Sunrise, Goblin Valley, UT

I awoke before dawn. A sliver of a moon hung low in the sky. The faint glow of the distant sunrise lingered on the horizon. In the faint light I could make out the outline of the mighty La Sals. I felt a sense of urgency, of longing. I miss those mountains. In between them and me was a vast, unseen trench. The maze.

Behind me the Henry mountains were trying to catch the first morning light. I sat quietly. The silence was heavy. No wind, no voices, no birds or insects. Absolute and utter silence.

I climbed a sandstone dune and just watched. And listened.

As the light rose, I looked to the horizon longingly. A desire to immerse myself in the depths of the White Rim, or the thick pines of the La Sals overcame my thoughts. I wanted to lay eyes on Monitor and Merrimac, Delicate Arch, and Milt's Drive In once again.

And while it has not been long since I last was in Moab, it feels like it was all a part of another life. It was not me there, was it? Certainly the person writing this was not the same who once rode the Kokopelli Trail? No, it can't be.

Can it?

The light is now bouncing off the pink sandstone. The scouts I am with are stirring below. Some of them climb up to the point I am sitting at. I am already missing the silence.

But we are having a good time. Later we would explore the alien landscape of Goblin Valley. An odd array of phallic monuments. A miniature Bryce Canyon. But still, those distant La Sals continue to catch my eye. They are symbolic of that magic and mystery of the entire region. Sentinels in a sea of sand. And I again realize the intensity of my affection for Moab, and the desert.

Indeed, it is desert season. The snow and the wind and the cold will blanket the Wasatch. And I will flee to the deserts of Moab and Saint George. Physically or otherwise.

Somewhere, that person from that past life exists. And he is dying to once again ride the horizon.

Labels: goblin valley, moab

The White Rim is a storied location. Vast and wide and mysterious. Gateway to an unknown wilderness, edge of the Maze, an alien world of ancient ghosts and impossible canyons.

As I rode the trail this spring I gazed out at the landscape feeling small, awestruck and otherwise soaking up the Abbey-esque vibes of the natural wonder and enchantment that surrounded me. It was one of those sublime moments, a rare connection with the intangible world beyond our own seeing, our own existence.

And then, a grown man on a single speed wearing knee-high church socks, plaid shorts and a basket on his handlebars passed me.

Labels: Dug, moab, rawrod, white rim

There is a place, near Moab, but not Moab. A place that is nestled between the mighty Porcupine Rim, and the looming Adobe Mesa. A place watched over carefully by The Priest and The Nuns, with Sister Superior keeping a watchful distant eye. It is a wide open valley, sitting quietly at the base of the mighty La Sals, but acts as a gateway to the hoodoo deserts of Arches and beyond.

Castle Valley, Utah

I once explored the valley in 1995. A friend and I climbed to the base of Castle Rock, its red stone splitting the blue sky with stark and startling contrast. From a distance the tower looks small and tame. But up close it is massive, rugged and demanding.

We reached as high as anyone could go without climbing gear. We etched our girlfriends names into the soft stone. Certainly they were feeling the effects of our undying devotion some 200 miles northwest. Their names etched in stone. To last forever. Or at least until the next rainstorm washed the shallow scrapings into the red dirt below.

When we broke the news to them we expected laughter and gratitude. Girls impressed at the manly ascent, and the equation of that desert beauty with their own. Instead our heroism and romanticism was greeted with indifference. Neither relationship lasted.

While I was living in Canada I had a roommate from Castle Valley. We were living in Vancouver and he was awestruck at the steel skyscrapers, the massive grocery stores, the buses, trains, cars and the people. Oh my, all those people!

He ate bird food. We'd go shopping and he'd buy wheat and nuts and seeds. He'd pour them into a bowl and drip honey over them. That was his favorite meal. I wonder at times if he is back in Castle Valley today. If he explores the La Sals and the hidden canyons and the black muddy river. That hidden oasis among a sea of natural wonder. Does he still eat bird seed and honey?

