Living a dream on the Great Divide. (photo by Paul Brasby)
I can tell stories and describe individual experiences, but I find it impossible to summarize in words my 51 days on the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route. I was out there, living a 20+ year old dream, every day, over the span of 7 weeks. Words alone are inadequate. Maybe a collection of images can express this journey, from beginning to end, in a single post.
Reviewing hundreds of amazing images taken by my cycling buddy and talented photographer Paul Brasby, as well as hundreds more from me, I chose one image to represent each day. Of course, so much more happens in a 10+ hour day on the bike than can be shown in one image. But this will present at least a glimpse of my 7 week ride in a single slide show of less than 5 minutes.
Alternatively, I reproduced each of the images below, with a short caption, if you prefer to scroll through.
Thank you, Paul, for capturing many of the first 25 images. Thank you, Raymond Bleesz, for the remarkable portraits you took in that little Colorado aspen grove near Gore Pass.
Day 0 - Ready to roll from Rapid City, SD. (photo by Paul Brasby)
Day 1 - Go Time at Roosville, MT. (photo by Colleen Groseth)
Day 2 - Whitefish Divide view of Glacier N.P. (photo by Paul Brasby)
Day 3 - Spinning with the Vegan Cyclist crew.
Day 4 - Trail Angels Paul & Marlene, along with California Ken. (photo by Paul Brasby)
Day 5 - Clearwater Lake dispersed camp. (photo by Paul Brasby)
Day 6 - Grizzly Basin single track with grizzly scat. (photo by Paul Brasby)
Day 7 - John welcomes us to Lost Llama Ranch.
Day 8 - Abandoned equipment at the Empire Mine. (photo by Paul Brasby)
Day 9 - Heft-a-bike up Lava Mountain. (photo by Paul Brasby)
Day 10 - Mining tailings out of Basin, MT. (photo by Paul Brasby)
Day 11 - Riding down Fleecer Ridge!
Day 12 - Recovering at Elk Horn Hot Springs. (photo by Paul Brasby)
Day 13 - High plains drifting toward Bannack State Park. (photo by Paul Brasby)
Day 14 - Entering rainy Big Sheep Canyon. (photo by Paul Brasby)
Day 15 - Great Divide peloton to Red Rocks N.W.R. (photo by Paul Brasby)
Day 16 - Yellowstone Branch Line rail trail in Idaho. (photo by Paul Brasby)
Day 17 - Climbing to Grand Teton N.P.
Day 18 (Zero Day) - Grand Teton N.P. (photo by Paul Brasby)
Day 19 - Reward after Togwatee Pass.
Day 20 - Top of Union Pass! Yeah!
Day 21 - Dropping out of the mountains to Pinedale, WY.
Day 22 - Yearning for the Great Basin.
Day 23 - Into the Great Wide Open.
Day 24 - Great Basin headwinds, finally!
Later Day 24 - Paul shuttles home. (photo by Matt Brasby)
Day 25 - Aspen Alley dispersed camp.
Day 26 - An extended stay at Brush Mountain Ranch.
Day 27 - Watershed Divide climb to Steamboat Springs, CO.
Day 28 (Zero Day) - Cara & Colleen meet me at Steamboat Springs, CO.
Day 29 - Surprise visitor to my remote dispersed camp. (photo by Raymond Bleesz)
Day 30 - Long, steep descent to the Colorado River.
Day 31 - Drizzly day up Ute Pass.
Day 32 - Celebrating good times with an old friend.
Day 33 - Truly solo out of Como, CO.
Day 34 - Climbing toward Marshall Pass.
Day 35 - Upper Dome Reservoir dispersed camp.
Day 36 - Into the forest up Carnero Pass.
Day 37 - Two track goodness out of La Garita, CO.
Day 38 - Grinding up Indiana Pass, the highest at 11,910'.
Day 39 - Apache Creek dispersed campsite in New Mexico.
Day 40 - Welcome to New Mexico, pilgrim.
Day 41 - Skirting rain to Abiquiu.
Day 42 - Final pitch up Polvadera Mesa. 'Nuff said.
Day 43 - Descent off Polvadera Mesa isn't exactly easy.
Day 44 - Before the monsoon strikes outside Cuba, NM.
Day 45 - Sunrise at Hospah Chapel.
Day 46 - Toaster House in Pie Town, NM.
Day 47 - Into the monsoons of Gila N.F.
Day 48 - Monsoon turns my road into a river.
