Day 15: 56 miles/3850 ft. Climb
Twenty nine deg. morning—again. I tried to work quickly in the cold early hours, knowing I had a big day ahead. No rest for wicked bike packers. No sir. Layered up, I rode into the freezing morning light, determined to get to Congress, perhaps beyond.
The day slowly warmed and the layers came off. The deep ache in my left hip would rise again and again throughout the day, ensuring regular breaks. Music helped fuel the miles, and the low angle of the climb and descent to Hwy 93 kept my pace well above 10 mph, often in the mid-teens. I reeled in hills forested with stately saguaro and the angry spined cholla. A reasonable shoulder and low traffic, as predicted, ensured the distance was low stress. It was all coming together.
Congress was mine by three pm. I knew that I had to tackle the notorious Yarnell Hill, something of a wall the climbs steeply above town. I was achy, sore, in desperate need of a rest day, but the coming storm had other ideas. Knuckle up, butter cup. Remember Jodi’s wise words: “It’s only pain. How long do you expect to live, anyway?” Well, I wasn’t expecting to die, not this day. The classic old general store had been replaced by a tediously generic Dollar General, but I got what I needed at a gas station, loading up with water, extra bars, food for the night, and a fat final night’s brew. I attacked the grade, climbing higher and higher and higher, a slow battle of attrition as the sun dropped behind me. I would race the line of darkness as it crept across the desert basin, the Yarnell escarpment facing due west. If I could dispatch a sizable chunk of this climb, the next day’s work would be easier.
I kept my eyes sharp for possible bivouac zones, not so frequent on this craggy mountain wall, huge blocks of granite overhanging the road and spilling out into the desert below like so many gigantic dice. The golden light washed over my straining carcass like a benediction and a threat. Where will I camp?
THERE.
At the end of a long steady pitch, the road hooked back into the mountain, a flat spot above. I knew there would be some sort of access. I rounded the corner, slipping into the chill shadows, and climbed steeply away from the main road, leaving the occasional automobile to continue up the mountain without me. My first examination was not encouraging—the flat terrain was good but too exposed, and a paved connector between the two sides of the road would ensure at least some traffic. Higher? A “No Trespassing” sign hung on a slack cable between metal posts, the road beyond overgrown and long unused. It led up to the overlook I’d seen from below. Begging forgiveness from man, beast and the gods, I easily pushed Ivan around the gate and up to a perfect campsite. This would have to do. The sun dipped as I pitched my tent on the edge of the world, the vast deserts of the American West spread out below me. Yeah, this would do nicely.
Well thrashed from my long day, my legs yelped in protest as I squatted and stood repeatedly to pitch the tent and get everything ready. I took occasional hits of the cold beer as I went about my chores, grinning through the aches as the reality of what I’d done sank in. This was it, my last night, and I’d bagged most of the first big climb to Prescott. After a quick talk with Jodi, I watched the sun dip below the horizon.
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