Six Bike Rides and a Wedding

Alas, after many months of planning, the Big Event of the Year was upon us. Terry’s son, Doug, would be marrying Brianna on May 7th up at Lake Tahoe, and it was like the final countdown to a mission to Mars. Nothing was overlooked. Everything was triple-checked. Terry would be flying up while I’d be taking the car. I had a half-dozen bottles of wine in the trunk, along with two cases of beer and a few gallons of Margaritas for the wedding rehearsal dinner that Ter was hosting—oh, and I was also transporting the exquisite dress that the groom’s mother would be wearing to the wedding. That’s why I needed to drive up: there was a load of freight to be delivered (just call me Mr. FedEx). We had it all synchronized. I would leave town before Terry so I could pick her up at the Reno airport precisely when she landed. Like I said, it was Mission to Mars (or if I screwed it up, Marooned on Mars).

While Ter was making the wedding an “extended weekend” event, I was stretching it into an eleven-day road trip—sort of a Tour de California—with intentions of bringing my road bike along. This idea had been hatched over the winter when I made plans with my long-time pal, Kevin, to come up to Sonoma County and ride King Ridge. Kev had raved about it. Everything I read on it was astounding: an ultra-scenic 50-mile loop, almost all of it on twisty, country lanes with steep grades to climb and race down. Count me in!

And so it was set. With the car loaded with booze, wedding apparel and a bike, I lighted out for Reno twenty-seven hours before Terry would arrive there by plane. The countdown had commenced.

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MAY 4th –
I roll into Adelanto at 9:00 AM, stopping at a Starbuck’s to secure more caffeine. If all goes to plan, I’ll be across the Mojave Desert and into the Owens Valley before noon. The goal today is to stop in Big Pine for a half-day spin up to Westgard Pass—Ride #1 of the trip—and then drive on to Lee Vining for the night where I’ve booked a room at Murphy’s Inn. It’s clear and sunny right now. But according to the weather forecast, that might soon change.  

The old Silver Dollar Saloon in Red Mountain is boarded up now. The stories it could tell. Back in the 1920s, the mining town’s heyday, the Silver Dollar was a boisterous watering hole most nights of the week. Some friends and I dropped in for a beer on a Friday night in 1977 on our way up to the Sierras. We were curious. The saloon was doing fair business, mostly locals. George Jones played on the jukebox. A couple of cowboys were shooting pool in the back. With our long hair and Lowe hiking boots, we stood out like a sore thumb. Today, Red Mountain has dwindled to 120 residents. It is very close to being a ghost town. 

One of the most beautiful drives on the planet is on U.S. 395 along the Eastern Sierra. I’ve
done it countless times and it never grows old. This is where I parked when I reached Big
Pine (the trees in the distance), off SR 168 that leads up to Westgard Pass. From here I
would ride my bike up to the pass, a distance of ten miles, gaining 3,000 feet in elevation.
And as the weather forecasters predicted, a storm front was moving in. 

This stretch is the steepest part of the ride—and the most fun coming down. The rest of the grade is about 5-6 percent. 

This is the grand view when you come barreling down from Westgard Pass. At an elevation 
of 7,313 feet, Westgard is the narrow gap that separates the White Mountains to the north 
and Inyo Mountains to the south. It is also the gateway to the Ancient Bristlecone Pine 
Forest where one can see pine trees that germinated as long ago as 3000 BC.

MAY 5th –
I’m up early and packing my bag—gotta be at the Reno airport by 11:00 to pick Terry up. It rained on and off all night but has stopped for now, just cold and grey outside. With Tioga Pass closed—normally not open until Memorial Day weekend—Lee Vining is practically a ghost town and the only place to get a meal last night was the Mobil station. The bison burger and IPA hit the spot. But the coffee and bagels here at the motel are deplorable, so it’s best I strike off and snag breakfast up the road in Bridgeport. After that it's on to Reno to pick up my sweetheart, and then Truckee here we come! 

The Mono County Courthouse in Bridgeport is 136 years old, the second-oldest county seat in the state. The elegant architecture is pure New England, as is the Bridgeport Inn across the street where I’m having breakfast. I love this little town. And not much has changed since my first visit here as a teenage angler. 

Terry makes final arrangements with the caterer as we eat lunch in downtown Truckee. Everything went as planned: I rolled into Reno at 11:00; picked her up at the airport; drove up to Truckee. Mission accomplished. 

MAY 6th –
Slept in this morning (7:30!). Ter and I had the whole cabin to ourselves, but six more people will be staying here tonight. Lots to do today to prep for the wedding rehearsal dinner, which is being held down the street at Al & Nancy’s house. The original plan was to have the shindig in Beth & Tom’s yard, but the long-range weather forecast was so dismal that their good friends, Al & Nancy, offered the use of their spacious abode. How cool is that? And it’s a good thing—it rained last night and another storm is on the way. As for now, the weather is holding; I see a few patches of blue sky. Maybe I can squeeze in another ride? 