Day 49 - Recent monsoons still running off.
Day 50 - Cactus forest in the Chihuahuan Desert.
Day 51 - Buffalo Crossing on the final stretch to Mexico.
Day 51 Money Shot - Pure joy & utter disbelief at Antelope Wells. (photo by Cyler Groseth)
USFS Secondary Road 150 turns into a raging river on my second day out of Pie Town. To get to this spot where the road surface is visible, I walked over a mile uphill along the flooded road.
Relaxing at the Toaster House in Pie Town, I spread out my map, cue sheets, book and notes to assess the upcoming stretch of the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route. It's almost 190 miles and 12,000 feet of elevation gain through the rugged mountains of Gila National Forest, with no commercial re-supply and very little development of any kind. I'll be alone out there, so I must carefully plan food and water. And work to steer clear of trouble.
The long, high altitude, big mountain climbs are behind me, but these New Mexican back roads are not to be underestimated. As I've learned, the general elevation profiles of the ACA maps show a nice overview of big elevation changes, but are not detailed enough to show shorter ups and downs. Those little guys add up, as it's difficult to settle into a sustainable rhythm on repeated steeper pitches on rocky, rutted roads.
In an unexpected twist, the roads in New Mexico get wetter and softer as I ride south. Four locals in Cuba and two in Grants each tell me that monsoon season arrived about a month late, destroying my best laid plan to avoid them by starting at the Canadian border in late July. In addition to almost daily afternoon showers, I got hammered with a monsoon on the first day out of Cuba. Without warning, the front wind burst of that storm almost knocked me off the bike and drove me to cover under some rocks. Horizontal rain for 20+ minutes created calf deep torrents of water all around me. I lost an hour of pedaling and all my energy for the day. Those monsoons are no joke.
I believe the 190 miles from Pie Town to Silver City may be possible for me in two long days in ideal conditions, more likely three solid days under reasonable conditions, and possibly four+ days under unreasonable, monsoon conditions. I decide to pack three days of food, ample snacks, and an additional liter of water. I also pack an extra load of caution, as I don't relish the idea of an injury or bike failure back there.
Leaving Pie Town through the remnants of yesterday's monsoon.
Roads start to dry at the base of the climb into San Antoine Canyon.
Fueled with day old Strawberry Lemon Rhubarb pie, I ride out of Pie Town on soggy W. Bar Road. With all the recent rain, vehicle traffic to Pie Town Pies creates deep ruts and pot holes filled with water. Even where less torn up by mud, the road is wash boarded. Good morning to an unexpected slug fest.
After about 20 miles of that nice warmup, the road surface improves when I finally turn to start a gradual 8.5 mile climb up San Antoine Canyon to cross the Continental Divide. As I'm about to crest, I see movement in the forest. It's an elk hunter at a dispersed campsite right off the dirt road moving toward me and yelling, "Hey! Do you need anything?" I say thanks, I'm good. He keeps at it, "I just made breakfast and my buddy went back to sleep. Would you like something to eat?" Well, I would be stopping for lunch soon anyhow, so I may as well stop here with him. Turns out, George from Albuquerque is an excellent cook and conversationalist. That is time well spent.
A-F Ranch offers roadside water and snacks for GDMBR riders. Meanwhile, Bursum Road stretches toward the mountains.
Yeah, my road heads straight up the mountain to the darkest of those clouds.
Back on the bike, I drop quickly to the Plains of San Agustin, a surprising expanse of grassland with a couple of large cattle ranches. Just like that, I'm riding into a stiff headwind and blazing sun through open prairie. This is country that overheats in a hurry. As I enjoy the big view, a road runner sprints up alongside me and then accelerates across the road. I couldn't catch it, not even for a picture. No coyote in sight.
The road goes on, as does the heat and wind, almost like the dry grasslands of Wyoming. My mind drifts to the emptiness of the Great Basin, but jumps back to New Mexico when I spot a sign "GDMBR WATER" next to two containers by the road. It's the celebrated A-F Ranch water/snack stash for Great Divide riders. I really don't need anything, but I fill a water bottle and jot a note in their journal. At this remote location, however, it's easy to see these provisions making all the difference to some.
Slugging up Y Canyon shortly after that afternoon's monsoon. Some parts are rideable.
Relatively dry spot to camp just off the Continental Divide.
