchanalia to describe this valley...and none come remotely close to taking in its splendor first hand. Forget being beyond description, it is beyond comprehension, the beauty of this place. Thick wild grasses leading to the tree line. Larkspur and Fireweed slowly dissolving up the side of the mountain, with peaks that combine amazing shades of grey and brown that I am sure are mimicked on the living room walls of the condos near town. Big, puffy white clouds dotting a shade of blue sky that just doesn't exist anywhere else. There is only one man-made structure, an old homestead with a cattle pen near the road on the valley's edge closest to town. Other than that, there is no evidence of anything apart from the wild.
I was overwhelmed, clearly. Staring out over the expanse, it became obvious just how relaxed I was. My back was loose and limber. No stomach issues. My jaw was completely relaxed. Standing there at the trail head where we were to begin our climb toward Farris Creek, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be. I felt welcome. Home.
The trail to Farris Creek is shared by a few other rides. I think one hooked up with Trail 409, the other goes further up to Strand Hill. Strand Hill...that was our second hardest day last time. Even though Eric was way ahead of me on the climb, I was consistent. Slow, but consistent. I didn't have to stop, I just kept the bike one ring above my lowest gear and kept grinding. Of course with scenery like this, it wasn't a grind. I didn't mind the slow pace.
We ran into a couple groups of steers. I'll never forget, standing there with my bike in front of me, waiting for them to move. They just stared blankly, as did I. One even bluff charged. Suddenly over my right shoulder Eric let out a piercing “HIYAH!” and they all started to move. In different directions, but they moved. I follow, not realizing I'm rolling my bike through fresh cowpie. That'll be nice on the next downhill, slinging up in my face. In the middle of it all, there's one confused but randy steer that kept trying to mount the others...it was pandamonium for a few seconds.
The next several miles were on what you'd call a 'false-flat'. The trail looked as flat at the pancakes we had at breakfast, but in fact was just a slight tilt up. The dirt was soft and loose, and made my bike feel like it weighed 100 pounds. But again, there was so much to admire and appreciate...I really didn't mind.
Eric was way in front and hit the next fork well before I did. It was the downhill. It looked a lot like Baby Head Rock Road in Butcher Creek out in Downieville, CA. But remember that the babies have jagged heads here. He motioned to the trail like it was a prize, like Monty Hall gesturing to to curtain number 3. Without hesitation, I jumped on the offer to take point. I'd say it was a 5 or 6% grade. Some pretty steep drops here and there, about 2 feet each. As usual, there were exposed roots all over.
I don't know...something happens when I take a downhill, especially one with obstacles. As if everything but the trail goes out of focus with a low whoosh, but everything for the next 15 yards in front is crystal clear. It's very Zen for me. I just let my body go loose...let the bike do the work. I only point it. This section must've lasted a good 20 minutes, and at the end I propped my bike up against the trail sign and looked back up and marveled at what I'd just ridden. Gad, it was so good.
When Eric joined me at the bottom, we took the last bit of singletrack together. It was fast and swoopy, complete with a creek crossing at the bottom. I barreled through, right between some guy and his two kids that were frolicking in the water. As I climbed up the other side of the creek bed and rejoined the trail, I heard one of the kids yell “that was awesome!”.
Once again, we were just ahead of the rain. Nothing makes a downhill go faster than the gentle push of Mother Nature...in this instance, consistent thunder coming from the dark blue clouds behind us. We pedaled along side one another and talked about the high points of the ride and of course, what was on the menu for dinner that night.
The hill that we so confidently bombed down 3 hours earlier wasn't as much fun in this direction, and Eric quickly put 100 yards or so between us. The temperature was falling pretty quickly, maybe 10 degrees in 15 or so minutes, and when I reached Eric at the top of the climb I stopped to put on my rain jacket, both to take a bite out of the chill and the fact that it looked like we were going to get caught by the storm. The dark blue clouds behind us had turned black, and more storm clouds had gathered just behind the entire range to the east.
I hauled ass back to town from there, which was dirt road for a short time, then asphalt to the bike path that cuts along the edge of a little golf club community. All the along the path, I watched the storm grow by the second. Ground strikes went from quick flashes to long discharges that lasted 3 and 4 seconds. Each time the thunder clap was right behind it, sounding off like the crack from a starter's pistol and a percussive rumble following that. I shifted to high gear and pedaled for all I was worth...which wasn't much.
The downhill had drained everything I had left from my thighs, and the slight cramping in my hands from all the braking made the muscles feel like rigor mortis was about to set in. But I was moved by the idea of actually beating the storm. I thought we would when we started the descent, then thought we wouldn't at the top of the climb out. If I just kept at it for another mile and a half, the only dampness I'd have to contend with would be portions of my jersey due to sweat...plus every few seconds I could hear a single raindrop on my helmet or the back of my jacket. I felt them on my calf. The rain was like a hand, clutching to grab me but could only reach with brushing fingertips.
After getting changed, the full weight of the storm had hit town and it was obvious that it wasn't letting up any time soon. Usually the storms would swoop in, rain for half an hour, then swoop off and you could enjoy the rest of the afternoon. This storm seemed to want to stick around.
Our afternoon pint was at Maxwell's again. Crested Butte Rodeo Oatmeal Stout. Again. It kept raining, so it became 2 pints and some chips with queso. More rain equals 3 pints. And hot wings. I looked outside at the deluge, still strong and steady. It was really putting the gutter systems through the paces. I reminded Eric that we had no cover apart from our tents in camp, and that I had no intention of standing in the rain waiting for dinner to cook. It took little convincing, and we ended up at Donita's Cantina. We'd had good luck there the previous trip. I went with the special for the night which was your standard combo plate, but with two gorgeous enchiladas cutting the plate down the center. One with a blue corn flour tortilla, and the other was fluffy and crispy at the same time. Hot wings. Beer. Mexican food. Man, I knew for sure my stomach was going to be miserable laying in that tent.
But as I climbed into my bag for the night and lay there, staring at my headlight on the ceiling, there was nothing. No heartburn. No acid. No sour stomach at all.
“Crested Butte is magic”, I thought.
Playing the day back in my head, the thing that stood out most of all was a really nice comment from Eric, something I'm sure was nothing big to him...but it really impacted me. We were walking in the rain, on our way to Donita's, and as per usual our conversation had drifted back to the ride.
“You're riding the best I've seen you ride.” he said at one point.
You see, cycling is a great individual sport. You can go alone or with other people and it still rocks. Seeing as how I have a great deal of time on my own, its a perfect way for me to get exercise. But riding alone and without any kind of electronic gizmos that tell you how far you went and how fast and blah blah blah, you have no real way of measuring your abilities. You can watch your time and see if you can shave a few minutes off...other than that it is difficult to track progress. Being such a strong rider, the fact that he remarked on my progress really made my day.
Tomorrow is the ride we drove out here for: Trail 401. Still raining. In fact its coming down hard enough now to be a bit maddening.
Journal entry for the day:
Day 3 – 7:30 pm
Sooo tired. And full of
mexican food. Rode farris
creek, just over 20 miles
2,000 ft of elevation gain. Getting
down was simply incredible.
just missed the p.m. storm but
still raining now. Inside tent is dry!
good purchase.
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