Day Sixteen: Out of the Desert, Into the Mountains

Day Sixteen: Out of the Desert, Into the Mountains

Miles:  43.67

Climb: 4587--Ouch

Ave. spd.: 7.3 mph

Total Tour Distance (drum roll): 695.28 miles--Let’s round it to 700, eh?

No rain during the night, cloudy as promised, no wind.  It was perhaps my warmest morning of the trip-- 53 deg. F., but because of the altitude change, it would be my coldest day overall.  After the trauma south of Havasu and the tedium of Rt. 71 and 60, I was itching to get after this most challenging day. Shortly before 7AM, I was reaching for the sky, digging into the Yarnell grade.

With no commercial trucking to speak of, double, mostly divided road--the downslope route hanging sometimes far above and out of sight--I climbed with light traffic and a fat, usually clean shoulder.  The dusty green of saguaro, creosote, prickly pear and acacia fell away, the damp grey of the building storm hanging low, obscuring the mountain tops above me. This was class A cycle touring and a much needed antidote to the previous days.  While the gentiles considered this climb shocking, to a well-tuned cycle-tourist, it was straight forward ascent, a steady 4--6%. I estimated two hours but topped it in 90 minutes.

As I climbed, the tragedy that played out in the mountains a few years ago ran sharply through my mind.  The Yarnell fire claimed the lives of 19 brave men and women, true heroes who, unlike the millionaire Colin Kaepernick, actually did risk everything and lose everything.  The loss of these Granite Mountain Hotshots hit Prescott like a bomb. Almost everyone seemed to know someone directly or indirectly connected with the catastrophe. Although I’ve never been a firefighter, I have friends and family members who have done such dangerous work, and somehow, as an adventure fanatic and wilderness traveler, I felt a kinship with these people.  I imagined their moving downhill, gauging the fire, fixing on the cleared area below that would offer refuge, pushing hard, exhausted, hot, the ache in their legs building, realizing, at last, desperately, that the fire was faster than they were. They worked frantically to clear an area, deploy their fire shelters, and hunker down, hoping, probably shouting encouragement to each other.  But the flames cared nothing for their hopes, their families, the lives and dreams they carried. The fire took them all.

I thought about all this as I pedaled by the memorial park developed in their honor.  We owe so much. My own efforts seemed meager.

And suddenly, the town.  Because of the story of the fire, I expected some sort of devastation, but the line was back from all the residences, and the rocky slopes had begun to recover.  It looked much as I’d remembered, a quaint little town perched on the edge of a desert precipice. Cool, upper 40’s, for once a snappy tail wind, I wolfed down a snack and launched, ripping through town and out in a blaze of triking glory into the Peeples Valley, the pavement dreamy smooth.  Well earned easy speed and miles left me laughing again. Booyah!

Grey, low-hanging skies ringed the dry grassy valley. In the distance, I could see patchy snow up in the pines.  This was no summer ride. I rolled and climbed, broke through a fierce little ramp and faced a tedious traverse to Wilhoit, a small cluster of homes at the base of the steeper terrain above.  Miles of slow grinding ensued, the clouds building and pushing lower. A couple of road cyclists with bikes that weighed less than one of my panniers blasted by. As I hit Wilhoit, the rain started.  

Okay, so the rain wasn’t going to hold off.  I pulled under an empty carport next to the local market, slipped plastic bags over my socks, donned Gore Tex, choked down a Clif bar, and set out.  I gained some altitude, hood pulled over my helmet, but it wasn’t long before the rain stopped, and as I’d expected, I began to overheat. Off with the rain gear, back to the climbing.  Twist and turn, climb and spin, reel in those ponderosas, Scotty.  Each moment yielded a new vista, a break in the clouds, another valley.  I caught a delightful descent, passing two different roadies paused on the side of the road.  Of course, the drop meant more climbing, but the cool air rushing by, the short escape from the relentless pedaling, gave me energy to continue.  Having curves and switch backs tightly spaced gave my slow climb a sense of progress that the interminable desert grades usually lack. There is something intrinsically heartbreaking about staring straight into the barrel of a ten mile grade with not a single curve to distract the senses. This was hard work, no doubt, but I was a man happy in his efforts.

At one point, I paused to escape the leg burn and gather forces for the next assault when I saw a line of sportscars gunning up the road--another gang of drivers!  How strange to have my tour bracketed in this way. As it began, so it shall end. This, however, was a lower rent driving club--Subaru’s, a couple of Mustangs, a VW Golf.  Nice enough, but these weren’t no Porsches or gull-wing Mercedes. The hot-blooded young men were hampered by a low speed limit and slow traffic, their intense expressions locked on the road as they jockeyed for the front of the line.  I thought of the shattered railing I’d seen, the white crosses I’d slowly passed, the arms inscribed with the names and short lives of young men who were certain their nerve and skill were up to the task while physics had other plans.  I suppose there is some Darwinian value in the daring of young men, but it doesn’t always end well.

The roadies soon caught up, and for a while they slowed their pace and asked about my journey.  Many years had passed since I climbed this pass, so I asked, “So, we’re near the top?”

“Not quite,” said the one on the red carbon fiber machine. “You’ve got five miles, mostly climbing.  We call mile marker 305 the summit.”

“Oh, thanks,” I replied, my heart sinking a little. That could easily mean another hour of climbing.  I was a horse tasting the barn at this point, but the fresh oats would have to wait. My featherweight brethren wished me well and quickly vanished out of sight.  You’ll get there, Scotty.  One pedal stroke at a time.

Round a corner--as descent!  Another climb. Mile marker 301, 302, 303, 304...305.  Victory! A sign just ahead proclaimed 6,100 ft. of altitude.  I took another photo of the trike and my own grinning mug and got ready for the drop to town.

Only to find myself a grinning sucker.

A short, mild drop led to ANOTHER climb.  What-the-what? This was not right. Not right at all.  The bastard roadies had sandbagged me. Gear down, keep at it.  Finally, another summit, this higher than the previous, and unmarked, was, indeed, the last true top of the hill.  I eased over the crest and slalomed through a set of juicy curves, excited that I was almost done. The final street, of course, had some climbing I didn’t remember, but I knew even so that I was close, so close.  There. Turn, flat, coast, park. Done.

The human powered segment of my journey was over, and after perhaps a decade--could it have been so long?--I would get to meet my old friend once again.

I unhitched the bags from the trike, schlepped my gear into the house, and once more took a Shower of the Gods.  It was so good to be here, and the warmth of success soaked into me with each moment under the hot water.