It had been a long time. A first job, led to a mortgage, then came kids. My expanded responsibilities led to re-ordered priorities and I had become a weekend warrior, an armchair adventurer, a wisher and a dreamer. Year followed year and all at once I realized that it had been seventeen years since I had pedaled the Oregon Coast. Nineteen since riding solo from Seattle to Boston.
My reindoctrination to bike touring came a month before I pedaled my first stroke up McClure Pass. My wakeup call came one late August afternoon at the top of Flagstaff Mountain above Boulder, while watching America’s best bike racers climb to a mountain top finish. After spending the day with a mountain full of bike crazy fans, I realized that it was time again to take to the road and see the land slowly unfold from the saddle of my bike. Just like a cicada, I groggily but suddenly awoke from my long bike trip slumber.
Four weeks later, after knocking off work at noon and driving four and a half hours, I changed out of my work clothes, attached my panniers to my trusty old Miyata 1000 LT and headed out for a fall circuit of the central Colorado Rockies, southwest of Aspen. My start and finish spot was the restored fire station in the little village of Redstone, home of some friends. As I coasted to the main road, I realized that a five o’clock start might not have been early enough to beat the darkness to the top of the pass. But I quickly fell into a good rhythm and a few friendly honks and thumbs up helped me make the push with some sunlight to spare.
My plan was to find a free camp at the top of the pass, but just as I was scouting a site a group of guys with ATV’s invaded the serenity and took a good long look at me. Maybe I’m soft, maybe I was smart, either way, I lost my nerve and headed down the road a bit to the designated campground where I paid for the privilege of listening to my neighbors generator hum and choke from 9:30 and to 1 am. Ahh wilderness! What a schmuck… me, not him.
The next morning was biking bliss, a steady decent, first through alpine aspen fields, to rolling ranch land, down through coal mining operations and finally into the orchards near Paonia. While stopping for a mid-morning smoothie I gained some valuable route knowledge from a motorcyclist who pointed me the back way to Crawford. I forgot how fun hitting the open road could be!
The “back way” was a wonderful 20 mile road that wound through rolling pastureland and orchards. By the time I made it to Crawford the landscape was becoming drier and more desolate. After lunch, I spent the afternoon riding toward the Black Canyon of the Gunnison River. It was a hot day and the road seemed to tilt up much more than it headed down. With a fully loaded bike, it is hard to carry much speed. I characterize the slope of a hill by how fast I can go. That day, steep hills were 5 mile an hour hills and not so steep hills were 7 mile per hour hills. The road from Crawford to the Blue Mesa Reservoir had many 5 mph hills. The honeymoon was over. At one point mid-afternoon I bonked and took a siesta under a spindly shade tree. Lying prone in plain view of traffic, separated from my bike, I’m sure I looked like a crash statistic rather than a vacationer. I didn’t care. After re-fueling, resting and realizing nobody was coming to the rescue I continued on.
The road didn’t have a big shoulder but the road surface was smooth, the drivers were very considerate and the traffic was very light. I would estimate that 50% of the vehicles that I saw on that stretch of road were motorcycles. No doubt they were enjoying the beautiful scenery as much as I was. I was ready to stop much earlier than I did, but I was out of water and knew there was a campground at the dam of the Blue Mesa Reservoir. After a ninety mile day I was exceedingly thankful as I coasted into the deserted campground. You know the saying, “bit off more that you could chew”? I was nearly there.
The next morning, I rode refreshed along the 19 mile long Blue Mesa Reservoir before heading through a small canyon and coming out in a wide valley that holds the town of Gunnison. After a big second breakfast, I headed up the valley from Gunnison to the ski town of Crested Butte. The valley is very scenic with many river crossings, large ranches and a cute fly fishing village called Almont, which was filled with anglers wetting their line. But as I headed north the wind headed south. The headwinds added at least a half an hour to the 25 mile ride up the valley. Grin, bear it and keep pedaling.
Crested Butte is a cool little ski town. From what I could tell the town is filled with young, healthy, outdoor types and their young families. There were bike racks everywhere, even in front of houses. My unofficial census showed that bikes outnumbered residents. After some great ice cream at the Third Bowl Ice Cream shop (salted caramel and cowboy coffee in a waffle cone), I resupplied and headed up the dirt road to Kebler Pass. I was really glad that the pass was a 7 mph climb and it was only seven miles to the top. The views on the west side of the pass were just incredible! I had hit the fall colors at their absolute peak. As I descended from the top of the pass, I stopped often to take photos. I’d never seen so much yellow in one place and the prime spots were filled with serious professional photographers waiting for the right light. Calendar shots were being shot that weekend.
There are many good primitive camping spots on the west side of the pass and I found a private spot in a beautiful aspen grove. As darkness fell the leaf gawkers drove home and left me alone in the woods. The next morning I woke to a wet tent. After packing up, I descended nineteen miles of dirt road. The views were still gorgeous, although subdued by the heavy clouds. This stretch of road winds past some absolutely beautiful high country cattle ranches. Large spreads with views, private roads and multiple homes on them. It seems that these types of ranches are either owned by descendants of the original homesteaders who moved in a hundred years ago or they are owned by someone with a private jet and an LLC who visits just a few times a year. I sure hoped it was the former.
https://www.flickr.com/photos/46938085@N07/16911849950/in/album-72157651462029970/
The last stretch of the trip was back up the west side of McClure Pass. I had remembered this road as downhill bliss, which meant uphill now, but I found that most of the way is fairly rolling with only a five mile ascent to the summit. After reaching the summit I rolled easily back into Redstone and a hot shower. The three day adventure was not just 214 miles covered, or the memory of the Colorado high country wearing it’s fall finest, it was a small adventure that got me back on my bike, back in the game.
https://www.flickr.com/photos/46938085@N07/16892031357/in/album-72157651462029970/
Cross country tourer I met near Gunnison
