Day 16: The final miles. 36 miles/3630 ft. climb
Twelve days without a break, and I was feeling it. The night passed well enough, however, and the temperature at 5AM was only 44 deg. F., the warmest morning of the tour. A clump of mountain mahogany helped blocked whatever winds came our way, although I had lain Ivan on his side just in case the breezes got a little frisky. It was a most fitting and excellent emergency bivi for a wayward, exhausted bike packer.
I climbed before first sun and, as I suspected, only had 300 ft. to gain to reach the summit, enough to warm up. The descent down into the Peeples Valley was fast but an unexpected ice bath. An ocean of cold air lay in wait, and I shivered down to my bones as I rolled out into the expanses of golden grasses, distant, granite studded mountains, and large ranches with imposing gates. My aching hip and sore bum kept me moving, shifting positions, standing out of the saddle. I was ready for the tour to be over, especially dealing with cold mornings.
Climb descend climb descend, reel in the distant village of Wilhoit at the base of the final mountain passes before Prescott. No winds for much of the morning but kicking in on the last miles, but from the south and manageable. These would “freshen,” as they say, a little later and provide some head-on entertainment but never for long as the route twisted and turned, gaining and losing elevation, the way flanked by scrub, mesquite, and mahogany, tall golden grasses.
Former Marine on quad rolled up to the store in Wilhoit, the final supply point before the rugged snaking road biting into the mountains above. A bit overweight, smoking a cig, swilling coffee, close shaven head, he asked about my trip. He was astonished, although I had to give him serious respect for being a Marine, which he brushed off. I meant it, though, and wondered what lay in his past–Iraq, Afghanistan? Marines always seem to be in the thick of it.
Back on the road, 16 miles to go. This tour was going down, and a clear sky meant no snow. I would make my deadline. Climb, coast, climb, rest, repeat. No records to break, I decided to let the ache in my left hip dictate how long I would ride for each section. I stopped at prominent corners, gazing down on vibrant pines and chaparral, the signs of a solid monsoon season months before.
Far sooner than I could believe, I crested the first pass at 6,100 ft., my second highest of the tour. I knew from a previous ride that this was NOT the end, as a sweet fast drop was followed by another climb, even a little higher. I banked into the fast downhill turns, brushing the tips of the tall blond grass, feeling the speed. Bottom out, gear down, crank again. This was it, I could feel it. Stand out of the saddle, swing and pump, Ivan and me joined at the hip–among other places. He responded like the over-loaded mule that he was, dependable and slow. The front brake had recovered from the Rollercoaster of Horrors and seemed normal.
The Welcome to Prescott sign. That was it. I stopped for obligatory selfie and Ivan photos and stood about, gaping in the swirling breezes, this time trending tail, and I pushed off for the drop to Prescott, probably the last time I would do this ride, three times from California, once from Bar Harbor, Maine. With the hardcore bike packing element, this tour was a solid final act. It was time for other things, whatever they might be.
I hit the key turn and battled the last insult, another climb to my friends’ house. I grinned at my aching body, knowing the shower and rest to come. And there it was, in through the carport under the towering pine, up to the side of the house. Done.
That night is snowed three inches as predicted.
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