The last vestiges of winter cling to the roadside in the Tahoe-Donner neighborhood. I had originally set my sights on a climb up to Donner Pass for Ride #2, but yesterday’s sleet and snow squashed that idea. Now, leaden skies yield to brief patches of blue, all morning long, until I finally decide to take the Domane out for a quick spin. 

Ter: “How long will you be gone? We have to be at the rehearsal at 4:00.”

Ron: “Don’t worry, I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

Famous last words.

Somewhere I made a wrong turn, and I was so enthralled with the downhill flow of this winding road that I didn’t realize it right away—I had dropped significant elevation before it sunk in. I was lost. Okay, not really lost: merely on the wrong side of the mountain. Then it began to rain. And then it hailed. On I rode until I came upon a teenager on a bicycle. Is he lost too? No. He pointed me in the direction to Truckee. By the time I reached town, 90 minutes had passed since I had left the cabin. Also, I now had cell reception and thought it prudent to phone in.
     
Ter: “Where are you???” 

Ron: “Starbucks.”

I was not scoring points here. Pressed for time, Ter had to drive into town to fetch me so we wouldn’t be late for the rehearsal.  

And yes, we made it to the rehearsal on time. Here, Brianna’s dad, Doug, practices the part 
where he gives the bride to the groom. I've been in Doug's shoes. It's a big deal.  

Hanging out with the mother of the groom at the rehearsal dinner.

Chow time.

This is our hero, Al, with Terry’s sisters, Beth & Kathy. He opened his home to us for the rehearsal dinner which, in light of all the rain in the forecast, was totally awesome. Al, we love you man.  

MAY 7th –
Wedding day. This is it. I hitch a ride into town with Doug, Kevin and Matt for breakfast. I’ll be hanging out with the young bucks today—if I can keep up. Showtime is 5 PM.

Doug's best man, Kevin, zip-lines through the forest behind the cabin Terry rented for the weekend (next door to Beth & Tom’s place, which was convenient). After breakfast in town, we had several hours to burn before the wedding. We retreated inside when it started to rain. Cards and whiskey followed. I had one shot and then took a nap.

Matt, Doug and Kevin are decked out and ready to go. Salute!

Some cool shots by wedding photographer, Phylicia Nicole …

The beautiful Mulcahy sisters: Terry, Maureen, Kathy & Beth.

It may have been raining outside, but inside it was jumpin’ hot on the dance floor. 

MAY 9th –
It’s Monday morning and all is quiet at Beth & Tom’s mountain chalet—very quiet, because I’m the only person here. Yesterday, after a Mother’s Day brunch in town with the Mulcahy clan, I drove Ter and Kathy down to the Reno airport for their flights home, and by the time I got back up to Truckee, everyone else had departed. So last night, it was just me and a Netflix movie—oh yes, and the ice cream in the freezer. 

It looks like the rain is gone: bright and sunny outside. I’m packing up and heading down the mountain—this time, westbound to Sonoma County. If this gorgeous weather holds—and it’s supposed to—I’ll be riding King Ridge tomorrow. Stoked! Next stop: Kevin’s place in Healdsburg.  

Kevin is tour guide extraordinaire and wine scholar as well. I’m in good hands. I had arrived at his Healdsburg home at noon, and after a quick lunch, he suggested a 20-mile flatland ride through the vineyards along Dry Creek: a mellow warm-up for tomorrow’s big King Ridge sortie. I changed into cycling duds and proceeded out to the car to put my bike on the rack. Kev looked at me funny and said: “What the hell are you doing?” I’m accustomed to driving many miles to get to the start of a good road ride, but in Healdsburg, they start from your driveway. 

Nice scenery for a bike ride. There are sixteen “Viticulture Areas” in Sonoma County that
reflect the various micro-climates and soil conditions for growing particular types of grapes
to perfection. The Dry Creek Valley is known for its Zinfandel and Sauvignon blanc. Vino is
big business here, and Sonoma and its neighbor to the east, Napa, consistently produce
some of the best in the world.

This is the century-old Geysers Road Bridge, a 140-foot trussed span across Big Sulphur Creek. There were all sorts of rustic, photo-op gems on this backroads ride.

Kevin would spin through the countryside and suddenly point to a winery and give you the 
lowdown and back story on the vintner. 

A vintner’s home. Classic Sonoma.

Kevin’s wife, Denise, cooks up a delicious dinner. She’s an incredible lady who wears many hats around the Feldman home: chef; seamstress; organic gardener; raises bees for honey and chickens for eggs. Shared a lot of good times with her and Kev in the ‘80s when they lived in Riverside. I had hooked up with Kev for some adventures in Utah last month, but I hadn’t seen Denise in ten years. It was wonderful to reminisce and catch up during my visit.