The valley from high on La Sal Loop road is breathtaking. A scenic masterpiece of the Kokopelli Trail. The rock formations dominate the landscape, but the green fields, the long dirt driveways, the conical and comical round mountain, the mesas in the distance and the river flowing far below are like a painted backdrop in some spaghetti western. Beautiful yet artificial. Surreal. Technicolor meets color country.

After we climbed Castle Rock we returned to Moab. We had greasy hamburgers at Milt's, restocked on some poisonous red drink (99 cents a gallon) at the City Market, filled our packs with pastries, candy and salty snacks. The sun was sinking low. We pointed the van toward home.

The sun disappeared, and the stars above began to twinkle in the black desert sky. The La Sals sunk out of view, the snow capped peaks reflecting the last light of day. Ahead the lights of Green River twinkled in the distance.

Castle Rock dwarfs me as I work my way toward the base.

Labels: castle valley, moab, Utah

I discovered Edward Abbey long after I ought to have. A native of Utah, and someone who traveled to Moab, and other desert locations, since I was a child, I grew up with a deep love for that improbable landscape. And yet I had never heard of Edward Abbey until only a few years ago.

Within the first pages of Desert Solitaire I realized that I was reading the words of a kindred spirit. At least in our love of the desert. His writing is both realistic, and mythical. Capturing the essence of the landscape, while paying homage to the ancient presence of those who have come before. That is, he understood that the canyon country was home to the Ancient Ones, and that they still linger within the deep recesses of both imagination and reality. Or, as he described it, "For the first time, I felt I was getting close to the West of my deepest imaginings, the place where the tangible and the mythical became the same."

Abbey is remembered for being an environmental anarchist, a defender of the wild, a fierce critic of government, industrialism and technology. There is a bite to his words, a cruel truth that cuts deep. But there is also an idealism that I think even he knew was impractical, impossible. Perhaps that is why he was as critical as he was. He knew that he was fighting against the inevitability of growth, progress, and the American notion of manifest destiny.

As I type these words, several years after the little episode of the gray jeep and the thirsty engineers, all that was foretold has come to pass. Arches National Monument has been developed...you will now find serpentine streams of baroque automobiles... The little campgrounds where I used to putter around...have now been consolidated into one master campground that looks...like a suburban village: elaborate house trailers of quilted aluminum crowd upon gigantic camper-trucks of Fiberglas and molded plastic; through their windows you will see the blue glow of television and hear the studio laughter of Los Angeles; knobby-kneed oldsters in plaid Bermudas buzz up and down the quaintly curving asphalt road on motorbikes...the rangers are going quietly nuts answering the same three basic questions five hundred times a day: (1) Where's the john? (2) How long's it take to see this place? (3) Where's the Coke machine?

Progress has come at last to the Arches, after a million years of neglect. Industrial Tourism has arrived.

Indeed.


And yet, there are still wild places in the world. And thankfully they are generally difficult to arrive at. The softness of the American way of life frowns upon the physical effort needed to see, and be in the wilderness. Paved roads have sneaked into the mountains and the deserts, but they only go so far. And not many are willing in this age of air conditioned adventuring to get out and feel the heat or the wind. The pain of an elevated heartbeat and coursing lactic acid are picking up where Abbey left off. The new saboteur of industrial tourism is physical discomfort.

I read Abbey with mixed reactions. I like to think I am a practical person. I like to think that dams and roads and that “small dark cloud of progress” are making life better, easier, and more productive. But I also see the beauty and simplicity in the slow paced, hard earned existence of his idyllic vision. Can there be both? Can man be at once solitary, and societal? “The only thing better than solitude”, he realized, “is society.”

Man is a gregarious creature, we are told, a social being. Does that mean he is also a herd animal? I don't believe it, despite the character of modern life. The herd is for ungulates, not for men and women and their children. Are men no better than sheep or cattle, that they must live always in view of one another in order to feel a sense of safety? I can't believe it.

We are preoccupied with time. If we could learn to love space as deeply as we are now obsessed with time, we might discover a new meaning in the phrase to live like men.

And so that paradox that he lived in, is the same paradox I read him with. The machine of urbanization is simply to powerful to stop. But it feels good to oppose it. To slow it down a little. To escape into the mountains and live for a time as those Ancient Ones. At least as they would have lived had they had gas stoves, lightweight tents, water filters, LED headlamps and dehydrated beef stew.