I study a serious issue overhead to the southwest, where heavy clouds aggressively hurl down sheets of water to the beat of thunder and the flash of lightening. Even though that chaos is probably more than 10 miles away, I'm heading directly into it. As Bursum Road turns to climb Y Canyon, the angry storm dissipates and moves away to the south. Somehow I avoid the heaviest rain, but water-filled pot holes and ruts abound. I'm back to another muddy slug fest, now at the end of the day while climbing up a canyon toward yet another Continental Divide crossing.
It's really slow going in the sludge. As soon as I enter Gila National Forest, I search for a place to disperse camp. No dice. The few spots that are relatively flat hold standing water. So, I keep climbing, mostly pedaling, but sometimes walking. This mud is a mess. When a bicycle tire makes a 2 inch deep rut in the road, it's a mess. About 8 miles later, almost to the Continental Divide, I finally find a small place to camp. Daylight wanes and new storm clouds gather, so I quickly set up camp, eat, and turn in.
Thinking of the ride tomorrow, I recognize that today's ride was a long, comfortably hard day in the saddle for me. After all, I rode 68 miles with 3,000 feet of elevation gain through early mud, up a hot climb, across a hot, windy prairie, and then up a muddy climb in the rain. That's another really good day for me on the Great Divide, made possible and even enjoyable by all the long days over many weeks behind me. Every day, I am stronger, physically, mentally, and emotionally. I love this journey.
Nothing like starting the day atop the Continental Divide!
Yes, those are pronghorns in a meadow right on the Continental Divide.
At first light, I cross the Continental Divide at almost 8,000 feet, I discover a meadow overflowing with wildflowers of every color and so big it looks like a prairie with mountains on the horizon. Then, the real shocker. A large herd of pronghorn dash across the road and disappear over a rise. Pronghorn! Up here! Atop the Continental Divide!
Along the top of this ridge, the road is still wet from yesterday's rain, but rideable. Descending O Bar O Canyon, however, soon deteriorates into a game of weaving around standing water and plowing through mud. Occasionally, mud cakes the bike to a stop and I'm off, walking and sometimes carrying the bike. Downhill. What could be a fast, fun, occasionally rough descent turns into another messy start to the day.
Emerging from that canyon muck almost 10 miles later, I roll along a lumpy, bumpy road. Now, it's hot. Like yesterday, the early mud gives way to heat and headwinds as I gradually climb to the Beaverhead Work Center. There I find several buildings of different sorts scattered around, but see no people at all. There is a public water pump, outhouse and picnic table, so I stop for water and lunch in the shade. The sun shines bright in a clear sky. Little do I know that a monsoon builds beyond the horizon.
No fast, easy descent off the Continental Divide. Not on muddy O Bar O Road.
Rolling toward Beaverhead Work Center.
From Beaverhead Work Center, I briskly descend to picturesque Wall Lake, a particularly low spot in this area drawing water from all sides. Just a bit beyond the lake, a monsoon strikes without warning. I'm in the wrong place at the wrong time. I dismount before the wind dismounts me and huddle in full rain gear against a wide tree on higher ground well off the road.
In a flash, hurricane-like winds drive heavy rains and hail. Temperatures drop from 85 to 55 in minutes. The earth here only grudgingly accepts water, so it just sits on anything flat, but runs off every little grade at great speed. Within a few minutes, my road is a raging river several feet deep. I think I'm standing high enough above the road, but the gap is closing. I look up the mountainside to my right for even higher ground and see instantaneous streams now cascading toward the road, many of which are 5-10 feet wide. This better end soon.
It does not. That angry wind howls for over 20 minutes, and the heavy rain pounds for 20 minutes more. Water everywhere continues to rise and moves even faster downhill. My spot of refuge keeps me above the raging surface water, but not from the wind-driven rain and hail.
The sudden, heavy rain creates instant waterfalls on the opposing cliff.
Just a moment later from the same spot as above, heavier rain and hail obliterate sight of that cliff.
As abruptly as it began, the monsoon ends, leaving an occasional sprinkle, an overcast sky, and water everywhere. It's now close to 3:00 pm, everything is soaked, I'm still over 15 miles to my planned safe haven of the primitive USFS Upper Black Canyon campground, and my road is now a river. I briefly consider camping right there, but anything reasonably flat is under water. I must follow the route south to gain altitude to get above the massive amount of run-off surrounding me.
