On the Road in the Rockies - Part 6

.

14-  CLOSE TO THE EDGE ON THUNDER MOUNTAIN

"The Edge: There is no honest way to explain it, because the only people who really know where it is, are the ones who have gone over."
---Hunter S. Thompson

The plan had been to stay one night at Bryce Canyon National Park, and then move on to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon.  But after setting up camp in picturesque Red Canyon, just a few miles outside Bryce Canyon NP, we began to have second thoughts about moving on.  Red Canyon was incredibly beautiful, and the campground was secluded and pristine.  Should we stay?  Should we go?  We were still debating what to do when the campground host told us about the Thunder Mountain Trail.  And that pretty much sealed it.  We dropped the Grand Canyon from the itinerary, and stayed on at Red Canyon instead.

“It’s one of the best mountain bike trails in Utah,” the host lady had boasted—only she wasn’t a mountain biker, but simply relaying what many riders had expressed to her.  She had a rudimentary trail map with directions on it, and she gave us a photocopy.  It was a 16-mile loop, starting and ending at the campground.  Half the distance was technical singletrack, the last segment dropping into a maze of hoodoos and gorges that had once been a refuge for the famed outlaw, Butch Cassidy.  Yes, our interest was piqued.

On the day of the ride, we rose early to get ahead of the heat.  The weather forecast called for a high of 90 degrees with a chance of afternoon thundershowers—in other words, a typical monsoon day in the Southwest.  We packed a light lunch: an Asian pear; a chunk of cheese; a few granola bars.  We also made sure to top off the water bladders in our Camelbacks, each of us taking three liters.  However, there was one hitch: I didn’t have a bite valve for my bladder.  As you may recall, I’d lost it while riding in Breckenridge, and being the master procrastinator, I had not taken the time to buy a replacement.  Now I would have to make due without.

From the campground, we first followed a paved bicycle path that paralleled Highway 12, the last stretch crossing a broad, sage-covered valley.  The sun was bright and the day was rapidly warming up.  But we were making good time and setting a good pace.  In fact, we were setting such a good pace that we flew right by our turn-off, and by the time I realized it, we had gone waaay past it.  We doubled back and found the dirt road where we should’ve turned.  However, the mishap effectively added five miles to our day.

The dirt road took us up into pine-shrouded hills, steadily gaining elevation, and ended at a trailhead after about two miles.  A singletrack led into the trees from there, and next to it was a sign that read “Thunder Mountain Trail,” so it felt good to know we were back on route.  By now, we were at around 8,000 feet, having climbed a thousand feet since leaving camp.  But even at that altitude, it was hot and I’d gone through a lot of water.  My situation was that, without the bite valve, I was wasting a third or more of my supply, fumbling with the manual shut-off valve each time I wanted a swig, and sometimes I didn’t get it fully closed and water would continue to trickle out as I rode along.

We had gained most of our elevation by now, and the trail contoured and undulated along forested terrain.  There were some good runs along here: high-speed "whoops" and curves, banked hairpins, and then short, steep grinds back up to yet another ridge.  It was tiring, but fun.  After a couple of miles of this, we stopped at a shady spot along the trail to cool off.  We were relaxing on a bed of pine needles, savoring the pear and cheese we’d brought along, when a young couple came peddling up the last steep grade like it was no big deal, even though that very incline had been a big deal for us.  The woman led the way, decked out in a white tank top and black Lycra shorts.  She had an athletic physique and was clearly the stronger rider, not even breaking a sweat, her boyfriend working hard to keep up.  They both beamed cheerful smiles as they whisked by.  Young whippersnappers.

We ran into them again further down the trail, at a clearing that overlooked the Sevier River Valley.  We had dismounted and walked over to a semi-secluded vista, and there they were, standing cheek to cheek with big smiles and snapping a photo of themselves.  They turned out to be a pleasant couple, French-Canadians from the city of Quebec.  The young lady told us that she had ridden Thunder Mountain before and loved it, and we would too, she promised, because the best was yet to come.  Then she hopped on her bike and was gone, her boyfriend in hot pursuit.

“Wow,” said Ter, “did you see the legs on that girl?”

I knew this had to be a trick question.

“What girl?” I asked.

Like the French-Canadian lass had promised, the “fun” was close at hand.  But first we had to crank up a sun-drenched ribbon of trail, gaining another 200 feet in elevation and educing such a thirst that I sucked up the last of the water in my Camelback.  From here on, I would have to resort to begging water from my beloved wife.  The next stage, though, was a rambunctious, thousand-foot descent into a salmon-colored labyrinth, the trail winding down precarious slopes and arid ridges.  Along a stretch called “The Fin,” we barreled down a narrow ridge with looming drop-offs on both sides—which was a total blast, but one screw-up could send you over the edge.  Other sections were technically more difficult: solid black diamond.  We readily walked our bikes down a few steep, rocky switchbacks, where an endo could buy you a compound fracture and a helicopter ride to the hospital.

