Next Big Adventure?

Reading through the posts...wistful...memories, and good times. Something has to be planned....

I am on it!

Thurs 6th Oct - Edge Loop, Fruita CO

Big Day! After some miserable hotel coffee, we threw our gear into the van and made our way back to the Bookcliffs. We parked just before the bright orange netting that prevented access to the campground while construction work was underway.

We set out at about 11:30am. Another gorgeous day. The cliffs looked like they were cardboard cutouts against the deep blue sky.

“We are soon going to be at the top of that” Randy tells us pointed up! We begin riding the “Front Side” which is a series of ‘fingers’ skirting the base of the cliffs. It is fun, fast and rolling. I reckon my decision not to do the Zippidoo-dah trail last night with those three was a good decision for me. I felt rested and stronger.

We came to the gravel road and bore right up it. 11 miles of gravel road wending its way up the rear of the cliffs. The first 6 miles weren’t too bad as the incline was gradual. The last 5 miles were totally brutal. The incline got steeper and steeper! As expected Tim was out front on his single speed leading the pack upwards. I changed down into a stronger gear, looked at my front wheel and pedaled…endlessly it seemed. Suddenly I could see the blue sky rise up above the road and I knew it was the crest!

We snacked on sandwiches while we lay in the sun recovering. “There’s always a payoff” Randy always said and I was looking forward to it. We pressed on and got to a lookout where the cliffs freefell from where we stood and rolled out on to a plain towards Fruita. It was spectacular!

Payoff time! Steep, fast and very rocky track that demanded total focus. This changed over to the same steep, loose rock trail except it was now single-track. It was exhilarating to blast full tilt down the side of the mountain leaping over loose rock and sliding around corners. Took one too fast and I ended up in a tree that luckily broke my fall.

Right at the bottom we hung left and rode along a river bed. A while later we reached the waterfall which had dribbles of water sliding down its face. We rappelled down this with our bikes before continuing along the river bed weaving and ducking the overhanging shrubs.

At last we exited the river bed and swung up onto the first of many fingers that make up the ‘Chutes and Ladders’ trail. Steep descents and vicious climbs. By now, we were all feeling the affects of the long ride thus far. Not much was said on the short breaks we took at the top of some of the real mothers. Hung over my bars, I just panted!

The light was golden on the long grass as we made our last weave around a finger and dropped down to where we had parked the van.

For the first 5 minutes as we took off our kit, no one said anything. We were knackered! We pulled out the camp chairs and popped a few beers and only then did we begin to chat about the ride. Epic! In a word; all 27.5 miles of it.

We discussed camping another night to do the Westwater Mesa trail tomorrow, but there was consensus on hitting the highway for home.

We repacked the van. Dinner at Pancho Villas in Fruita was delicious even if we did have to wait a while for our food. At around 7:30pm we left Fruita for home. It had been a memorable trip offering a wide gamut of stunning trails. Jerome and I had clocked about 100 miles in total with the other three up at around 110 miles.

Thanks chaps!

From Randy

Dear Zara, I love you. From Randy

Motel 8

They returned in the dark after an hour and a half. We packed up in the brisk wind and turned back for town. We found the State camp site and were busy unpacking the van to walk the gear to the nearest tent site when Mark said “Hey guys, sorry but I need to get a room at a hotel.” “That’s what I said an hour ago” Jerome said. Packed up and checked into Motel 8.

A delicious Sonoran Burger and beer at the Fruita Brew Pub was well received. We met Troy (of Fat Tire Guide to Fruita fame) and he guided us on how best to get to the best part of Westlake Mesa trail that we are planning to ride Friday morning before heading North.

Those beds were soft and cozy!

Turkey Flats - Day 4

We left Moab at around 11:30am opting for the highway option back towards Fruita. Our plan was to turn off to the Colorado National Monument Park, home of the Turkey Flats trail that we were all keen to do. We entered the park passing the ranger station and began the winding ascent in the early afternoon.

“This is not a good put-in place. What are they thinking?” Randy quipped when we saw a car with two kayaks strapped to the roof parked in a small parking area off the narrow road.