MAY 10th –
I can’t believe it!! I have come down with a bad cold. Must’ve picked it up in Tahoe, I dunno, but crap… King Ridge is out. Felt okay on the ride yesterday; thought maybe the sniffling and itchy throat was nothing more than a hay fever episode. Wishful thinking. As the night wore on, it just got worse and worse. I had Kev drop by the drug store so I could load up on Benadryl and Nyquil. Good thing, because I wouldn’t have slept a wink last night without it. Now my head is plugged up, I got a bad sore throat and a good Benadryl buzz going. But it’s beautiful outside. So after breakfast, we’ll head out and maybe ride something easy. Maybe. I’ll see how it goes after I eat something. 

Cruising along the top of King Ridge. Kev had driven up two gnarly grades—each, about
1,500 feet of gain—before pulling over to park. There we jumped on our bikes. I was very
much under the weather, but the spectacular scenery helped immensely to ease the misery.  

Moo. It's open range up here.

Nope, not Ireland. King Ridge, Sonoma County.

After about 4-5 miles and 700 feet of climbing, I was pooped. So we turned around and rode back to the car. Kevin then drove me around the remainder of the 50-mile loop so I could see it firsthand. Man. I’ve got to come back and ride the whole enchilada.    

MAY 11th –
Feeling better, but far from 100%. The irony is that I went all winter and had not a sniffle, and now… Boom. Talked to Ter yesterday: she feels fine. So I got this bug on my own. Kevin & Denise were awesome hosts, but now I’m off to San Francisco, starting the return leg of my travels. No riding today: I’m not up to it. The plan is to stay at Beth & Tom’s place tonight in SF. Visit. Rest. And then rest some more.  

By mid-morning, I’m driving across the Golden Gate Bridge into the City. Here are six facts on this iconic landmark—which turns 80 next year—that you may not know…

1— The original design, submitted in 1921, was a clunky cantilever hybrid that critics said resembled “an upside-down rat trap.” After much debate, it was rejected. New engineers (rival bidders from the original RFP) were brought onto the project and they came up with a graceful suspension design that was unanimously approved.

2— The U.S. War Department fervidly opposed the project, fearing that an enemy surprise attack could bomb the bridge, trapping Navy warships in San Francisco Bay. The military eventually gave its approval, but insisted the bridge be painted in black and yellow stripes so it would be readily visible to passing ships in foggy conditions. The Army Air Corps then argued that it should be painted with red and white stripes so it could be more noticeable from the air.

3— In the 1930s, the rule of thumb on high bridge construction projects was to expect one fatality for every $1 million in cost. By those standards, the construction safety record for the $35 million GGB was well below the norm for the day: only 11 workers were killed. Chief project engineer, Joseph Strauss, made safety a higher priority, developing several unprecedented measures to reduce accidents. As an example, this was the first construction site in America to require workers to wear hard hats.

4— Three months after the bridge opened in 1937, H.B. Wobber strolled the span alongside a tourist he had just met on a bus. Wobber suddenly turned to his companion and said “This is where I get off” and then leaped over the side, becoming the first to commit suicide by jumping off the bridge. Sadly, over 1,600 people have killed themselves in this fashion over the years.

5— Most of the construction financing came from bonds sold by the Golden Gate Bridge District—very little was state/federal funding. Despite being in the midst of the Great Depression, voters in the District’s six counties approved a $35 million bond issue that required them to put their homes and businesses up as collateral. The last of the bonds were retired in 1971. 

6— The signature orange color for the bridge was not intended to be permanent. The steel girders delivered to the construction site were coated in a reddish primer to protect them from corrosive elements. As the bridge was being erected, project architect, Irving Morrow, found that he preferred the vivid hue of the primer over the more conventional paint choices such as black or light gray. The red-orange color was not only visible in the fog, but it complemented the natural topography of the surrounding hills and the cool blues of the bay and sky. The custom color, GGB International Orange, is manufactured by Sherwin-Williams.

My nephews, Nic and Colby, ham it up in the back seat on the way home from school. I had spent the afternoon visiting with Beth and running errands with her before picking up the boys. A family dinner at home was our plan for tonight. 

MAY 12th –
It’s my birthday today (sixty-something, can’t remember). I go downstairs, where Beth is heading out the door with a mug of coffee in her hand, off to work. Tom is in the kitchen, dressed in shirt and tie, preparing breakfast for the boys. I sit down and have a bite with them. Nic and Colby are full of energy—I need two cups of coffee to attain that level of exuberance. At 7:30, Tom herds them out to the car and off to school and office they go. As for me, the sore throat is gone, but now I’ve got a cough; the congestion has gone to my lungs. Oh well. Today’s objective: Big Sur. If I feel up to riding, would sure like to check out a stretch of Highway 1 along the coast.  