I walk parallel to the road along the mountainside, but progress is painfully slow due to downed trees and those flash flood streams cascading from above. Every step delivers water into my shoes and most steps plunge my entire shoe under water. Many times I have no choice but to ford one of those flash flood streams, with water mid-calf to knee deep. I work to keep my loaded bike's bottom bracket and hubs above water, but I'm not always successful. It's over a mile before I can even see the surface of the road.
After 3 miles of almost all walking, I gain over 750 feet of elevation, but find little relief from the water. The road then drops into another valley that somehow is less flooded. So, after crossing Diamond Creek, I'm able to ride the final 8 mile 1,500 foot climb to higher ground. With no great spot to camp up there, I pick my way down a steep, slippery 2 miles to Black Canyon campground. After almost 4 hours of battling the aftermath of the monsoon, I finally reach a place of rest. Daylight fades.
No riding that road now.
USFS Secondary Road 150 finally shows its surface over a mile uphill.
I quickly set up camp, change out of my wet clothes into somewhat less wet Smart Wool base layers, re-fill water bottles from the stream, eat dinner, and crawl inside my tent before another storm hits. My SeaToSummit Extreme liner not only adds warmth, but protects my down sleeping bag a bit from my wet base layers and from me. I'm grateful to be in my tent, done for the day.
Thankfully, throughout it all, I never feel cold. I believe that results from staying fully hydrated and fueled, moving forward without over-exerting, keeping a level, problem solving mindset, and wearing quality gear. I cannot more highly recommend my Showers Pass Refuge hooded jacket and all my Smart Wool products, including socks, liner gloves, skull cap, ear band, stocking cap, and especially top and bottom base layers, as well as the Sea To Summit eVent water proof compression bags protecting my down sleeping bag and hoodie. Those products earn their way on a day like today.
On paper, or on the computer screen, today looks like a very ordinary 60 mile/3,500 feet gain day. Maybe it is. Indeed, the early mud, the hot and windy climbs, and the afternoon rain and mud all sound a lot like yesterday. Although today tossed in a memorable monsoon in a tight spot, every day on the Great Divide seems to throw something in your face. Yeah. It's just another great day on the Great Divide.
Crossing the CDT (Continental Divide Trail) near Rocky Canyon.
Yesterday's monsoon run-off still running over roads the next morning.
Waking to the rushing sounds of bloated Black Canyon Creek, I pack all that wet gear and study my map over coffee to sketch out the day. I sit 60 miles and 6,000 feet of elevation gain from Silver City, with most all that climbing split between first thing and last hurrah. The Gila is relentless.
Since my campground is down by a creek at the bottom of a canyon, the road immediately claws up over 1,000 feet in 3 miles to reach the top of a mesa. And, for the third straight day, it's a mud fest right from the start. Not for the first time, I spin that super low 24x42 granny gear to inch my way up. (For the 1X drivetrain crowd, that's equivalent to 32x56, or 36x63).
The recent monsoons leave water everywhere, including ankle-to-knee deep streams running haphazardly across the road. During the short descent into Rocky Canyon, I ford such streams 21 times, with the depth and force of water increasing as the road drops elevation. I manage to ride through them without incident, but attribute that to my Jones 29+ mountain bike and wide 2.60 inch tires. This is no place to crash.
Spirt Canyon Lodge & Shop claims to love cyclists, but I found no one there.
Climbing Trail Of The Mountain Spirits National Scenic Byway.
I haven't seen a soul since George the elk hunter two days ago. Now atop North Star Mesa right on the Continental Divide, I see or hear a vehicle with elk hunters regularly. They are consistently friendly and courteous to me. Maybe they appreciate the visibility and familiar color of my bright orange ChristianCycling team kit. More than anything, I think they are simply curious and respectful of a solo bicycle rider traveling through this remote, rugged land.
After a final dirt descent to Highway 35, I cruise the next 12 miles of down right delightful pavement. The sun burns brightly to microwave the exposed road, but I'm air cooled by speed generated wind. In no time, I coast into the Lake Roberts Camp Store for water and lunch. I celebrate completing the morning ride out of the mud, but know that fully half the day's climbing looms ahead.
In the full heat of a cloudless, windless, 98 degree New Mexican day, I start the climb up Wild Horse Mesa on the Trail Of The Mountain Spirits National Scenic Byway. This narrow, no shoulder, winding road is stuffed with vehicle traffic, some of whom take exception to this cyclist's mere presence. I just smile and wave to everyone and most reciprocate.