Teamwork, that's what made America what it is today. Teamwork and initiative. The survey crew had done their job; I would do mine. For about five miles I followed the course of their survey back toward headquarters, and as I went I pulled up each little wooden stake and threw it away, and cut all the bright ribbons from the bushes and hid them under a rock. A futile effort, in the long run, but it made me feel good. Then I went home to the trailer, taking a shortcut over the bluffs.

The sun continues to rise and fall. Wind and rain and time whip away at the sandstone of the Arches, and the peaks of the Wasatch. Life rambles onward into the distance. And despite the best efforts of progress to tame wild places, those wild places still remain. And they always will. They stand on their own, defiant against the audacity of man and the sneer of growth. In many instances the only defense these wild places need is their own rugged inaccessibility. Let man try and conquer them. Chances are his heart will give out, exploding in a bloody mess, leaving him sprawled across a wooded ridge, destined to become fodder for the cougar and bear, the vulture and maggot.

Labels: Edward Abbey, moab

I stumbled across the March 1955 issue of Desert magazine. I was fascinated by the articles, the photography and the ads. Nearly every page had an ad for a Geiger Counter, with an accompanying promise to strike it rich prospecting for Uranium. It reminded me of the story of Charlie Steen, or the legendary yarn recounted by Abbey in Desert Solitaire of Albert T. Husk, a man double crossed by his financier, shot dead, and whose son rode a flash flood for days into the wilderness, only to die of exposure.



Tucked amongst ads for Indian jewelery, Mexican vacations, the nostalgic photography, and headlines like "Where Burros Collect the Garbage and No One Pays Rent" was an amusing source of entertainment.

A quiz.

And not just any quiz, but a desert quiz. A chance to test your knowledge of the mysterious and vast wasteland of the American Southwest, the questions are both hilarious and thoughtful. Some more absurd than sincere, others so obscure that it is no wonder that "19 is an exceptionally high score--one that few people ever attain."

Take the quiz. Test your wits about the desert. And find out if 53 years later you are any better off than the 1955 readers of Desert magazine.




How did you do?

Labels: 1955, desert, moab, quiz

Salt Lake City, from Ensign Peak

Utah is an interesting place. It was settled in the 1840's by Mormon refugees. And still today Mormons arrive here from everywhere. They come, some of them without the intention of staying. "It's just so I can go to BYU" they say. Some keep their word, and after school they return to where they came from. But many, many stay.

My parents came from Oregon and Virginia in the mid 1970s. And they have lived in Utah ever since. My wife came from Virginia. I was born here. And I see no reason to leave.

Utah is home to some of the great recreation in the world. And by recreation I of course mean mountain biking. Because let's face it, the other forms of outdoor recreation just don't measure up to mountain biking. Am I right? Of course I am!

What is incredible is that I can leave my house on my bike, and within an hour be in remote forests, where human contact is minimal. I can find the backcountry in my backyard. I can feel isolated while within sight of a valley with a million billion people. But that is not entirely unique. There are lot's of places where solitude is just around the corner. What makes Utah unique is the variety of solitude offered. That is, I am not limited only to the mountains.

I can drive an hour west and be in a vast and sparse desert. I can go south and find sand dunes reminiscent of the Empty Quarter. I can go southwest and find Moab, the great icon of the state. In fact, Moab might represent to the world the very best of what Utah is. It is a microcosm of the state. At least geographically.

Moab is a vast desert, with a massive mountain range rising up from a sea of sand. Or is it the other way around? A massive mountain range melting into a sea of sand? Is there even a difference? The point is that Moab has alpine and desert, sandstone and granite. The state as a whole is the same. We have our sharp mountains, rising from the valley of the Great Basin. We have our deserts, stretching on into the horizons. And it is all within reach.

Utah is not without it's oddities. Cultural that is. We have our green jello and strange affinity for anti-depressants. We have rednecks and snobs and short sighted politicians. We have big cars, big families, a church on every corner and apparently, really awful beer.