Ride #5.  I pulled off Highway 1 at the Bixby Bridge. Last night, I had scoped out a stretch of highway to ride that started here and went ten miles down the coast to Mill Creek. It was an out-and-back ride, so I could turn around anytime if I wanted.  

Looking back north at the elegant Bixby Bridge where I parked the car. Constructed in 1932, 
it is still one of the tallest single-span concrete bridges in the world. 

Livin' it.

The first recorded documentation of this coastline was in 1542 by Spanish explorer Juan 
Rodríguez Cabrillo. Today it is quite possibly the finest road-cycling ride in the universe.

I was constantly stopping to snap photos. How could you not?

I reluctantly turned around at mile 10 and headed back to the car. The entire stretch from Big 
Sur to San Simeon is 65 miles. It should be on every cyclist’s bucket list. I know I’ll be back.

I celebrated my birthday at the Sea Chest Oyster Bar on Moonstone Beach in Cambria with an excellent Chardonnay (from Sonoma, naturally) and sea bass baked to perfection, all the while the sun’s orange disk was sinking into the Pacific Ocean. A good way to end the day.

MAY 13th –
Fog shrouds the coastline in the morning. Seagulls glide along the surf. I’m feeling even better today, and after checking out of the motel, I turn south onto Highway 1. I’ll be staying at my brother Jeff’s place in Carpenteria tonight. But first, I’m hankering to get in just… One. More. Ride.  

Morro Rock looms off the coast, the northern-most of nine volcanic plugs that dot the 
landscape between here and San Luis Obispo. The Chumash, who lived in this area for 
centuries before Europeans arrived, consider this rock a very sacred site. 

On the road for Ride #6. I had taken Highway 1 to Lompoc and parked the car downtown with aspirations of riding from there out to the coast, a distance of 10 flat miles with a fierce headwind.  

Lompoc is known as the “Valley of Flowers,” and riding through the fields along country lanes is a vibrant encounter. 

Once the flower seed capital of the world in the '60s and '70s, Lompoc has seen a 
continuous decline in production ever since as growers moved operations to South America. 
More and more, farmers here are switching to growing vegetables as they’re more profitable. 
I rode through many fields in full bloom, but was told that it’s a fraction of what it used to be. 

NASA Space Launch Complex 2 stands in the distance at Vandenberg Air Force Base. There are six active space launch facilities spread out across the base, and another 6-7 pads that are used by the military for ICBM and anti-missile testing. (No doubt a few rocket scientists live around here.) From where I snapped this photo, it is—quite literally—the end of the road. There is limited access to the pristine beach and NO TRESPASSING signs everywhere. And so, after a brief look-around, I started back to Lompoc. I had a dinner date in Carpenteria with Jeff & Ramona.   

MAY 14th –
Saturday morning, Ramona is in the kitchen cooking up an incredible breakfast. Jeff and I visit at the table with mugs of java. Alas, it will soon be time for me to head home. But I’m ready. I miss my sweetheart. (And I know she misses my cooking.)  

Jeff and I hang out in his back yard before I hit the road. It has been a remarkable trip. By the time I reach home, I will have completed a thousand-mile circuit around this Golden State of deserts, mountains and sea, the highlight of which was Doug & Brianna’s wedding where good times were had by all. But what enriched the journey so well were the bike rides—albeit brief in some cases—that I was able to fit in, and of course, the treasured visits with friends and family along the way. Yes, it was a drag catching a cold. And a super-drag to miss out on the mighty King Ridge ride. But that’s okay. As an old geezer who just celebrated another birthday, all I can say is—don’t sweat the small stuff. I’m alive and breathing. I’ll be back. 

To see all of Doug & Bri's wedding photos, click here...
https://www.flickr.com/photos/91696789@N00/albums/72157668677018411

The remainder of the Tour de California pics are here...
https://www.flickr.com/photos/91696789@N00/albums/72157669295783241

Rendezvous in Utah

It all began with a flurry of emails in March. A couple of my long-time friends, Kevin and Rick, were planning a road trip to Utah’s red-rock country. Ten days, they were figuring. Did I wish to join them? Hell yes! How could I turn down an opportunity to reunite with old pals? Many moons ago—during what my daughters call the Paleozoic Era—I was in the thick with these guys.