This bad boy doesn't mess around. The first 3 miles gain over 1,200 feet and the following 7 miles gain another 1,000. Yes, it's steep. It's hot. It's long. It's exposed to the sun and to unfriendly traffic. But it's not a mud fest through a raging monsoon on a remote dirt road. And the views keep getting bigger.
Pinos Altos, New Mexico.
A final Continental Divide crossing before descending into Silver City, New Mexico.
Eventually, I drop into Pino Altos, which doesn't offer much but an RV campground. I roll on to Silver City and stop at a mom-and-pop motel. With plenty of heat and some sunlight left in the day, I lay out absolutely everything to dry, shower for the first time since The Toaster House, and enjoy a cooked meal at a restaurant. Living large in the big city.
In three magnificently challenging days, my 190 mile adventure into Gila National Forest is over. I know that I belong out here. A powerful sense of accomplishment gives way to simple gratitude for the opportunity and ability to joyfully ride through this beautiful, unforgiving land.
The Chihuahuan Desert awaits. Antelope Wells lies just beyond the horizon.
Ain't no doubt about it, baby, it's you I aim to please
I'd wrestle with a lion and a grizzly bear
It's my life, baby, but I don't care
Aint that tough enough
Aint that tough enough
Aint that tough enough
Aint that tough enough
Tuff Enuff, Kim Wilson (1986)
Beautiful scenery, but no 360 degree summit view atop Polvadera Mesa. The reward rests within.
Everyone asks questions about the extremes on the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route. The most mileage. The highest elevation. The longest day. The heaviest rain. The strongest wind. The coldest night. The hottest day. The worst road. The biggest. The baddest. The craziest. The coolest.
Well, alright. Here's the toughest climb, among many hard climbs on the Great Divide. For example, Montana basically is riding up and down one pass just to reach another. Right off the bat is the Whitefish Divide and Red Meadow Divide, then Stemple Pass, Lava Mountain, Fleecer Ridge, Union Pass, and others each deliver some version of nastiness. In Colorado, the climbs generally are longer, more gradual, and better surfaced, but throw down different challenges of higher elevation with more exposure to thunderstorms. There are plenty of tough climbs of all kinds on this route.
However, for me, hands down, the toughest climb on the entire route is the 27 miles from Abiquiu up Polvadera Mesa in the Jemez Mountains of New Mexico. All others can leg wrestle for second place.
It's not obvious on paper. The climb does not ascend a named pass or a big mountain summit. It's not even above tree line. And it doesn't cross the Continental Divide. But it's not only a relentlessly aggressive climb for every inch of the final 12 miles, the terrain actually gets tougher with each successive mile. Of course, there's no town, no ranch, no cabin, no water, not even a stock tank, and no other traffic for any help. You're on your own. No other climb puts it all together like Polvadera Mesa.
Nice gravel gradually climbing from Abiquiu, at least at the beginning.
The night before my climb up Polvadera Mesa, I relax on a bed in a shed at the Retreat On The River outside Abiquiu. After a slow moving morning catching up with text messages over breakfast burritos at Bode's, I finally leave at close to 10:00 am with 2 days of food and a full load of water.
Even on a less than blistering 90-some degree day, that 7 liters of water turns out to be barely enough. If ever riding this stretch again, I would drink as much water as possible beforehand, carry at least another liter of water, and leave a couple of hours before sunrise. It is a long, hard, hot, dry day on the bike.
After just a mile of pavement out of Abiquiu, the route turns to good gravel and climbs steadily along Abiquiu Creek. I pass an occasional, well-worn house, but see no people or activity. Even the dogs are quiet in the late morning heat. After about 4 miles I cross Abiquiu Creek, but it's far too early to need water. Know that the next perennial surface water is over 60 rough miles and 7,000 feet of elevation gain away.
Less than another 4 miles farther, the route turns west on USFS Low Standard Road 27 across a dry plateau and climbs directly toward the mesa. This section is about as fast as it gets today, although it's exposed and occasionally soft. I find a warmup rhythm and just a couple miles later, now about 10 miles from Abiquiu, I cross a cattle guard to enter Santa Fe National Forest. I stop to grab a drink, snack, and some shade in the rising heat of the day. Little do I know that the climb is just beginning.
Turning upward into Sante Fe National Forest, the road immediately deteriorates.
Immediately upon entering Santa Fe National Forest, Road 27 "deteriorates," as the ACA cue sheets say. As I have learned, the detailed ACA maps and cue sheets are very accurate on distances and directions, but display an almost comical understatement of difficulty. For example, a notation that an incline is "steep" often is so vertical that I'm pushing the bike at some point. In the case of Road 27, I can see the boundary of the National Forest just by the look of the road. So, yeah, it "deteriorates."