The road turned from tarmac to gravel. Tim took over driving so Randy could eat his chicken Sub. The road wind further up into the tree lined ridges. The vivid colors of turning leaves looked like an artist’s palette.

“I’ve had my turn blinker on for an hour now” Tim said. We were stuck behind a truck on the narrow road, with no room to get past.

We all pretty chaffed to do this 10 mile road that sounded like it had a fabulous mix of damp single track and open grassy climbs. “This is going to be great trail” Tim said as he maneuvered the van around yet another hairpin bend. “I hope they have a shithouse there” is all Jerome countered with.

It was cold. There was snow on the ground, but at least the sun was out. We togged up and hit the trail which began with an ascent (what else!) before heading left into the woods. In minutes our wheels were clogged with persistent mud. Mud that caked the frame and stopped my rear wheel from turning as I pushed it up a slippery, muddy, wet hill. The tires were like huge puffy candy floss-coated wheels with no traction whatsoever. We pressed on, but after about 4 miles of this, I got to the top of another climb to find Jerome sitting there leaning on his bike. The other three were down a little way. I waved that I was turning back. This was less than fun.

Jerome and I headed back to the car with mud spinning up from the wheels and coating our legs, ass and bike.

As we coasted the last corner, we saw the other three were already at the van. Apparently it was a unanimous decision to call it a day!

We cracked open some Pacific beer and returned the way we had come. After I handed Tim a beer, Randy commented to Tim who was driving, “You know you really shouldn’t have a beer in your hand when we pass the ranger station on the way out.”
“You think less of me now?” Tim shot back.
“I never thought much of you to begin with” Randy retorted. Always a quick tongue!

We hit a car-wash in Fruita where we washed off the mud before driving out to the camp site below the Book Cliffs. Tim, still driving, was passed another beer. “What’s the deal with this 3.2% stuff?” he asked referring to the lower alcohol beer sold in parts of Utah and Colorado.
“Well, you’re driving. Don’t you know the law Tim?” Randy chimed.

“Closed for construction” signs met us. It was an hour or so before dark and Tim wanted to ride badly.

Jerome and I took it easy in the van while Tim, Randy and Mark went off for a ride that was sure to turn into a night-ride. I wanted to conserve every morsel of energy I had for tomorrow’s 30 mile bash.

Leaving Moab

It was cold when we got up at 7am. The origin of the klank was found. Tom’s blue cooler bag he had left behind stuffed with chicken and sausages well past their prime!

Cramming sandy tents, bags and wheels into the van, we headed down into Moab for breakfast at The Slickrock Café.

Some of the chaps went shopping and Aaron said farewell.

Porcupine Rim, Moab UT - Day 3

Some of the lads dropped the van off at the bottom of Porcupine Rim. I crawled into the tent to lie down. Helmets, gloves, damp sleeping bags and clothes lined the smelly tent, all covered in a fine patina of Utah sand. Sweaty and exhausted, I passed out as the rain tinkled on the tent roof.

“It looks like its clearing. Game on” I heard as I came to about an hour later. A scrabble of Shimano sandals on rocks as Randy dashed back to the cave. It began to hail!

I got up and joined Tim, Randy, Jerome and Aaron in the cave as we watched the sky begin to clear from the west like a giant windshield wiper.

“Which way are we looking” Tim asked.
“Well, West from here” Aaron responded.
“How do you know that” Tim pressed.
“The sun set over there last night” Aaron pointed out.
“So what are you saying?” from Tim. We all laughed.

We decided to push on with the planned ride of Porcupine Rim. Aaron shuttled the bikes up to the trailhead further up the road.

As we got out of the car, Mark came over and shared with us his chat with two other riders who had come past earlier. They had suggested we were crazy to go out in this, without lights too. I could tell Aaron vacillating. The Micro-Brew Pub was looking to be rather inviting right now.

Unanimous decision to ride. So off we pedaled. I battled. The first part of the 14 mile trail was up hill, up hill and more bloody up hill. My legs turned at the speed of metronome. Every time I turned a corner, there up ahead would be another series of ragged rocky steps going into another corner, and up!

“The up hill is almost over, and then it’s down hill ALL the way” was Randy’s coaxing chant. I began to disbelieve him.