The trail eventually spit us out onto a dry wash bed, which we followed for another mile or so, weaving around boulders and ponderosa pines—easy terrain compared to what we’d just come down.  Soon, we picked up the paved bike path that paralleled Highway 12 and rode it up into Red Canyon.  It was the middle of the afternoon; it was hot; I was out of water and Terry was close to out.  What a welcome sight, to finally see the campground sign up ahead.

After a hot shower, we drove to the Bryce Canyon Lodge in the Park for dinner, followed by an evening stroll along the canyon rim.  Alas, Thunder Mountain would be the last ride of our vacation.  But as last rides go, we had certainly picked a good one.

15-  THE LAST HIKE

The decision to wind up our vacation at Bryce Canyon National Park had certain advantages.  It is further off the beaten path as far as tourist traffic goes, eclipsed by the Grand Canyon and Zion, but less traffic meant fewer crowds.  And who knew if we’d ever get out this way again?

When Major John Wesley Powell led a survey party through here in 1872, he reported a few Paiute villages along the floor of the canyon.  Mormon pioneer, Ebenezer Bryce, built a log cabin here soon afterwards and raised cattle for several years before overgrazing and drought problems sent him packing for Arizona.  By then, most of the Paiutes had also departed, leaving a scattered band of isolated pioneers and outlaws like Butch Cassidy and the Wild Bunch Gang.  The land came into the Park Service guardianship in the 1920s, with the lodge being the last Grand Lodge built in the National Park system.  Today, like the first day Major Powell laid eyes upon it, Bryce Canyon remains as remote and exquisite as a desert rose.

“It’s a helluva place to lose a cow,” Ebenezer Bryce is quoted as saying.  And this became apparent when we hiked down into the canyon, linking up the Queen’s Garden and Navajo Trails for an 8-mile loop.  It’s a surrealistic maze of sandstone gullies and hoodoos, all cast in vivid reds and pinks.

Storm clouds had drifted in as the morning progressed, and a light rain began to fall when we were about halfway down the Queen’s Garden Trail.  Many hikers made a frenzied dash back up to the rim.  We had brought our rain parkas along, however, so we retrieved them from our day packs and continued down.  At one point, during a brief cloudburst, we took shelter under an overhanging rock, sharing it with a German family who lacked rain gear.  They huddled close together to stay dry, still relishing the adventure.  When I offered to take their photo, they handed me their camera and I snapped a few shots of them broadcasting sunny smiles in the rain.  Welcome to the Wild West!

Once the downpour had subsided to sprinkles, we continued down to the wooded valley 800 feet below the rim.  From here we picked up the Navajo Trail and ascended into hoodoo country again, back to the top.  As we threaded our way along a jagged slot canyon, I was thinking to myself: Yes, this would be one helluva place to lose a cow.

Back at the rim, we shared a sandwich at an overlook and watched patches of sunlight slide across a Technicolor landscape.  Time stands still at moments like this.  But there was more to see in the Park, so after lunch, we returned to the van and drove the fifteen miles out to Yovimpa Point.  At 9,100 feet, this is the highest point along the rim road and imparts a magnificent view of the canyonlands.  We stopped at other pullouts on the return, the weather vacillating from brilliant sunshine to light showers, and then the sun would break out again and a rainbow would materialize over the rim like a sign, telling us: “Don’t leave; don’t go home.”

The sun was setting as we pulled into the parking lot of the Pines Café, a roadside diner just outside the Park.  It was to be our last night, and we celebrated it with a nice dinner and a bottle of merlot.  Sixteen days we’d been on the road, and we mused on all the places we’d been: Rifle; Aspen; Leadville; Breckenridge; Boulder.  We had quaffed brandy at the infamous J-Bar; stood at the headwaters of the Colorado River; skipped stones across Maroon Lake; enjoyed our time with Ellen and Paul.  We had climbed, biked, and evaded a few thunderstorms… Heck, I had even survived the drive over Independence Pass.

Reminiscing with a bottle of wine is pretty much how the trip ended.  All good travels must come to an end, right?  There’s an old saying that goes: "Getting there is half the fun,"—an axiom that became obsolete with the advent of commercial airlines and interstate freeways.  But as this trip enlightened: the “fun” is still there if you take the back roads.