Crystal Butterflies

I knew what I was getting into. Kinda.

Butterfly and Crystal Springs Trails were brutal before the fires. It was unlikely the fires had improved things, and the Forest Service didn’t have enough money to keep up with trail maintenance before the fires. But I had to find out just how bad things were.

The newly constructed climb from the parking lot to Bigelow Ridge features some of the best singletrack anywhere, as far as I’m concerned. Too bad it doesn’t last.

Paula took a few pictures, before we kissed goodbye. She turned left, to climb up to the towers. I continued on Butterfly, into the unknown.

The views are fantastic, and even the riding is occasionally. But the above is what the trail looks like most of the time. Actually, that’s an optimistic pic. Aspens (aspens!) have taken over that section of crispy trail. Most of the rest features all other sorts of nasties that not only obscure the trail (plus rocks, sticks, logs) but also shred your skin.

All part of the game for Catalina rough and tumble riding. Any time I stayed clipped in for 60 seconds or more, I was smiling. Then I’d get stuck, ram into a downed tree, or lose my front wheel off the side of the trail. For the first two hours these predicaments would elicit a laugh or at least a grin.

When I arrived at the creekbed fed by Novio Spring, I had convinced myself that things were not so different pre and post burn on the Butterfly Trail. It’s still slow, and still not really a mountain biking trail. Sitting in this untouched pocket of green foliage, with water trickling beside me, it was easy to think this way.

The number of downed trees on clearly rideable sections of trail increased in proportion to my patience decreasing. But I was sure Crystal Springs would be better. My memory of Crystal is that it got burned less than Butterfly, and still had some great riding sections.

Expectation can be a real killer. If I thought the hate bushes (technical term) had hurt me on Butterfly, I was in for some real trouble. I just about tumbled down the sideslope when my pedal hit large rock obscured by hate bushes. A few sections were so bad that (already hiking) there was nothing to do but hold my breath, grit my teeth and push through as fast as I could.

Those hate bushes are a funny plant. They don’t cause much visible damage, but once they have weakened your skin, even the slightest bit of incidental contact produces an electric pain.

The tide turned, and I started realizing that this ride was not really worth doing again. I was riding (imagine that!), slowly pushing my way down the supremely overgrown trail. In solo backcountry mode, I was very aware of my surroundings. With all the overgrowth I had several times heard noises behind or beside me that my brain didn’t attribute to my movements. Turns out they were simply connected to all the brush I was displacing on the trail.

Except this time. I heard something in front of me, then caught a glimpse of something brown moving in the brush. It was large enough that I yelled something and stomped my bike on the ground.

At this, all the plants in the area began moving. Automatic mind took over, raising heart rate and spiking adrenaline. I couldn’t see anything making the plants move, but things were moving all around me. It took a second or two before the logical mind won out, realizing it was unlikely to be anything dangerous (anything large would be visible).

Then I saw one in a tree.

Hello? Who’s that?

A young Coatimundi, probably scared shitless. A few larger ones scurried around, flying down the hillside, or finding a tree to climb. I observed for a minute, then felt the tension of the situation, considering I was likely between mothers and young. There were at least 10 in the area, though it was hard to tell.

“OK hidden Coatis, I’m coming through” as I slowly stepped through the brush.

Suddenly the whole ordeal was much more worthwhile. I’ve only once before run into a pack of Coatimundi, so it’s a rare treat.

Mental motivation was now high, but the physical side dropped just as quickly as the mental side had returned. Entrance to pain cave found, passed and now long forgotten.

The dismounts and tree fighting wore me down. I’m sure I got the equivalent of an hour’s yoga practice with all the stretching, contortion and other ridiculous positions I found myself in.

Just as I had remembered, the last 0.75 miles of trail to the Control Rd is great trail. Too little, too late. I was too tired to enjoy it.

Now, the afterthought, a 1400 foot climb back to the top of Mt. Lemmon. It’s wide, dirt, and free of hate bushes. No problem, right?

Well, mostly. But mostly it hurt – in a good way. There’s a purity to closing your eyes and letting your legs do what you’ve trained them to do–get you back home. Meditative is one way to describe it.

At times I had to pull out my trump card, resigning to the last resort thought of “you’ve suffered worse than this. You’ve climbed further while feeling worse.” All I had to do was think back to the AZT 300 to confirm that assertion.

The great part is that if you can keep defeating thoughts at bay, your mind simply accepts the suffering for what it is, and it doesn’t effect you, or it only effects you in a positive way. I can’t imagine what I looked like to passersby on the Catalina Highway. I’m sure it wasn’t pretty. I remember a few sympathy looks and even a thumbs up, so it must have been bad.

Fall means high winds on the upper ridge of Lemmon. And today was no exception. Headwind was no consequence, but when I got to the 8100′ high point of the highway, I knew I was free. Gravity could no longer harm me. All I had to do was keep myself up on the bike to coast back to the trailhead. I shut my mind off.

And I almost got blown off the road. Yikes.

Almost hypothermic, shivering, and moving slow, I loaded the bike, apologized to Paula for the delay, and attempted to drink water. Food was sought in Tucson, and sleep came easily.

Dreaming of…