Gila AZT/GET, day 2

Sunrise looked like this,

from the sleepy bag, lying atop our own private, saguaro studded ridgeline.

The sun hit and there was nothing to do but ride singletrack. So that’s what we did.

photo by Lee Blackwell

photo by Lee Blackwell

Truly epic trail building.

I helped lay out this bit, but had zero grasp at how amazing it was going to turn out.

This could very well turn out to be the crown jewel of the AZT. 25+ miles from Kelvin to Picketpost, all constructed to high standard, all open to bikes and oozing with dreamlike viewscapes.

But it’s going to be a while before it’s all done.

Singletrack ended. We turned north, heading into the heart of this rugged country. Up a wash,

A big hill,

and to the Battle Axe.

We opted for XC travel up Walnut Canyon, desiring H20 and a revisit to a spot we’ve only been to on the ’05 thru trip.

Beautiful canyon walk

slash ride

photo by Lee Blackwell

slash bushwhack. All to get here:

It felt like the perfect time and spot to take a nap, but we had roughly planned on getting here last night, not at 11am the next day!

We flicked the focus dial up a notch or two, heading into a long section of jeep roads.

End of the road for jeeps, and ATVs, unless you’re REALLY brave.

Ah, the benefits of traveling by bike.

photo by Lee Blackwell

The above image is an accurate representation of the overall theme of the afternoon. Brutally steep, rough and long.

Brutally beautiful, you might say.

Still on planet earth?

Luckily the road was often solid rock, meaning you could ride as long as you had the strength. I would have loved to see the power file for some of these climbs — maximal traction and power transfer. I smoked myself good, churning away in the 20×36.

photo by Lee Blackwell

Finally we reached Box Canyon, and a critical decision point. Right, or left?

I gave the decision to Lee. 8 miles of new singletrack awaited at Picket Post, but the infamous Orphan Boy climb stood between here and there. There was no chance we’d finish before dark, but we might just make it to the trail with some light.

Lee turned right, climbing out of the box. He set the pace as we attacked the climb with gusto. I have, how should I say, somewhat of a personal relationship with this climb. I swear I can still see traces of the blood that ran from my eyes as I clawed my way during the 60th hour of the AZT 300. It left an indelible mark on my soul. Last year Fred and I rang the suffering bell again, ascending under a near full moon. Another mark.

I was really impressed with Lee’s determination and strength. The bell tolled, and we answered.

We reached the top with daylight to spare. I was incredulous. I stared blankly into a world that I knew was there, passing through only in the darkness before.

The grey light over the Picketpost massif faded into brilliant fire. We turned onto singletrack.

The clouds hid the moon, but our lights showed the way. The trail was not what we expected. It was narrow and difficult to ride. Long fingers of cat’s claw reached out at us and obscured the already impossible to read trail.

Lee’s pedal cleats started twisting on him, causing a tumble, luckily on the uphill side of the trail. We stopped a few times just to look down at the current abyss we’d fall into, should one of us make an error. Most of the time, it was better not to look.

We eventually tired of it and decided to set up a dry camp. After resting a minute water concerns of opposing natures had us rethinking our decision. The evening’s strongman push had cut into our water supply, and our salty food wasn’t making us any less thirsty. Dark clouds loomed overhead. We were just getting into our bags when some drops started falling.

Superior was not far away, or so the thinking of the hour went. Circular K and a motel waited there, why not head into town?

“Let’s keep going.”

But the trail went on forever. I truly enjoyed a lot of it. Dark suffering and long pushes into Picketpost trailhead have become a theme out there. But beyond that, it was a beautiful night, and night riding is always a thrill.

We circled the ghostly outline of Picketpost, finally descending into Alamo Canyon. Lee stopped a moment, sitting down with his head between his legs. “Maybe it’s the movement of my lights, but I think I’m going to let this food go…”

He was back riding, just as strong as ever, a few minutes later. At long last we reached the trailhead, but that was not the end for us. I tried to turn northeast on a road that wasn’t there. What now? The GPS showed a road, but where is it?

We took the trail instead. I chuckled as I negotiated a technical section, finding enjoyment where I felt like I shouldn’t. The trail took us to a culvert under the highway, but we wanted the highway. We pushed up a hill, under a fence and onto the freshly surfaced tarmac.

Lee flipped his helmet around, set to flashing mode. There was a good shoulder, and only five miles to ride. But they were five miles not easily forgotten. Superior kept getting further away, not closer. Uphill and unending, it was suffering of quality.

The owner of the motel was still awake and happy to rent us a room. I hobbled over to Circle K, coming back with bags full of drinks and junk food. Going to sleep I felt more like I was racing than touring.

And it was a good feeling.