Revenge of the 29'er Day 14

 

Day 14: 35 miles/2.7k climb

The Choss Wall of Stupid

Damp mist hung over the river as I stumbled about in the frozen morning shadows. Cold, damp AM 29 deg. F., frost on everything. My salvation: Coffee.

As I packed Ivan, nearly ready to go, my camp still in shadow due to a strategically placed hill to the east—gah!—I heard the rumble of ATV’s. In a moment, a couple of rigs broke through the gap in the willows and pulled to a stop in front of me. Two younger men and a grey-haired fellow climbed out and we exchanged greetings—flannel and fleece and big smiles. “We’re here to check our traps!” said the youngest man, perhaps in his early 20’s. “Look, Grandpa, looks like we got one! You can see him right there.”

“Yeah, I see it,” replied Grandpa.

The youngest slipped into waders and sloshed out through the shallow water and came back with a huge beaver clamped in a trap, quite dead. I was heartbroken. While I have nothing against hunters, especially if they take the craft seriously, trapping always seemed, in this modern age, needless and needlessly cruel. I realized as the young man hoisted the creature, slick and dripping, easily thirty pounds, its huge teeth protruding, that the splashing I’d heard the night before wasn’t the burros that were about but the final throws of the beaver. Although the river was named after a famous trapper, the market for beaver hats and pelts has long been replaced by other products. The death seemed gratuitous. To their credit, the trappers said they were going to eat the large rodent, and I couldn’t really be angry with them. They even invited me to their camp for a meal. I was bound to the road, however, with miles to make. I said goodbye and pushed off through the sand, a day of suffering ahead. I’d have little time or frame of mind to reflect on the incident at the river.

Less than a mile of sandy surfing from camp, the ATV track hooked out of the wash and up a very steep grade to the east, totally un-rideable. Crap. The first push of the day and I’d hardly gotten started. Dismount, shoulder to the bars, and push.

Or not.

A tale of weakness, temptation and stupid.

Right away my feet were skidding, Ivan pushing back with a vengeance. I suddenly lost heart. Really? This? Again? I looked about. Ah, maybe…. I looked back at the wash and realized that maybe I could continue along it and intersect the route up ahead. Sure. That’s the ticket.

I lowered Fat Ivan back to the wash and rode for a little then pushed along the sandy bottom through a magical slot of deep red stone, the sun glowing warm in the morning light. Fantastic. But as I pushed I realized what was likely to happen. Sure, I’d intersect the road, that much I knew from looking at maps and satellite photos. But that could easily mean a cul-de-sac of a berm rather than a sandy wash—both were possibilities. As the walls of the canyon climbed, the odds of a simple intersection faded. And died. I lifted Ivan through a couple of rocks and encountered the end, a steep wall leading up to the road, easily visible less than a hundred feet above.

My problem as a mountain climber is that I could see how it might go. Sure, it was steep and obviously loose, but if I could push Ivan diagonally across the slope, I could eventually make it up to a low break where the angle eased. Of course, I could back track, but that meant pushing, too. Why go back when you can move forward? Any steeper, and I would have done the smart thing. Instead, I assaulted the “Choss Wall of Death,” as I called it then, “choss” being an English term climbers use to describe rotten rock.

What ensued was the hardest push of the tour—totally desperate, feet skidding, more than once Ivan pushing me back, threatening to cartwheel both of us down the slope. Yelling, fighting, sweating, animal grunting and power screams. I’d been a complete fool. Jodi was right, of course, when I told her about it later. It wasn’t the “Choss Wall of Death.” It was the “Choss Wall of Stupid.” An old saying came flooding in with painful truth: If you’re going to be stupid, you’d better be tough.

I guess I was tough enough. I successfully jujitsued Ivan to the top and began the long day of my continued punishment underneath a perfect Arizona sky. Roller after roller after roller ground on into the afternoon, my brakes suddenly fading in the front from the hard grabbing I was forced into by the steep broken slopes. Without a good front brake, I had to walk down a few of the slopes. A slow descent was preferable to broken bones at the bottom.

About midday, a white Chevy Suburban rumbled up behind me as I topped another hard slog. Two smiling gents looked over and asked if I needed help—“You okay for water?” I said I thought I was okay, but I didn’t know if I’d make my destination for the day. I complained about the obvious challenges of the route. The younger one quipped: “The purgatory of Pipeline Rd!” I was thinking more like Inferno, but I loved the line. The two men were geologists from the USGS out do field work. Eventually the driver said, “Hey, we’re parking just up the road, and we’ll leave the water jug behind the rig. You’ll be riding right past us.”

“Okay,” I replied. “Maybe I will top off my bottles.”

They motored ahead, effortlessly climbing the slopes in 4x4 low. I soldiered on, one wave at a time, but before long, I descended to their rig. As promised, the water jug was out. And a breakfast bar. And an apple. And an ice cold fucking beautiful beer. Oh, the humanity. I topped off my water bottles, munched down the bar, and slammed that beer with gusto. The apple I would save for later. I etched a strong note of thanks in the dust on their back window. Pushed hard emotionally and physically, this act of kindness left me with a few tears as I pushed up the next grade. Road angels of the first order. All hail back country geologists!

Periodically, like an old soothsayer gazing into chicken entrails, I’d study the elevation profile on my GPS map. Surely that next summit—that one!—has got to be the last. And so it was. I grunted a final slog to find the way ahead virtually clear of the death rollers. A bump or two on the way down bled out to a broad, smooth basin, sand visible from even my high vantage point. Front brake be damned, I saddled up and rocketed down the crazy slopes until gravity was overcome by sand and I pedaled once again in the Land of Flat. Soon I came across The Four ATV’ers of the Resurrection who offered me beer and intel on the route ahead. While I didn’t have time for more of the ice cold ambrosia, the knowledge that the climbing road miles across the basin was, in fact, paved gave wings to my knobby tires as I slipped and pumped, pushed a little, but quickly headed south. I would make Wenden on Rt. 60. Just keep the pedals moving, chump.

Pavement, another climb of a few miles, a final summit, and long, low angle descent took me to Wenden and the day’s last sunlight. I camped at the back of a ratty town park where no one bothered me.

I had survived the trials of Pipeline Rd. And I never had to ride it again. Ever.