I first met Kevin in 1982 through a mutual friend who played guitar in a SoCal rock band called Urban Sprawl (which is where I learned to mix a sound board, but that’s another story). Kevin was their drummer and we got along famously from day one. He and I were just getting into alpine skiing at the time, and we pushed each other on the slopes rigorously through the Eighties, both of us becoming rabid ski addicts. I met Rick through Kevin soon after. They had been schoolmates since junior high, growing up in Seattle. And while Kev and I thought we had become damn good skiers, Rick was at a higher level. He was an expert. Many a good times were had in the mountains. But in 1989, Rick up and moved to Sun Valley, Idaho, and the following year, Kev migrated to Northern California. I would see Kev maybe once a year after that, mostly quick meets for beer and dinner to catch up. I saw Rick much less often. In fact, the last time I saw him was seventeen years ago when we climbed the Finger of Fate in Idaho’s Sawtooth Range. Which goes to show how time flies.

Hiking and mountain-biking were on Kev and Rick’s Utah agenda, which sounded grand to me. The rendezvous was set for Zion National Park, which would tentatively become Base Camp for the first half of their trip. After that, I would head for home while they continued east to Canyonlands National Park and then up to Moab. I offered to enhance the Zion adventure to include an ascent of Lady Mountain, and being hardy adventurers, they were up for it. Also joining us from Idaho was Patrick, a good college buddy of Kevin’s who I’d never met but, over the years, had heard much about. It would indeed be a Gathering of Eagles—aged and wise eagles, mind you—though one of Kevin’s kids punned it a Gathering of Geezers, but don’t get me started. Young whippersnappers.

Days before departure, emails were flying back and forth as to who was bringing what. It certainly looked like there would be plenty of food and alcohol. From that aspect, the trip was shaping up nicely. All that remained was for me to pack the van.

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APRIL 18th – 
Monday morning, Terry leaves for work. I kiss her goodbye and then throw the last of the gear into the van and hit the road myself. I’m all set; everything is stowed away; tunes on the stereo. Destination: Zion. 

But I’m only twenty miles from home before a car pulls up in the lane next to me and the driver is frantically pointing to the back of my van, his facial expression saying “You better pull over NOW, you got a problem.” I got a problem alright: smoke is streaming from the left rear wheel. Crap! I pull off the freeway. Smells like burning brakes. NEW brakes, I might add—we had them replaced just a few days ago! Are the brake shoes not seated properly? Or maybe the emergency brake is stuck? After inspecting the E-brake and crawling under the van to assess any damage, I surmise that the problem has gone away, at least for now. So I forge on, up and over Cajon Pass, stopping to check the rear end every 10-15 miles. By the time I pass through Victorville, I feel a sense of relief: the sticky-brake issue has not returned. So I’m off to Zion as planned. However, as a precaution, I won’t be using the E-brake on this trip. 

When I roll into Zion Canyon, late-afternoon shadows reach into every nook and bay of this enchanted realm. I never grow tired of gazing up at these big sandstone walls. Of the 25 National Parks that I have visited, Zion is one of my favorites, right up there with Yosemite. As for the National Park Service, it is celebrating its 100th birthday this year. Happy centennial, NPS.

Nothing tops a fine day better than a happy-hour back at camp. These are my dear amigos:
(L-R), Rick, Kevin and Patrick. We had a lot of catching up to do around the campfire that
first night. It was just like old times. 

Mule deer graze beside to our campsite each evening. It seemed like their dinner schedule was the same as ours.  

APRIL 20th –
My alarm goes off at 6:30, but I'm in no mood to crawl out of my sleeping bag. A strong wind had blown most of the night, buffeting the van and scattering camp chairs and other loose articles left outside on the picnic table. I had heard them all clatter away, one by one. Now it’s dawn and the wind is still blowing with gusto. My mind is made up: there will be no Lady Mountain today.

We had spent yesterday cycling up-canyon to the Zion Lodge, and then hiking up to the base of Lady Mountain to locate the start of the secret trail and elusive moki steps that grant access through the first cliff band. We eventually found them. And today, we were planning to return and make the full ascent. But not in this big wind. Is a storm rolling in?

Nobody stirs in camp for 30 long minutes. Then Kevin is rapping on my van door, and soon he and Patrick are inside with me to escape the wind. I brew some coffee. They’re not deflated when I recommend we scuttle the Lady Mountain bid: we can try again tomorrow. Today we can check out the mountain-biking on Gooseberry Mesa. We run it by Rick. It’s a go. 

Since it’s cold and blustery, the decision is made to drive into Springdale for breakfast. We all climb into Kevin’s car. As we’re leaving the campground, Rick points to the side of the road and calls for Kevin to stop. 

“Isn’t that our wash tub?” he says. 

Yep. Sure is. As I was saying, it was windy last night.  

Kevin romps down Windmill Trail on Gooseberry Mesa. Located above the town of Rockville,
this area has grown into a prime destination for mountain-bikers. We had snagged a trail map
in Springdale and linked up three of the trails (Windmill, Bowls & Ledges and North Rim) that
would get us out to a vista point on the northwest corner of the mesa. It was challenging
terrain with a dash of black diamond on Bowls & Ledges.

