An American Explorer: Revenge of the 29'er Day Day 13

Day 13: 35 miles/2010 ft. climb

The Sands of Despair lead to the Rollercoaster of Doom.

I could not believe that this ride would make me wish for sand riding, but when I hit the mountains, I discovered how easy the sandy riding had been.

A cloudless gem of day, little wind and cool enough to make the desperate work ahead manageable–though still plenty desperate. The "road" I followed was for installing and servicing the gas pipeline it was named after–not for general travel, and I soon discovered what that implied: horrendous relentless rollers of nauseating steepness, frequently loose, unstable and un-rideable.

Wave after wave, like the famed Banzai Pipeline in high season, the crumbling walls kept coming, pounding down upon my sweating head, threatening to break my spirit and crack my skull. A soft, sandy arroyo would lead to a leg and shoulder busting push, eliciting F bombs, C bombs, MF bombs, grunts, groans, feet slipping, bike slipping, a breather at each summit where I would look on with dread at the sea of loose gravel waves leering at me in the distance. I'd saddle up and ride the other side, sliding, jouncing, fighting for control – You got this. You got this. No mistakes. Bottom out at speed, slam into the sand or hard-edged crease and begin again. Over and over. Force prisoners to do this and they'd have your head at The Hague. But I fucking volunteered for this abuse. Be careful when you go to follow a line on a map. It may take you places beyond your imagination.

And so the afternoon and my Theater of the Absurd wore on. I wondered for a time if I would make it to the river, but one nasty little wave put me on top, the golden willows lining the river below. At last.

A quick and sketchy drop brought me down to the river level, but ANOTHER monster wave led back up to where the pipeline stretches high across the water and willows. No. Fucking. Way.

I switched my GPS map to satellite view I and discovered an alternate track down through the mesquite and iron wood. Yes. Ducking branches, lifting Ivan gingerly over some fallen barbwire, I slipped down to the waterline and regained the route. Hah! My mapped route, however, was a dead end, as I had suspected from close inspection on Google Earth. I quickly ran into an impenetrable swamp and deep thickets of brush–uh, no.

Minutes were critical now as the sun was setting. I frantically studied the satellite view and found the alternate track I needed. I back tracked a few yards, took my turn, and gunned for glory. Heavily over grown, slapping branches, pumping hard through the sand, this path was not going to make it easy on me. But the path widened, tire tracks appeared–this HAD to be it. A turn, a turn, a sandy fish-tailing turn…and the river, an obvious, short, easy crossing. Hallelujah and pass the brewskis, this day was almost over. No brewskis, though.

The water looked quite shallow. There were few rocks to be found here in the shallows, so barefoot it would be. I'd brought neoprene booties for this job, but they were buried, and I could see a campsite just there a few yards away. Off with the shoes and socks, grab Ivan, in a moment we were on the other side.

The hard slant of late autumn light glowed on the volcanic ridge to the east, Saguaro, mesquite, palo verde across the slope. A quiet ripple like a Zen fountain drifted through the canyon. Tall willow glowed in bright yellow hung overhead, the evening sun showering through for the final moments of the day. I took a brief bandana bath and dressed in full long underwear and fleece, reclining in my camp chair as the moon rose through the trees, the cold settling around me. I so desperately wanted a rest day here, a time to think, reflect, soak in the light and sounds, but the storm was coming, the snow to impede my progress. It was work hard every day and get it done. These moments of rest and reflection were welcome indeed.