The next 2 miles jump up abruptly and then drop just as much in 3 chunky miles. This short descent is the only one all day, but it's all hands on deck to keep the bike upright through the loose rocks. It certainly is not a relaxing payoff for the first 12 miles of climbing from Abiquiu.
At a little over 15 miles, basically at the bottom of that short drop, Road 27 jolts up with a sweeping turn toward the southwest. I've been riding mostly uphill for well over 2 hours, but the money climb starts now. 12 miles of relentless, increasingly difficult up.
By now, the mid-day sun cooks and the high desert wind dries, so I duck under some shade off-road to prepare body and mind for the task confronting me. By the elevation profile on the ACA map, the next 12 miles look to gain about 3,000 feet at a relatively consistent gradient. If I can settle into a sustainable rhythm, I think I can manage the distance and elevation gain in a few hours, even on this road in this heat.
In Santa Fe National Forest, the road gets rougher, although a short drop lies ahead. To the west is 9,852' Cerro Pedernal, an ancient volcano.
"Sustainable rhythm?" laughs Road 27, "Ha!" This is now an all out assault of punchy pitches through loose rocks, then ruts, then sand, then embedded rocks, and then random combinations of any and all of the above. There's no break, no pause, no relief, in gradient or surface. To keep the bike moving uphill, every pedal stroke is an all out effort, physically, mentally and emotionally.
So, I ride. And, I stop. Repeatedly and frequently, I stop for shade and drinks. Then, I ride. Road 27 is relentless and cruel, taking me directly into the sun as temperatures crank into the 90's. Shade is found only off-road and water is found only in the bottles carried. I begin to wonder if 7 liters of water will be enough.
I spot some hard rock surface and think this could be more rideable, maybe something like Moab slick rock. No such luck. It's hardened lava, or some form of bedrock, with large, irregular lumps and deep depressions often filled with sand. Rhythm is impossible with the constantly changing surface up the steep pitch. I weave back and forth, fighting to pick a line through the obstacle minefield.
The hard rock bed surface comes and goes, connected with stretches of rutted dirt and sand. Eventually, the hard rock surface gives way to simply sand, which at least is consistent. Even in my lowest gear, it's like doing a heavy leg press with every pedal stroke. Meanwhile, the gradient and heat give no quarter.
Clearing the hard rock and sand, the final pitch shifts to loose rocks and ruts.
Finally clear of the worst of the sand, I stop yet again. Throughout the challenging array of surfaces, Road 27 relentlessly, aggressively pitches upward without even a hint of respite. It's just a steady, steep incline up an unsteady, ever-changing primitive road in the searing sun. I earn those 3,000 vertical feet over 12 miles at the barely pedestrian rate of 3-4 miles per hour. That's when I'm moving.
The afternoon slips away, along with most of my water. I need to find the top of this thing soon and then find some water that reportedly lies some miles on the other side. Road 27 cares not. If anything, the gradient increases and the rocks proliferate. My stops grow more frequent, and last longer.
I mark progress in tenths of a mile and look upward for at least a peek of the summit. With no top in sight, I see the signs right beside me, as scrubby brush gradually transition to the beginnings of piñon and aspen forest. I'm getting there. Late afternoon clouds slowly roll in, capping temperatures and suggesting rain. The final, rock-strewn pitch finally t-bones at USFS Secondary Road 144, marking the end of the big climb. I stop to recover, re-fuel, and celebrate.
Pulling out maps and cue sheets, I find myself still 37 miles from the next perennial stream, Rio de las Vacas, although promising Canones Creek is just 8 miles away. I'm down to my last liter of water, so I drink some now and save some for dinner. Even though it's approaching 6:00 pm, I decide to rest for a bit, ride to Canones Creek, and camp there, with or without more water. If need be, I'll find water in the morning when I eventually descend off this mesa.
After topping the climb, I turn onto USFS 144 in search of water and a campsite. I camp in the trees just beyond the clearing on the left.
Comfortable with my situation and decision, I grab an assortment of snacks and plop down against an aspen tree. I'm tired, but not spent. I'm still hot, but not overheated. I'm hungry, but not empty. I realize that all the long days over many weeks made this day not only possible, but enjoyable. I continue to get stronger in body, mind, and spirit. This is good. This is really good.