Finally we got to the top of the world where the open plains below spread out like a tablecloth. The descent was down an extremely rocky road littered with rock striations and step offs. It was heady! Aaron and I rode head-to-head as we shot down. My bike was in its element and it felt superb. We each chose different lines, often crisscrossing one another. His bunny-hop leaps were a pleasure to see.

We entered the Wilderness Preserve Study area where the trail lost the rocky track and became a dedicated single track that hugged the side of the mountain. It seemed improbable that from this altitude we would somehow descend to the level of the river so far below.

The sun was waning now and the crisp mountain air whistled through my helmet. The last rosy gloss of sun painted the far side of the canyons.

Single file was made our way down the track which often had one leaping from rocky ledge to rocky ledge or teetering around a boulder with the canyon falling away to our right.

We came to one series of particularly challenging step offs, three large ones in total. I almost smacked into Randy’s ass as he came to an abrupt halt on the second tier. We dismounted and I whipped out the camera. Aaron came gracefully sailing down, in control looking icy pro! Mark came in. On the second ledge he was forced to turn tight to make the last step off. It unraveled fast and he fell hard. This guy is tough! “Did you get that picture” was all he asked me as he rolled upright.

The last few miles were a blast as I hurtled down with Randy. The sun was all but gone by now and I could see the oily darkness of the river coming closer now.

We swung onto the road to ride back to the van which Randy had left “just over a little hill.” It seemed likes miles, but finally there it was and we stacked the bikes on the roof in near darkness. The ‘klank’ (stench) in the van was almost unbearable now. I was convinced it was Randy’s old toe-jammed socks wedged into some crevice.

The hot water was sheer heaven. $2.50 with a towel for a shower at the Youth Hostel. In clean clothes we headed for Eddy McStiffs for gourmet pizza and jugs of Desert Wheat and Amber Rock Ale. That pleasant afterglow of extreme exertion coupled with a good meal set in.

No fire, no slide-show, just “night chaps” and we all crashed. A truly epic day of 30 miles of hard core riding.

Slickrock, Moab UT - Day 3

Tuesday 4th Oct
“Its all about the ride”-Mark had us kitting up early bells in the am in preparation for our ride on Slickrock. A series of weatherworn bald rocks stringing out like giant beads making for a rollercoaster ride of fast, slippery down hills and brutal uphill climbs where the front wheel barely makes contact.

I started out slow at the back fighting muscle burn, short breath and aching shoulders. I watched impressed as Jerome tackled everything head-on with his Bianchi single-speed. How the hell he does it I don’t know.

The views were spectacular and the cloud cover was a welcome relief from what could have been searing sun. The canyons that dropped down shear to the Colorado River were off to our right as we rode on a faint hint of a trail on the side of smooth rock. Any loss of traction would definitely be bloody.

We traversed to the furthermost end of the Slickrock loop. There was a cave right up on top of a rocky bluff that Randy suggested we visit. To get there you had to ride up a narrow, seriously steep chute. We all gave it a whirl. Only ‘The Man’ Lackman did it effortlessly. From the cave we had fabulous views of the trail we had ridden to get here. The painted white lines on the rocks marked the trail like bread crumbs.

I was breathing easier now and the up hills posed less of a problem. Every time I looked, I would see Tim bulleting out in the lead. Mountain Man, no doubt!

The clouds were threatening now as we head back to close off a 14 mile ride. As we got back to camp the temperature plummeted. It began to drizzle, then fall and then pelt.

Flight of the Icarus

Monday, 3^rd Oct.

Up at 7am to pack up the camp. Couldn’t believe it when I heard that some of the lads had gone for a night ride in the early hours of the morning. Tanked up, there were apparently some interesting weaving techniques employed.

By 8am we were sitting down at Pancho Villas on the Main Street of Fruita. The place was filled with locals. Some wore Stetsons, some base-ball caps and others purple grey hairstyles. It was interesting to see patrons chugging down their coffee while sucking on their cigarettes…far cry from the smoke free zone of Wausau. Bobby would have loved this joint.

We were served a scrumptious breakfast. I was faintly alarmed when I saw the majority of lads order breakfast burrito. I reckon we have had enough of the spicy food by this point. The flatulence was getting to be an epidemic.