But it is home. And it is part of me. And I am part of it. Utah is the ideal home. It offers everything I want from life. I can look to the mountains and feel safe. I can go to the desert and feel small. I can escape, hide...and seek.

Utah means "tops of the mountains" in an old Ute dialect. For now though, I am content being in the mountains, in the canyons, in the rivers and lakes and streams. I am content staring up at the mountains feeling dwarfed and protected. Vulnerable and insignificant.

Come to Utah. Find out what I mean. But be warned. You may never want to leave.

Labels: moab, Utah, Wasatch

Kokopelli Moonrise. 5/16/08



"I’m not a big believer in all the techniques of “positive self talk” or affirmations and so forth. Just train hard, train with good technique, use visualization (which works with the subconscious), and the quality of performance will reflect the preparation. I recommend to athletes, and to anyone else, that they “simply” accept their thoughts and emotions (whether positive or negative) as natural to them in the moment — then focus on a goal, and do what needs to be done towards reaching that goal."



The Kokopelli Trail has a special place in my heart and mind. I cannot exactly say why. But there is something about the very idea of that trail that moves me, inspires me, challenges me. I have experienced the entire gamut of human emotion out on those miles. From elation to depression to fear and quiet failure, and quiet victory. When I need to remember that this endurance experiment works or when I need to remember what I am capable of, the Kokopelli is often where I put myself. I must have ridden that trail a thousand times over in the archives of my mind.

But there is more about the trail that draws me in than just riding it as a time trial. I feel that the land itself is magic, ancient, alive. Riding it solo amplifies that mystique, and I feel connected to whatever ancient presence still lingers out there.

But the Kokopelli is a just friend. And a just foe. It doesn't care how familiar you are with it. It doesn't care about past rides or mojo or energy or water filters. If you are not ready, the trail will chew you up, and spit you out in the sand.

I rode for 90 minutes Friday night. And then coasted off the mountain in defeat.

Later, as I waited anxiously for other riders to finish, I had all kinds of time to sit and figure out what had just happened. Leading up to the race was an episode of some absurd tragic comedy, with one mishap after the other plaguing my thoughts and monopolizing my focus. When finally I was in Moab, suited up and ready to ride, I realized that this moment had snuck up on me. I felt an overwhelming sense of dread start to creep over me.

I had hoped that once I saw the friendly faces I knew were going to be at the trailhead that I would be fine. But then something totally baffling, and somewhat depressing happened. I arrived at the trailhead, and I felt like an outsider. That somehow I did not belong.

I felt completely isolated.

It was not the result of any attitude or action from the others. On the contrary. The usual suspects were their usual friendly and excited selves. And for a moment or two I was able to feed off some of that energy, but something was seriously awry. It wasn't until the next day that I realized why I felt so isolated. It was in fact, because at that moment I was quite literally an outsider. I was not locked in. I was not in that mental place where one needs to be to even attempt a ride like the KTR. Let alone successfully complete it. When someone says, "you did what? you must be crazy!" I think they are right. I think we do have to be crazy. At least temporarily. A sane person would not attempt, or ever succeed in putting himself through so much pain and misery.

I tried to ride it out. But the further up the mountain I climbed, the more clear it became that I was heading toward a bad day. Later in Fruita, I watched Kenny and Chris come across the line. They were exhausted, dehydrated, and elated. I envied them. But I also knew that for whatever reason, I was not meant to be on the trail that day.

And I was alright with that.

I had never realized the importance of being in the state of mind necessary to do an event like the KTR. I never realized it, because I never fully recognized that I was getting into a different mindset as I prepared to push myself. It was a cold, dark and lonely feeling to be on the outside of that. It felt as if I was physically in a different place than everyone else. I never thought something so intangible could manifest itself so concretely.

In the end I feel no disappointment. Indeed, it was a good weekend. I got to do a little joy riding in Fruita, watch the race play out, and sit and wait for people who are so often sitting and waiting for me. Instead of having people offer me cold drinks, I got to hand a few out. It was a different perspective. And one that was appreciated and enjoyed on my part.

“When running up a hill, it’s okay to give up as many times as you want — as long as your feet keep moving.”




At this point there is really nothing more to do, except to keep my feet moving. And so that is what I will do.

