The call

The storms came. It snowed. So I set out to try to find some snow to ride through.

Climbing Milagrosa. I’ve only done it a handful of times (compared to dozens of descents). Results in the past were mixed. But Jay opened my eyes to how incredibly fun it can be.

It was just so peaceful out there. Still cold silence. Staccato technical moves. Bicycle suspended, crawling up the anti-gravity waterfall. Dark clouds and fog, bright sky and sun.

I caught myself thinking “I shouldn’t have been able to do that” several times. All my mental training told me I should have been unclipped already.

It’s a pretty cool feeling to be questioning what you can do, keeping weight on the pedals despite what everything is telling you. And… occasionally riding out of it…

Yeah, I had a good climb.

I hit snow as low as 3600 ft. It had already started melting. In places the trail was an inch of water, but no mud.

On the AZT there were some 6″ spots that were fun to slide through. Just enough to make traction an issue. I went out of my way to ride through them.

There’s a tight move on the AZT that I take an all rock line to bypass. I couldn’t see any way to get on that line coming from the other direction, so I went for the tight move. Rock-pedal brain prediction yielded a 90% chance of pedal slam and unclip. But as I approached I knew, by instinct, that I had the correct pedal placement to come out of it. I took the 10% and hit it, coming out absolutely incredulous.

Yeah, I had a good day.

I sat at Bellota Ranch Rd. contemplating my next move. I had about half the food I thought I did. Missing was one bar and a bag of peanut M&M’s. What I had was a sample size clif bar and an ’emergency’ GU, both of which I downed. I figured my ride was pretty much over now, and indeed one method of (self)limiting my rides has been to not carry huge amounts of food.

But playing mental games with yourself is useless. The temptation was still there.

First I climbed Bellota (steep!), praising my rejuvenated body for its ability to climb after 3 hours in the saddle. As I rode through snow covered meadows I could hear the adventure devil situated firmly on my shoulder.

“Think how cool it could be.” “Could be delightfully technical.” “Could have fantastic views.”

“It’s mostly downhill.” “It’s just hunger.” “You’ll be fine.”

And the fatal one: “What’s the worst that could happen?”

I turned off onto FR 4441, at first just to “check it out.” 100 feet down and I was already thinking “too far to turn around now.” Hearing volley after volley of gunfire in the distance (on Redington) put the nail in the coffin. It was FR 4441. Do or die.

I’ve never ridden FR 4441, mostly due to questionable access at the bottom (Tucson) end. But it’s intrigued me on the map for years, and I was looking for a good loop that includes climbing Milagrosa.

Today was not a good day to explore it, tired and out of food. I don’t know why I’m so brave in these kind of situations, when I’m naturally a coward. I don’t know why I can’t resist the call of adventure, no matter how soft that call is. You could probably call it foolishness, rather than bravery, though the difference is subtle and depends on your point of view.

On paper it doesn’t look like a big deal. It’s only ~7 miles, with a net loss of ~1500 feet. How hard could it be? When you’ve planned 900 mile expeditions, 7 miles becomes short. But as anyone who has spent time in the mountains knows, even 1 mile can kill you. For a while I was just hoping these 7 wouldn’t kill me.

The first couple were awesome, of course. Technical, yes. Worth riding, yes. I thought I was on to something.

The sign says “Dead end 3 miles.” But the signs in Redington area are for jeeps. Often people don’t mind if non-motorized users access the trails. So I intended to find out. But I had no idea what lay ahead. I was (somewhat) prepared to get all the way to the end and be forced to turn around. Rednecks with shotguns and/or large dogs can do that to you.

I was prepared for some climbing, having glanced over the topos before I left. But small climbs led to larger ones. “If it’s all downhill from there, I’ll be fine.”

What I wasn’t prepared for was this:

Oh, shit. Stomach grumbling, body shutting down, staring at that fall line, POS road. No use complaining though, I know how to walk. I was more worried that a crash on the ensuing descent could put me stuck in the backcountry with no food and already bonking. I was as close to regretting the decision as I ever come. But this is what I live for, and the reality is I’m very careful and could have walked out A-OK.

Still, the thought of unknown access at the bottom had me troubled. The further I went on the road, the worse things got. No one had driven it this far in some time. It was turning into an eroded mess.

I was walking before I even got to the fall line sections of the road. But then, something didn’t quite match up with the crude GPS drawing on my Foretrex 201. I was supposed to turn left, but there was no road. It’s hard to describe my excitement when I realized that fall line road was not my road. FR 4442 turned left and downhill. Yee-haw.

Not sure how enthusiastic of a yee-haw you can give for eroded out crappy descending:

I had to walk down several very long sections as the clock ticked and I still wondered what would happen down by the houses I could now see. At this point I knew there was no turning around. I was getting out, even if it meant bushwhacking.

Nothing happened. There was no locked gate, just a FS “please close the gate” sign. It was confusing to get out of there, but eventually I reached the point I had been thinking of for the past hour and a half. The point where I was ‘safe’ and knew I was in the clear.

Of course, you never think about what comes after that goal point. That’s an afterthought, and usually it’s the ‘afterthought’ riding that hurts the most. It was only ~5 miles back to my car, but the headwind and mental loss of focus made it incredibly hard. Like any good cyclist, I put my head down and was sucking down gatorade and Peanut M&M’s before long.