Bike Packing Mt. Graham

The Swift trail, the road that climbs and traverses Mt. Graham, is still closed to all motorized traffic. This presents a remarkable opportunity to those willing to put in a little effort: a deserted wilderness to explore. Mt. Graham quite often seems deserted (I have yet to see another mountain biker in all of my trips there), but right now it literally is deserted. Well, almost.

Real cyclists would have started at the base of the mountain (or perhaps in Tucson?), and enjoyed the burn up the endless switchbacks of the Swift trail. We were short on time, so we cheated, driving all the way to Shannon Campground, a half mile before the road is closed. Part of me wanted to ride the road instead of drive it, but it would mean very little time to explore side trails without our loads.

Alan, Paula and I loaded up the 2 Bob trailers and a pair of panniers, then headed off onto the dirt. We hopped around the gate, then spread out, riding three abreast on the closed road. The only sound to be heard was the soft rolling of our tires and the bounce of the Bobs. The air was cool and fresh, deep breaths were invigorating. I love this place.

Not far down the road we saw a guy walking his bike up the road. He had the ambitious plan to ride out to Riggs Lake, fish, the ride back. But it was too far, and he ended up walking his bike up the steep hills. Too bad, but I admired him for biting off more than he could chew. At least he was out there.

We stopped at the parking lot for the Grant Hill, unloaded our rigs, then pedaled off into the forest. We found airplane style views, running lizards, hedgehog cacti (at 9000 feet), and many a snow-drift. Some of the drifts were rideable, others held our front wheels resulting in near endos. One huge snow drift distracted us; we missed the turn off for the last section of singletrack.

The rest of the swift trail was a treat. I could ride that road all day long, with or without Bob. 12 miles and a surprising amount of climbing later, we were at Riggs Lake. Normally a bustling campground full of screaming children and flaring motors, it was now completely silent save the wind blowing high through the trees. We chose the ‘best’ campsite, right near the water’s edge.

Free of our gear, Alan and I climbed out of the lake and headed for the Far West portion of the mountain. The singletrack we found was some of the best I have ridden in my life. The switchbacks were tight, but barely within tolerance for riding. Up, down, Up, down, all along an incredible ridge. Some portions of the trail were painstakingly crib walled, making a very nice surface. Each turn we descended I thought to myself “we’ll be walking back up this, but oh well.” But, to our shock, the return climb was even better than the descent. We were in granny gear, riding and not believing it.

We turned around at the edge of the burn area, where Leif and I nearly lost ourselves over three years ago–all in search of an epic. I still know that an epic is waiting for me here on the western slopes. But the sun was set to fall, and we needed to get back before dark.

Rolling back down the Swift trail again, we saw a Gould Turkey–huge at about three feet tall. Bizzare.

The lake was the perfect setting. We enjoyed the comforts of picnic tables, bear food lockers and out houses–things you usually don’t get backpacking or bike touring. At least, you don’t get them without neighbors and cars pulling into and out all night.

Unfortunately we weren’t able to escape that either. About 9pm a big truck blasted down the road to the lake, then proceeded directly to our site. It sat there, idling, for at least 5 minutes before the driver finally walked towards us.

It was a UofA security guard. He claimed that he was there to make sure we were “ok.” But we all knew that he was protecting the precious telescope on the high peaks of Mt. Graham. I think we concerned them a bit by staying the night and pulling large loads along the Swift trail. This may be the first time anyone has bike-camped out here with the road closed; surely it doesn’t happen often.

Both he and I were friendly, but I was annoyed at his set of calculated questions and statements. He wanted to know how many people we had, if we had firearms, where our vehicle was and how long we were staying. He made sure to tell us that there was another officer on duty that night on the graveyard shift. He even showed us his night vision monocle. When we told him we didn’t have any guns he was surprised. “Out here” you need them, he says. Uh, huh.

I was tempted to ask him to leave, telling him we didn’t care about the telescope. We were just there to enjoy the mountains, cool air, and excellent mountain biking. Finally he left, driving off in a big dust cloud. So much for being alone.

Later, the deer walked through our campsite, feasting on grasses. No sign of the gobbler though.

The next morning Alan and I indulged in the Clark Peak trail again. This time we counted dabs on the return climb. I think we both came out with around 6 or 7.. with at least half declared “un-rideable” (at least not by us with our current abilities). The rest we just stunk up, but understandably so.

Next was Webb Peak, slightly above 10,000 feet. We should have known better: snow was everywhere on the trail’s descent off the north slope of the mountain. Knee deep snow drifts led to some interesting hike-a-bike. When we reached the Ash Creek trail we knew our plans of visiting the rushing falls were twarted. There was too much snow, so we hoofed it back up to the campground.

On the return trip the plague of flats continued. We all had one, or in Al’s case three, including an extra couple tire changes from not patching all the tubes. It’s time to invest in some real slime tubes. The only way to ensure no more flats, of course, is to stop cycling.

When we returned to the car Paula decided to ride down the road since she hates the drive. It’s true that it isn’t much fun to be jerked around and it also doesn’t feel very safe. Our little car doesn’t have a “second” gear to descend in, which means it is a brake pad eater. So, we decided that the car minus two bodies and two bikes would kill the pads a bit less. So, yes, Mr. Hypocrite himself accepted a shuttle (or rather a pickup at the bottom). But we shuttled a road, not a trail, and it didn’t cost anyone any extra driving. Look at this, I’m making excuses as to why I shuttled. What a loser.

In sum it was a perfect trip on the last weekend before the road reopens to motor vehicle mayhem. 70 miles, 9000 feet of climbing, most above 9000 feet. And the call for further adventure in the Pinalenos has been amplified, now ringing in my ears and dreams.