We picked up spares at Over The Edge bike shop across the street. Troy who was serving up coffee in his shop is the legend that wrote the ‘Fat Tire Guide to Fruita.’ I splashed out and bought a new Camelbak as my old one was worn out and leaked all over my crotch while I rode. In the shop there was a red headed woman sporting a lightening bolt tattoo on her arm. On her feet she had clipless-shoes. A hard-core mountain biker. A little while later I saw her unloading some gear from her vehicle. ‘Spirit of Adventure’ was splashed over the side. Pots, pans, bikes, wheels and water canisters hung off the truck like confetti.

I walked over to the garage to meet the chaps who were getting some ice and fuel. Huge Super Duty 4x4 trucks lined the streets parked next to smaller 4x4’s stacked with bikes. Three guys sat outside one of the coffee chops swapping gossip and spitting tobacco juice onto the lamp post.

Jerome was completely taken by the small centre park that he walked through to get to the garage. “You see that shit? That park was covered in dog shit….like the trees had rained it or something”

After a bit of searching we found the end of the ‘Flight of the Icarus’ trail where we left Tom’s car before heading up the pass to finally park at an altitude of 8700 ft. We kitted up.

The guide book said to expect two steep up hills trails. They were super correct on that score. Trying to pace myself I dismounted and walked it with some of the other chaps. Not Tom. He beetled past me and the rest. I kept expecting him to call it quits, but he kept on going until the top. I was impressed!

It was a lot cooler today with a lovely mountain breeze cresting the trees. The sky was martini blue and the valleys poured out beneath us. We got to a sign that said that the only permitted traffic were hikers and people walking their dog. We passed on and soon came to a ledge. To the right was a 800 metre drop. My tires crunched on the loose shale rock as I avoided looking to my right. Not bloody pleasant at all.

Given our height, I knew there was going to be some serious descents required. It was a fabulous ride. Riding a ridge that stretched out like the bowsprit of a yacht, we dropped off. Down. Fast and rocky. It was superb. I leaned back and let the front wheel pick its course. At that moment I was so chaffed that I had my new Specialized Enduro Expert, it was pleasure on a roll!

At one point we came to an exposed section where the wind was stupendous. It hit us like a baseball bat. Even though I had traction it steered me to the edge on my left. At one point Randy was holding his bike as it flew horizontally in the wind! We got to the bottom of that run and consulted the book. “Left at dead tree 2.8 miles. A wild descent.” Sounded excellent!

We hung a left at the designated spot. Sweeping chutes of hardened pack littered with embedded rocks and sprinkled with a generous assortment of loose rocks. Took me back to Lesotho days. I took it as hard and fast as I could. I would not have wanted anything else but disc brakes right then.

I shot out the last chute onto a green plain. Aaron and I headed out the line back to Tom’s car. An amazing trail and 12 miles in total.

We collected Randy’s van and Aaron’s Pathfinder before saying adios to Tom who left for home.

We attempted to find Westwater Mesa trail but as “only 3 or 4 people in the United States know of its location” according to Mr. Lackman, we gave up and headed for Moab, Utah.

Found an amazing camp site in the curve of huge sandstone rocks right up on top. Randy’s kebabs were a hit before we sat down to check the images taken for the day.

Day One - More Blood

We went for a 6 mile warm up loop on a trail called Joe’s Ridge. The air cut my throat like a thin wire. It was dreadful. It really was not that challenging at all, but I quickly fell to the back of the line. Jerome, ever the gentleman waited for me. There he was…. on a single speed, first year riding waiting for me. We got back to camp and I spitting up phlegm. There was no way in hell I was riding the next section they were planning on.

Tom arrived from Denver. We loaded his bike on the van, packed what we needed for the day and left the camp site for town where (Jerome was aghast that were might not provision up with more beer!). Half a dozen Hall menthol lozenges and two Gatorades and I was beginning to feel ok…sort of.

We drove out to the trailhead where we unloaded. It was midday. The heat washed over us and as I peered up the ravines where we were heading I simply wasn’t a happy camper. We watered up and headed out.