Some time passes, though I'm not sure how much. Breaking the silence is an ATV chugging up Road 144. The driver spots me and stops to chat. It's Tom, an elk hunter from Georgia who journeys out to Northern New Mexico every year. The elk season starts in two days and he's out scouting. We chat for awhile about elk, other wildlife, and just spending time in remote backcountry.
Eyeing my loaded bike, Tom asks me about my ride and is astonished to hear that I rode up Polvadera Mesa from Abiquiu today. He asks if I need anything, noting that he has a fully stocked camper and a vehicle to easily get supplies. All I really need is water, but I believe I'll find some a little further down the road. "Here, take some of mine," Tom says, as he reaches into a cooler on his ATV and tosses ice cold 750 ml bottles of water to me. Whoa. In no time, I've topped off my standard load of 4 liters, plus a liter for dinner. Trail Angel, indeed. Way up here atop Polvadera Mesa. Amazing.
Eventually, Tom drives down Road 144 to the east and I pedal west. This road is not easy at the end of a long day, bumping over rocks and ruts up-and-down across the top of the mesa. But it's not Road 27 and the miles pass with less difficulty. Meanwhile, the sun keeps working toward the horizon, so I pick out a nice dispersed campsite in a little aspen grove and enjoy every bit of sunlight before turning in.
It's a peaceful end to a hard, hard day on the bike, marked by over 7 hours riding up the toughest climb on the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route. I'm grateful for the ability and opportunity to ride yet another day through this country and to meet yet another friendly person. I love this journey.
This is early the next day, looking back on the descent off Polvadera Mesa. It's full on mountain bike territory that I'm glad to ride when fresh.
Tuff Enuff, Foo Fighters with Jimmie Vaughan, live on Austin City Limits (2015).
But it's cold, and it's fresh, and it's all home-made
Can I get you a glass?"
The Duck Song, Bryant Oden (2009)
It's a day as remote as most on the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route. Along the way, however, I somehow meet interesting people all day long. Each left a lasting impression, but the hardest hitting one for me is a mom telling the story of her enterprising young daughter who created a lemonade stand for the ages.
My lesson. Always stop at a lemonade stand. You never know the journey that kid is starting.
Sylvia and Joe at the Summer Store in Canon Plaza, New Mexico.
Leaving the friendly confines of USFS Hopewell Lake Campground, I bounce along the Continental Divide on USFS Low Standard Road 91B in the Tusas Mountains of northern New Mexico. I realize that I've pedaled over 90 miles on back roads since the last commercial re-supply at the Gold Pan General Store in Platoro. My food and water supplies are OK, but the bright sunshine promises a hot afternoon before reaching the town of Abiquiu, still almost 60 miles away. This 150 mile remote stretch could certainly ensnare the unprepared or unwary.
Movement ahead catches my eye. It's a solitary hiker, without so much as a small pack or water bottle. He does, however, carry a hiking staff and a ready smile. It's Jose, out for an early morning walk through the forest "to clear my mind." He says he brought his sister and her children up into the mountains for a couple of days to re-connect and re-set, away from negative influences in the big city. One teenaged nephew is particularly challenged, and challenging, to Jose. So, we talk about family and faith. And find much common ground despite very different backgrounds. What a blessing.
Too soon, Jose and I return to our separate journeys, though I won't soon forget him.
Jose is out for a walk "to clear my mind."
The road is not as rough and rocky as yesterday, and descends more than it climbs, but it's still barely built and barely maintained. It's a wonder that it was built at all. There's essentially no development of any kind back here. Not even much logging or ranching.
The ACA maps says there is a town ahead called Canon Plaza, with a convenience store. Dropping from the forest into a meadow, I see an assortment of houses scattered about, but not what I'd call a town. And I see no convenience store at all.
The dry forests of northern New Mexico along USFS Low Standard Road 91B.
Just off the road I spot a simple white shed with an open door and a sign "Summer Store." Another sign says "Please Honk," apparently to get the attention of someone living in the house a ways up the driveway. But I don't have to ring my little bell. By the time I stop to dismount, a man greets me with a big smile and hearty hello.
It's Joe, who is soon joined by his wife Sylvia, the owners/operators of this "convenience store." I step inside to find cold drinks, ice cream, and an assortment of all kinds of food and other supplies for Great Divide bikepackers. This is amazing.
Joe welcomes me to their "convenience store" in the "town" of Canon Plaza.