Labels: 2008, Kokopelli, KTR, moab

In 2006 I rode from Moab to Fruita in 17 hours and 25 minutes. Saturday I will repeat the feat. Or at least I will attempt to repeat it. And while I don't think my fitness is quite where it was in May of '06, I do think I am a smarter rider. Which means I feel good about the prospect of besting that 17:25.

There are always variables. There will be unexpected challenges. But I feel good about the things I can control. My pace, my nutrition, my attitude. As long as those things are in line with where I want them to be, I should have a blast. Regardless of how long it takes me to finish. But slipping in under that 17:25 will be sweet, sweet icing on the cake.

So here's to pushing limits, mashing pedals, and crossing bridges.

The Salt Creek Bridge

Labels: Fruita, Kokopelli, KTR, moab

"The far off horizon impressed me no less. Once again, as in childhood, I saw the soft blue distance inviting me like an open door. And once again I was overcome by the feeling that I was not born for the life of a perpetual stay-at-home among my fellow men in towns and houses, but for pilgrimages through foreign lands and journeys over the sea. I felt the old melancholy impulse to fling myself on God’s breast and merge my own insignificant life into the infinite and eternal."

Labels: Kokopelli, KTR, moab

Hitting the snooze button...


Saturday, the second day of the back to back white rim rides started and ended in much the same way--with me lying in the dirt. I awoke groggy, a little sore. No, I was very sore. My ankle was inexplicably swollen and painful. I was snug and comfortable in the bivy sack. Around me the sound of gas stoves boiling water hissed above the wind.

I decided it would be a good day to sleep late.

Keith prodded me out of the sack, and soon enough I was spinning along Mineral Bottom road. Stiff and saddle sore, but surprisingly excited about the day ahead. It is fantastic what the prospect of riding with great company can do to a tired psyche and achey bones.

As the day wore on I wore out. I climbed as much as Hardscrabble as I could. At the top I found a rock that perfectly fit the contour of my back. A $1,000 massage could not have felt better than that red rock lining the side of the road atop Hardscrabble. I laid there for a while, the rest of the group milling about snatching goodies from the sag wagon and swapping tales from the recent climb. A few wondered aloud if they would have the energy to finish the ride. I knew I could finish. But I dreaded rising up from my awkwardly comfortable rock.

Ten miles later I was done. I cleaned the Horse Thief switchbacks for the second time in as many days. I was happy. I was tired.

And I had a mad craving for a cream soda.

The most comfortable rock in the desert

Labels: epic, moab, rawrod, white rim

I would guess that you have been there. Recently returned from a bike trip. Maybe it was in Moab, or Fruita, or maybe it was from Moab to Fruita. You pushed yourself, you saw new places, learned new things and met new people. It was, on every level, an epic.

And now you are back home.

You are sitting at your desk, legs heavy, face sunburned, fingers and toes still slightly numb. The world becomes tedious, mundane, boring. Your mind drifts back to the desert, and for an instant you think you can feel the wind and the sun. Your coworkers are oblivious to your plight. They ask "how was your weekend?", and you try and explain to them what it was like watching the sunrise from the crest of a 2,000 foot ledge over the canyon country. You laugh about being on your bike at sunrise, and that you were still pedaling at sunset. But they don't laugh. They look bewildered and uncomfortable. They slowly walk away.

Yes, life after the euphoria of an epic ride can be dull for a few days. The jet-lag like state of mind and body can persist, turning you into an anti-social grump, only concerned with trip photos, gps tracks and other people's blog postings.

It is hard to come down from that endorphin rush. Or is it a trickle during an all day epic? When things go right, when the weather, the bike, the trail, the fitness, and the company all combine to create those idyllic days out in the wilderness the everyday routine seems so...routine.

And of course that is why the epic days are so coveted. If everyday were epic, then epic would cease to exist. The contrast between a normal day, and a fantastic one is compounded by the brilliant light of the desert sun, or the quiet swaying of high altitude aspens. To appreciate being 'out there', one has to experience being 'in here'. That is, inside your cubicles, your traffic jams, and your board meetings.