It was rather spectacular. Tom belted down off the road and dropped in on the single track. Too fast. He tried to jump the rocks and it didn’t execute as expected. We all stopped about 10 feet from him in shock as he shot to his feet. There HAD to be something broken. 8 minutes into the ride and man down! He was fine, just a pinch flat which he changed.

The first section of the ride was ‘More Fun’ affectionately known by the locals as ‘More Blood.’ Imagine looking at the top of a mountain and spying little goat tracks zigzagging back and forth up it—that was ‘More Fun.’ I was sure that I have a seizure going up there. It was rocky, bouncy, steep and hot. Everything I thought I wanted to avoid for the day given my morning ride experience.

Finally we got to the crest and the 360-degree view was incredible. I was suddenly breathing on. “Game On” as Mark is fond of saying. A little later Tim crashed hard deeply bruising his side on a knife-like rock. And then came the succession of punctures. 12 in total for the ride! It was ridiculous, but they were always welcome photo opps.

We passed onto Mack’s Ridge. We climbed and climbed and then raced down the other side with three punctures slowing us down. We connected with Lions Loop and then onto Mary’s. It was a thread-like trail on the edge, and I mean on the edge with the river below.

“Horse Thief is a must-do” we were told with authority by Mark. The entrance to the trail is a series of giant steps which need to be negotiated with bike hoisted high. By now it was getting on into the afternoon. It was a fabulous trail dipping and rolling and fast. I was still feeling good following Tim, Tom and Mark.

Aaron never ceases to amaze me. His technical skill is lovely to watch. Tom is a very strong rider. After a steady start, Tim shot out and was often in the lead, another very strong rider. Randy moved back and forth, stopping a few times to take ‘action’ shots of us. Mark was solid, as Chickering always is.

The last haul was to get out of the bowl of Horse Thief. By now, we were all whacked. “That Coors is calling for me” Jerome called out behind me. We got back to the huge series of steps we had used to descend onto Horse Thief. Carrying our bikes up there on this time was brutal!

Fast run down Mary’s towards the car. I was close behind Tim up in frost and we were hammering. It felt marvelous to be closing an amazing ride…all 22 miles of it as the sun set to my ride. ‘Psssst…’ Tim had a pinch flat literally a mile from the van. I tossed him the last tube we had amongst us; one that I picked up from a store in Wausau called Rib Mountain Cycles. Tim threw the tube in and used a cylinder to pump it up. It deflated immediately. Bum tube! He walked it out.

Back at camp Tim drummed up spaghetti which put a perfect cap on the day. After the slide-show of all the images we shot today, I heard “What about a 5 or 6 miles night-ride.” I moved delicately off to write this blog. No bloody way in hell I was going to mount my sore ass on a saddle tonight!

Arrived

We traveled through the picturesque town of Vail. As we headed up a large incline, the van hesitated, sputtered and idled to a halt just as Mark turned into rest area. It was just before a mile long tunnel. Had the van decided to stop the proceedings there, it could have been ugly.

After a number of prognosis’s were offered, the van started back up and ran smoothly, so we took off again. We bought a spare fuel filter in Silverthorne just in case it was causing the problem.

After passing through Grand Junction at sunset, there the sign stood: Fruita 13 miles! We picked up some provisions in Fruita before driving out to the camp site beneath the Bookcliffes.

1384 miles in total in 22 hours!

Mark conjured up a brilliant chili meal which went down a treat. Except..that within half an hour the gourmet treat was making itself known around the fire through a number of enriched exercises of flatulence.

Jerome and I kipped early in his two man tent while Randy stayed up waiting for Aaron who was joining our group.

Jerome and I were up to see sunrise at 6:18am and get the fire going. Not sure what he is feeling, but there is a certain amount of trepidation about riding for a week with these hard-core riders. Last night Mark was giving us a quick informal briefing as he ate his chili, headlight strapped to his forehead below his red cap. “We’ll do a 5 miles warm up loop through Dead Man’s Rift and then pack up and drive over for a nice 30 mile loop which will include Devils Cauldron, Bent Fork Ridge and Gut Wrenching Decent (names invented, but along these lines. Believe me). Keeping saying to myself that if I just take it slow and easy, I have the staying power, yes I do, yes I do…etc. etc.