Sylvia first makes sure that I'm OK and then describes the assortment of items neatly displayed on the shelves. I start with a cold Coke and an ice cream bar, sit down inside in the shade, and ask her about this place. She smiles, taking time to joyfully tell a story she's clearly, and happily, told many times before.
About 20 years ago, Sylvia's grade school aged son and daughter noticed cyclists riding by their house during the summer. So, they set up a card table and chairs under a tree to offer water and snacks to them. It's their version of a classic, All-American lemonade stand, but positioned about 100 miles from Platoro to the north and almost 50 miles to Abiquiu to the south. Although they certainly do not command a high traffic location, they didn't have much competition, either.
Some years later, lightening struck that tree, forcing Joe to remove it. So, Joe and Sylvia built this shed right by the road for their kids to safely operate their increasingly well-known lemonade stand. So well-known, in fact, that it appears as a "convenience store" icon on the ACA Great Divide map.
Sylvia then proudly points out rows of books on the upper shelves inside the shed. Her daughter read all those books over many summers while waiting for Great Divide cyclists. All that reading paid off. Now, she's in medical school studying to be a doctor. Years after she stopped returning home for the summer, her parents continue to operate this store to honor her and to serve our community. Wow.
Thank you, Sylvia and Joe.
No water to be found in that creek bed.
I take some time at the Canon Plaza convenience store, but eventually pedal down the road. As I bump along a dry creek through a forested valley, a series of unique rock outcroppings jut skyward. Equally unusual, I spot a truck about to pull out of the first dispersed campsite I've passed in a long time. So, I stop to ask. They are rock climbers from Albuquerque, wrapping up a weekend of climbing those rocks and focused on getting home. I wave goodbye, grateful to be able to continue my adventure without work worries.
Dropping into the well-worn village of El Rito, I spot a solitary commercial establishment that appears to be open, the El Farolito Restaurant. The surrounding buildings all look pretty rough, but I could use a break from the sun. So, I grab a water bottle in some shade and take another look at that restaurant from across the street. To my surprise, a steady stream of people enter and leave carrying styrofoam take-out. Every few minutes, another car or truck brings more customers. That's good enough for me.
I'm no food critic, but the meal is fantastic. I eat an entire "Farolito Special," a mammoth plate of enchilada, relleno, taco, rice, beans, green chili, and two sophapillas with honey. Amazingly, the entire restaurant is operated by just one man, named Dominic - the owner/cook/waiter/host/phone order taker/cashier/dish washer/everything else. And all around friendly guy. I highly recommend Dominic's restaurant, unless you don't like to eat.
Dominic's El Farolito Restaurant in El Rito, New Mexico. (photo by El Farolito Restaurant)
Eventually, I waddle out of El Farolito Restaurant for the easy 16 paved mile warm down to Abiquiu. There I stop at Bode's, a big gas station/convenience store, to top off supplies. I'll return in the morning on my ride out of town, as several locals at the store rave of Bode's breakfast burritos. Then I ride a mile off route to the Retreat On The River, a cyclist only hostel-like haven for Great Divide cyclists.
I call ahead to get directions from Goldie, the proprietor, but it's not hard to find. She graciously shows me to the shower/bathroom, the separate building housing a full kitchen, a nice collection of individual units with beds, and plenty of space to pitch a tent. The crowning touch is a covered deck with lounge chairs overlooking the Rio Chama. It's a very quiet, peaceful place.
Surprisingly, I find Jessica preparing dinner in the kitchen. Jessica is a solo South Bound Great Divide cyclist from Omaha, Nebraska, where she and her boyfriend operate a bicycle shop called Ponderosa Cyclery + Tour. She is a strong cyclist who often rides well into the night and passed me several days ago at the Gold Pan General Store in Platoro. Jessica said she lost some time the day before by banging up herself and her bike in a crash. She was OK, but had to straighten a bent aluminum rim with a couple of hand tools before fixing the flat tire. Atta girl, Jessica! Love the spirit of those out here taking on the Great Divide solo and self-supported.
Just when Goldie poses for a picture, a double rainbow appears above her. It seems appropriate.
All this occurs within a single day of riding my bicycle on exceptionally remote back roads. In addition to the lasting memories of encounters with interesting people, I'm reminded to always stop at a lemonade stand. You never know if it will be tomorrow's convenience store, and maybe even the start of someone's journey to a higher calling.
The Duck Song, Parts 1-3, A Forest Fire Film (2009)