And while people who don't ever see the 'out there' won't ever truly understand what you mean when you start talking about cleaning Murhpy's Hogback (they will probably think it sound's dirty), you will understand. And as you sit at your computer, doing whatever it is you do, you will cast your mind back on those moments, and for an instant the sun, the wind, the dust, will all appear crystal clear. And for a brief moment, you will be back.

Labels: epic, moab, Wilderness

2 days, 200 miles, and lots of smiles.  More to come...

Labels: moab, white rim

The wind will not stop. Gusts of sand swirl before me, stinging my face. But there is still too much to see and marvel at, the world very much alive in the bright light and wind, exultant with the fever of spring, the delight of morning. Strolling on, it seems to me that the strangeness and wonder of existence are emphasized here, in the desert, by the comparative sparsity of the flora and fauna: life not crowded upon life as in other places but scattered abroad in spareness and simplicity, with a generous gift of space for each herb and bush and tree, each stem of grass, so that the living organism stands out bold and brave and vivid against the lifeless sand and barren rock. The extreme clarity of the desert light is equaled by the extreme individuation of desert life forms. Love flowers best in openness and freedom.

Labels: Edward Abbey, moab, photos

The Dewey Bridge was destroyed by fire last night.  I am in shock.  That simple landmark held powerful symbolism for me.  It was, in short, a gateway to a new world.

The bridge was a defining point on the Kokopelli Trail. Each time I have ridden the trail, wether in it's entirety, or partially, that bridge has played an important role. In the time-trials of the trail I have done it has welcomed me as an old friend. A sigh of relief has always passed over me when I reached the historic marker. The symbolism behind the bridge was tangible, and iconic. It was a passageway to a new type of terrain, a new challenge, and a new state of mind.

And now it is gone.

I would be surprised if the State bothered to rebuild it. The highway crosses the river now, and the old bridge was just a simple historical landmark. Its practical use was nill, but its presence was important. At least to me it was.

And I know for the others out there like me it meant something. And that something will be missed.

Labels: Dewey Bridge, Kokopelli, moab

“You should not see the desert simply as some faraway place of little rain. There are many forms of thirst.”

--William Langewiesche--

Saturday left me as a dried reed. I am thirsty, and worn out. I have broke down a little bit since then, and find myself fighting off a cold. But as I put the day into perspective I am reminded again, of why I do long mountain bike rides. I've said it before, but each time I find myself alone in the wide desert, or high on an exposed mountain ridge, the idea is hammered home once again.

Experience.

As I wound my way along Rockin' A the sun fought through the clouds, creating a surreal scene over arches. What tourists in Moab that day saw that?

Photo from Jeny



Climbing 313 cars whirred by me, oblivious to where I had been, and where I was going. To them, I was just another pedal biker. But I knew. I knew where I was heading, and what I was doing.

Just before the KTR in 2006 I wrote:

I am looking forward to the isolated pain of an endurance race. The world shrinks, becoming just the size of you and your bike. Pain and fatigue grip your thoughts, and life itself becomes a bitter battle between pressing forward, or falling over.

That holds true. I still look forward to those isolated moments, those times when the entire universe seems only to consist of wether or not you can progress. And it seems, progress is a product of experience. Or as B.H. Roberts put it, "progress or perish".

Saturday held a small victory for me. I shut out the quit demons and pushed on through the mental urgings to do otherwise. Despite the highly persuasive nature of the demon and his argument. That was important for me. It was mojo in the tank, to be used down the road when again the whispers of failure creep up from the sand, enticing me to turn back, sit down, or never start at all.

The quit demon does not see what I see. He only knows failure. He does not experience the beauty of the blowing sand, or the heat of the desert sun. He does not hear the sweet sound of running water. He does not smell the high alpine air. He only knows the dark silence of defeat.

And so today, I am still thirsty. Physically, but figuratively as well. I am already longing for that next moment of clarity, isolation, and yes, even delusion. It is those moments that purge out the distractions of an ever increasingly distracted world. And as that world descends into the chaos of the rat race, I am content knowing that "out there" I can reconnect with myself, and remember and appreciate that indeed, "there are many forms of thirst."

Labels: endurance, moab, solo