Stubs Stop

The heat was ratcheting up now. We are in 'Colorful Colorado.' 2pm as we pulled up to a garage to fill up. "Stubs Stop" the sign said in red cursive.

I stood in the queue waiting to order something to eat. The two guys in front of me were exchanging body injury stories. "I have no pelvis! Black ice...." the guy in the pink shirt said knowlingly.
"I basically had no bladder for over a month. Hit a semi on the north interstate" the shorter of the two shot back for measurement. His low slung belt hosted three cell phones and his long oily hair clung damply to his shirt.

I was sure I would not have much of an appetite for my burrito and two beef tornados!

"What is a Canadian seal's favorite drink?" Jerome suddenly asked breaking the easy silence in the van. ...."Canadian Club on the rocks"

20 miles to Denver and we can see the mountains in the distance now.

(Sent from mobile Treo 650)

Evolutions In Design

Mara’s images were stunning. Each mounted in an old wooden window against the red brick wall of Evolutions. Many people we know came down to say hello as they walked the block. Bobby, James and I strolled up to Van Dolfsons to see Bruce’s display of paintings, remarking how amazing it was that we could imbibe openly on a Wausau street

At 9:30pm we all met at Randy’s place, packed in the last of carry-on gear and were off! The spacing in the van worked out pretty well with 2 sitting in the front, one each on the mid-benches and one kipping on the back bed.

In no time at all we had Randy’s new JVC XM-ready AUX enabled stereo hooked up to Mark’s laptop playing Zappa as we headed south for the exit to Coloma. At one point, Randy dimmed the music and said “I have somewhat of an announcement to make, and I’d better do it now as I won’t be able to keep it to myself for the whole trip.” He was greeted with a cheer. See Zara for more details!

“Where’s the porn?” Jerome asked Mark as the next song was selected from the laptop playlist. “I brought porn audio cassettes” Randy piped up from the front. “You know when you real tired, you just listen to porn and drift off to sleep……” The conversation dropped into a sewer from there, so I shall spare the blog due to the sensitive nature of some of our readersJ

We took turns driving through the night. The harsh staccato of the rumble strips had me up bolt upright in the back. Randy had been looking for his ‘Good Sense’ Roasted & Salted sunflower seeds and had wandered off the highway! Shite!

We have just crossed the Platte River in Nebraska. I have been watching Randy while he has been driving. It is an endless but simple cycle. Handful of seeds into mouth. Few chews, workarounds and then spit out the husks into paper cup while nodding his head to the Stones.

Well...kinda packed

The nip was definitely in the air as we made rendezvous at Randy's house last night to pack his monstrous white van with 10 bikes, wood, ice cooler boxes, myriads of sleeping bags and camp chairs.

As Mark—headlight firmly strapped to his forehead—fitted fork clamps to the roof racks, Jerome complained of a broken toe and Randy ran back and forth trying to be as productive as possible. Tim and I held onto our Old Styles and sipped. After an hour or so we had 7 of the 10 bikes in place up on the roof and the area under the bed at the back of the van was jammed full of gear.

I was especially pleased with the fitment of a new stereo in the van complete with XM-radio, good stuff Randy-o! When Jerome mentioned something about it being ‘foot-stomping’ time back at home, I agreed and we both took off saying our goodbyes.

We plan to meet at Evolutions in Design this evening where Mara has her ‘BODYPARTS’ solo photography exhibition. We will leave for Fruita from there! Long time planning and dreaming of this epic trip with mind-blowing mountain biking…and here we are!!!!

Mob log from Treo

Single speed! Alex T letting me trial it! Tah Alex.
(Sent from mobile Treo 650)

MobLog on the go...

This is pretty cool chaps. It allows you to post messages and images taken with cam-phone to the blog site.

"If you have a camera phone or a similar mobile device, you can use Blogger Mobile to send photos to your blog. The attached images will be uploaded to the web and included in your post.

Send text or photos from your mobile device to go@blogger.com they're automatically posted to your new blog page."

When you text to goblogger.com you get a coupon reply back. Go to http://www.blogger.com/mobile-start.g and enter this coupon code in. You are then set with your own mobile web blog. You can choose to link it to www.greenglassinc.blogspot.com so that your posts + phone images are posted there. From that point on you send e-mails to go@blogger.com with image attachments if you want, and it will post.