Breathtaking vistas abound along North Rim where, for the most part, the trail rambles along the rim of the mesa. Rick (left) was riding his vintage Trek Y33, the very first carbon-frame mountain bike that went into production in the mid-90s. A classic. And he was crushing the singletracks with it. 

There are good views of Zion NP as you snake through Gooseberry Mesa's undulating maze 
of sagebrush and junipers. 

The dauntless pathfinders at work. Most of the trail junctions were poorly marked, so considerable debate ensued as to which way to go. Should we take the left fork, the right, or middle fork? Patrick’s approach garnered the best results. He used the Strava app on his cell phone to pinpoint our location, and then interpreted that to a point on our trail map. Patrick the Navigator, he was.

On a 20-year-old bike, Rick still reigned supreme on the highly technical stuff. Patrick was pretty adept, too. (These Idaho dudes are good riders.)  I had one dispute with a juniper tree about halfway through the ride. I was cranking hard up through a difficult turn when I got a little wide and brushed against the tree. I figured I could just lean forward and knock past it and be on my way. But no. Concealed in the foliage was the tip of a nasty snag that bounced off the right side of my helmet, glanced across my cheekbone and slammed into my shoulder, bringing me to a stop. But hey—I didn’t fall off my bike. However, I did see a few stars, and my shoulder hurt like hell and the snag tore a hole in my favorite bike jersey, and then, icing on the cake, I felt blood trickling down my right cheek. Lovely. What can you do, other than mop it up and keep riding?  (photo by Kev)

When I informed Terry about the biking mishap, she insisted I take a selfie and send it to her. With Doug & Bri’s wedding just around the corner, she harbored fears that I was going to look like Scarface at the ceremony. I held off, however, until after we paid a visit to the coin showers in Springdale. Blood and grime wouldn’t help my cause. The cut was about two inches long and didn’t look that bad after I cleaned it up. It was my shoulder that was bruised and grungy. But that wouldn’t show in the wedding photos. Lucky Pierre, that’s me.

APRIL 21st –
Today it’s Lady Mountain or bust. Though the wind blew again last night, it wasn’t as severe, and if the trend holds, it will die off before noon—at least that’s what we’re banking on. My right shoulder is bruised and tender from yesterday’s jousting match with the juniper tree. We plan to catch the 7:30 tram up to Zion Lodge. It is going to be a long day. 

The morning is cool and breezy when we start up the Emerald Pool Trail. We’ll only be on it for a quarter mile before veering off to scramble straight up the remnants of the old Lady Mountain Trail—which is more of a “route” than a “trail.” It meanders up through the sheer cliff bands of the canyon for 2,600 vertical feet, all the way to the lofty summit of Lady Mountain. The Park Service did a good job of erasing it from existence back in the ‘60s. But it’s still there if you know where to look. Terry and I took a crack at it seven years ago, but turned back late in the day. We had underestimated the time required for the ascent, as it encompasses more climbing and scrambling than hiking. Hence I was getting an earlier start on this bid.  (photo by Kev)

Moki steps, carved into the sandstone by the Anasazis, lead the way up the first cliff band. A thousand years ago, Native Americans were climbing this route to gain access to the canyon rim. All three of my comrades wanted a roped belay up this exposed section.  (photo by Kev)

There are two short, technical pitches on the route. Here I’m belaying Rick up the second one, called The Corner, rated 5.6. From this point on, it’s a thousand feet of third-class scrambling with airy exposure at times.  (photo by Kev)  

Spring is in full bloom, even high on the canyon walls.  (photo by Kev)

Rick savors the view from what would become our “high point,” over 2,000 feet above the
canyon floor. Comparing our elevation to the opposite side of the canyon, I know we’re close
to the top: just a few hundred feet to go. But Patrick has fallen out, hunkered down on a
ledge several hundred feet below us. And now we've reached our agreed “turn-around"
time. Summit fever seeps in. The mountaineer in me screams “Go for it!” It is within reach,
but I don’t feel comfortable splitting the party up further, especially this late in the day. So I
pull the plug and turn us around, trying not to dwell on the fact that this is the second time
I’ve had to retreat from this climb.   

All the terrain we scaled up today must now be down-climbed. Carefully. There are big drop-offs everywhere.  (photo by Kev)

This is the other technical pitch, called The Chimney (5.4). After lowering my partners, I rappeled down it.  (photo by Kev) 

Close to the bottom now.

Back at the Zion Lodge, we dropped by the restaurant for a post-climb beer. However, they
wouldn’t serve us alcohol unless we were staying to eat dinner. Huh? So we sat out on the
lawn instead and enjoyed this incredible view. Utah has the most sublime scenery—and the
dumbest laws. 

