Matt and I took on the challenge of this ride last October with Katy. Our conclusion afterward was that this trail should be left alone. And if not left alone, should be ridden only earlier in the summer, because of the cold, wet, lost muddy misery that it came to symbolize in our minds. No experience from that point onward could compare to the trauma Katy and I endured under Matt's leadership. Ultimately, in the dark and cold, we had Martha come and rescue us at the bottom of the Mormon Pioneer trail (Little Dell Reservoir) - our intention had been to ride up the road to Little Mountain Pass, and then down the canyon to Matt & Martha's home in Sugarhouse. We had come so close, but were so far away.
This year, Matt and I decided to forget everything we had learned previously, and make a second assault on the trail. This year we would complete the ride. We would do it in early September. But September rained and rained. And it didn't happen in October. Ah, but November! November is the new summer. Perhaps we will ride again?
We decide to wait a little more. We test the waters with a successful night ride to Lookout Peak, covering some of the same trails (See KnightRider post). I head to San Diego with Heidi Beth for a week. Thanksgiving comes and goes. Turkeys are slaughtered for their giblets. We have our house robbed and my Titus Motolite mountain bike stolen (See previous post).
There. Now the time is right. Now we are ready, Gwass-hoppahs.
Revolution Mountain Sports [http://revolutionutah.com] comes up huge for me and loans me a "demo" Cannondale Prophet, they also offer to work with my insurance company if needed. Matt and I put on a whole bunch of clothing. And Martha drives us the the launch site: The Bountiful 'B'. It's a beautiful day, but cold (butt cold).
It isn't a very fun climb up the Skyline Drive dirt road. It's about 400 miles long, and is lined with Natives out shooting their guns and blowing up pumpkins. Bountiful is a magical place. Matt is scared for his life, but I flash Mormon hand signs and sing I Hope They Call Me On A Mission as we pass. Tapping into my Mormon reserves seems to momentarily quell the bloodlust of my Northern Brothers and Sisters - I can only hope it will last.
At the top it is really really cold. Camelbak hoses are freezing. Chunks of flesh are icing up and falling off. We look at each other and try to smile half-frozen smiles. A few words get stammered out between chattering teeth, "We're... doing... it."Several hundred yards later Matt makes a significant tactical blunder. He decides, "Hey, I'm not cold enough, so I'm going to dive face-first into this here partially frozen over pool of water!" Before my eyes I see Matt hurl himself inexplicably into a small pond. Instantly my brain is flooded with logistical concerns: Will I have to tow Matt's frozen carcass home? Luckily, though, my suspicions that Matt is actually some sort of human-cyborg and is therefore unaffected by horrific pain prove well founded. He is fine, and probably still less cold than me.
Later, well beyond our point-of-no-return, we encounter our first significant snow. While this doesn't bode well for our survival, we make light of the situation and attempt to make snow jokes. After twenty minutes or so, and not a single successful snow joke, we move on.
We knew we were getting close to the point where we got lost last year, and began watching closely for the missed junction. There is no need. It's a pretty obvious place, not sure what happened last year (a glitch in our cyborg's programming).
There's no way to ride in this snow. Too steep, too deep. We resort to carrying our bikes on our backs for the next seventy-five miles or so.
Finally after climbing over two snow covered passes, we reach the critical junction: if there is snow on the other side of this mountain, we're going to die. There's snow. But Matt remains optimistic.
Eventually, we get to ride our bikes some. And that part was great. But here's the thing to remember (message to future self and future Matt): This is a hard trail. This is a trail that would be hard to ride in great warm happy conditions. This is not a mountain bike trail. It is steep and loose and pockmarked by horses. Heed these words next year when tempted to ride in December.
In the end, again, we are rescued by Martha. Failures. I dropped my bike on the ground and crawled into the subaru, a frozen popsickle of a man. My fingers shant recover easily. Even now I can barely type better than Matt.
We crazy mo-fos! It was a recipe for disaster! WE COULD HAVE DIED!