APRIL 22nd –
No alarm clocks this morning, but everyone is up and about before the sun peeks into the canyon. Everyone looks a little stiff from yesterday’s Lady Mountain endeavor. More so, my ego is bruised from yet another failed attempt at bagging that elusive summit. Quite humbling.  

Today’s objective is Antelope Canyon, a sandstone slot that is 125 miles to the southeast near Page, Arizona. Navajo country. Rick will ride with me, while Kevin and Patrick follow in Kev’s car. The adventure continues.

Kevin arranged the tour of Upper Antelope Canyon, an incredible slot canyon located in the Navajo Nation, just outside of Page. Our guide was Irene and she was awesome, a real sweetheart. I took my good Nikon SLR along, and when she saw me struggling on how to set it up for low-light conditions, she said “Here, let me see that.” She then took my camera and changed several settings before handing it back. She had it wired! She even made me show her each photo afterwards to make sure I got it right. And if I got it right, I’d get a pat on the back. Man, talk about pressure.  (photo by Kev)

The slot in Upper Antelope Canyon is 120 feet deep and around 700 feet long. The Navajo call it Tsé bighánílíní, which translates to “The place where water runs through rocks.” For tens of thousands of years, flash floods have roared through here, the silt-laden water scouring the walls into exotic shapes.

An ancient legend holds that the fertility deity, Kokopelli, would sit deep in the chasm to
play his flutes, using the canyon's ethereal acoustics to lure women inside. 

Upper and Lower Antelope are the most photographed slot canyons in the world. Renowned
photographer, Peter Lik, snapped a black and white image in the Upper not long ago, and
last year, it sold for $6.5 million. But alas, our mystic tour was coming to an end and we
thanked Irene graciously for her impeccable guiding. Soon we were back on the road, Kevin,
Rick and Patrick heading back to Zion. As for me, I drove south, aiming for home by way of
Flagstaff.  

APRIL 23rd –
The first thing I do this morning is text “Happy Birthday!”to Allie. She’s 26 years old today. Man. Is that possible?  

The big winds are back, blowing through Flagstaff under sunny skies. I’ve got a 7-hour drive ahead of me to get home. But first, before I hit the road, I plan to sample some of the singletracks here in town. There's a lot of mountain-biking done around here.  

Flagstaff is nestled in a forest at 7,000 feet, and many of the trailheads are right in town. How cool is that?

It’s rock and roll time.

I rode the Walnut Canyon segment of the Flagstaff Loop Trail. No big grades or obstacles,
just a fast-flowing trail through the forest. Loads of fun. It was this very spot where a half
dozen elk hurtled across the trail in front of me. But by the time I slammed on the brakes
and pulled my camera out, they were across the meadow and into the trees. 

Before heading back to the van, I stopped to kick back and savor the moment. It was bright and sunny, not a sound but the wind sighing through the treetops. The last few days have been quite a journey, from riding atop Gooseberry Mesa, to scaling canyon walls in Zion, to exploring the depths of Antelope Canyon, to taking a spin here in Flagstaff. But by far the best part of the trip was time spent with my old amigos, hanging out around the campfire or dinner table and reminiscing old times. Days like that are priceless.

To see all the photos from this trip, click here...
https://www.flickr.com/photos/91696789@N00/albums/72157668392577636

Down Tucson Way

This year for Terry’s spring break, we headed out to Tucson to bask in Arizona sunshine—although the sun had to share some of that time with chill winds, ominous clouds and a few sprinkles. But that was okay. We were just thrilled to finally be back on a road trip in the van. (It has been two years!) Springtime in the Sonoran Desert, that’s what we were seeking. Nonetheless, it was sporadic showers that greeted us Monday morning as we departed home, breaking into patchy blue skies over San Gorgonio Pass, and then blustery winds all the way into Arizona as I careened into a storm front with both hands on the wheel.

First stop: Tombstone.

Nightfall in Tombstone. After checking into the Larian Hotel, we strolled down the quiet streets
on weathered boardwalks. We had dinner here in the Longhorn. It’s one of the original
downtown buildings (1878-79?) and was a lively establishment called the Bucket of Blood
Saloon back in the town's heyday. U.S. Marshal, Virgil Earp, was shot from the second floor 
in an ambush, two months after the OK Corral confrontation. 

A visit to Tombstone would not be complete without tossing back a few at the Crystal Palace Saloon, which is directly across the street from the old Bucket of Blood Saloon. The Crystal Palace was a swanky place in the 1880s, serving fresh oysters and seafood shipped in by rail from Baja California. It also carried the choicest brands of European wines and liquors and Cuban cigars. Naturally, gambling and live music were also part of the action each night, along with the occasional fracas with pistols and knives. Things have quieted down a lot since then. But like the antique sign states in the saloon's front window: “SERVING GOOD WHISKEY & TOLERABLE WATER”. I’ll drink to that.

Strong winds buffet the streets of Tombstone in the morning, kicking up dust and the occasional tumbleweed. Today, the town only has around 1,400 residents. But 125 years ago, the population was over ten times larger. This was the biggest mining operation in the Arizona Territory, extracting a massive amount of silver that would be worth over $8 billion today.    

Marshal Virgil Earp scans the street from the doorway of the Crystal Palace. Each day, actors dress to portray the Earp brothers, Doc Holliday and nefarious members of the Cowboys. It is these legendary characters who draw the tourists into town. I chewed the fat with Marshal Earp for a spell. Cool dude. 

The Earp brothers and Doc Holliday fire away during a re-enactment of the iconic, 1881 gunfight at the OK Corral. The shoot-out was at close range and lasted only 30 seconds. And when the smoke cleared, three members of the Cowboys gang, Tom and Frank McLaury, along with Billy Clanton, lay dead in a dirt lot. Virgil Earp took a bullet in the calf; Morgan Earp and Holliday were only grazed; Wyatt Earp, not a scratch. 

Frank McLaury goes down in a volley of lead. Well, not actually lead, as they’re all firing blanks—except for that little “incident” in 2015 when one of the actors forgot to change out the live ammo from his vintage Colt. He shot one of the other actors, who was then airlifted to the ER in Tucson, and another bullet ricocheted off a wall, grazing a tourist on the neck (they gave her a t-shirt that said “I survived the OK Corral Gunfight”). Hey, sometimes shit happens. 

The victims of the OK Corral shootout are interned in simple plots on Boot Hill at the edge of town, where occasional visitors still decorate their graves with flowers. Outlaws in the eyes of some, they still garnered respect and sympathy from many folks in town, especially those who despised the Yankee Republican industrialists who owned most of the mines and banks and appointed the lawmen. The funeral for Clanton and the two McLaury brothers was the largest ever attended in Tombstone.

You gotta love those Arizona sunsets. From Tombstone, we drove to Catalina State Park,
just north of Tucson in the Oro Valley, where the majestic Santa Catalina Mountains would
be our venue for the next two days.

The view of the Catalinas from our campsite was spectacular. This is Table Mountain. There are some long routes on those walls, five to six pitches long. But the approach looks heinous.

Terry is all smiles at the start of the ride up to Mount Lemmon. It’s the premier hill climb of the Southwest, starting in a desert environ of saguaros and blossoming Palo Verde trees, ending high in the mountains among towering ponderosas. This would be Ter’s acid test: her first strenuous ride—strenuous anything, for that matter—since her knee surgery last summer. Take it slow and easy, that was the goal.    

The Mt. Lemmon road is a steady grind up a 5-6 percent grade for 25 winding miles, gaining
a total of 6,000 feet in elevation. We just took it one mile at a time, finding a pace that we
could keep for the long haul. That worked out to around 6-7 mph for us. It seemed like a
good clip: a speed where we could feel a sense of accomplishment—until two riders blew by
us like we were standing still. Jeez. Young whippersnappers.    

Here’s a late-afternoon selfie of us either grimacing because our butts are sore, or smiling because this was our turn-around point. We climbed 2,800 feet before calling it a day. As for Ter’s knee: it was sore, but performed impeccably (kudos to her fitness trainer, Candace).  

Now it was time for the fun part: Streaking down the mountain! 

What took over two hours to crank up, took 24 minutes to go down. I hit 44 mph on one
stretch before having to brake hard for a hairpin curve. (Love the disc brakes on the new
Domane!) Our average speed down was close to 30 mph. It was a rush with a large dose of
incredible scenery.  

Terry makes coffee in the morning. Now it might look like I’m just loafing here, but it’s not so. (I don’t care what my wife tells you.)  No. I am planning out the day’s adventure, delving over a trail map of Catalina State Park. It’s a daunting job, planning.

Today’s hike takes us up a rugged trail into Romero Canyon, where saguaros stand tall and
regal in a desert festooned in spring bloom, the air vibrating with the hushed drone of bees
and hummingbirds.

The cactus flowers were just starting to blossom.

We lost the trail in a couple places where it crossed the creek. However, our trailblazer,
Barry the Norman, got us back on track.

The Romero Pools. Nice spot for a lunch break.

Terry descends the Romero Canyon Trail at the end of the day. The Santa Catalina
Mountains are incredibly beautiful. 

You gotta love the van life, relaxing after dinner with glasses of fine Irish whiskey, listening to the coyotes yip and howl. It felt good to be out on a road trip again. But the best part of all is that Terry’s knee appears to be completely healed, and she now has the green light to pursue all activities. Yep, I’ll drink to that, pour me another one. 

To see all the photos from this trip, click here...
https://www.flickr.com/photos/91696789@N00/albums/72157667661522772/with/26686696602/