Along these lines?

Can't believe it lads. Departure is around the corner! Is this something along the lines I can expect down there?

You Single-Speeders are going to battle here as my NRS glides quietly by.....

Chickering lays it out for Oct 2nd

We awake fully rested after the previous day’s ride in the eastern foothills ready for the high desert challenges that await us.

Looming behind our campsite are the Bookcliffs, the dominant cliffs that form the northern border of the Grand Valley. This ‘ancient shoreline’ of sandstone and adobe ruins runs far into Utah… But I digress – that is a different day’s playground. Today’s ride is out of the Kokopelli trailhead.

Our ambitious loop will go counter clockwise and hit all the good stuff starting with Moore Fun:

What is it: Our technical challenge singletrack. No fast air ledges, but cool tight lines on a ridgeline climb/descent

Climbing: 950'

Highlight: Trials-type technical challenge

Who rides this: Strong rider seeking rocks, ledges, climbing

Why's it Cool: Rocks! It's all ridable, but rarely all ridden

When to ride: February - November, possible year round

The Crown Jewel of Fruita to many riders. This section of the Kokopelli's System is not all that long, but you would be hard pressed to convince many of that. If this trail is over your head it can turn into a nightmare pretty quick. If you love 'trials moves' and ledge 'ups' and rock gardens this is your paradise.

Beginning from the trailhead lot you simply ride over the ridge and stay right on the singletrack that takes off as you descend the other side. The turnoff is at the apex of the left-hand corner at the bottom of the descent; if you hit the junction with Mary's Loop, you have gone too far. Once on Moore Fun there are no junctions or turn-offs. You will climb an awesome, rocky line (thanks, Kevin) to a midway park and then begin a bit more challenge up to the first high point and one great view.

After your scenic ponderings and viewings, continue on to the second summit via some really cool fast stuff and a tech finish after the 'cave' switchback. Often golden eagles are seen at this summit.

Now you're in my world. The descent brings you through some killer moves I call the 'room with a view: the 'U-Turn' and 'the Rock'. If you haven't found a challenge by here you should turn pro. A final culminat­ing move at the exit leads you to the saddle; Mack Ridge ahead and Mary's to the left. Finish via Mary's Loop (left) and back to the gravel road at mile 9.

Option to continue on Mack Ridge to Troy's or bail out via the frontage road to your right. If you really eat up the tech moves, climb Mack Ridge and then flip a U-turn and retrace the route. Going back is significantly harder on Moore Fun.

Enjoy...remember it's 'more fun' right'?

…moore to come…

~mark

James' Journal

POSTINGS FROM JAMES

Oh that’s nothing

Just the gas lantern

Smashing into the ceiling

Main Street looks different from the river

The riverfront looks different from the river

Towns and cities too

The river looks different from the river

The hum of the motor back in the well

Long line mindless barges with their determined tugs

Churning the water deeply

Ripping up the grasses

That bind our little motor down

Whirlpools and schools of whirlpools

Linger and spin the trailing tail

Of slow motion barges

Industrial dinosaurs

Flat boats john boats keel boats steamers

Floating casinos not moving at all

Ghostly in the morning mist

Speed boats house boats launches pontoons

Jet skis yachts cabin cruisers

Riding each others wake

On the Upper Mississippi

Little towns strung along the shoreline

Maybe a broke down gas pier

Maybe a funky little harbor

The houses face the river

As a sign of respect

For this big wet vein

Whose watershed extends over 28 states

Barges heaped with coal coming up

Barges binned with grain going down

Artery, vein

Some kind of energy exchange

Waving

It’s a weekday work day morning

Mostly just the serious river runners

Out here now

And they mostly follow the custom

International custom

Of acknowledging those you pass

In other vessels.

A little wave

A nod or doff of hat

Maybe just fingers to the brim

A sweep of arm or one finger wave

International acknowledgment

On the high seas

On Old Man River

On the gravel roads of the Dakotas

People who would argue

Maybe even fight

If they got any closer in time or space

Don’t agree on nothin’

But this international acknowledgment

The custom of a wave

Old Water

The oldest fresh water

Is in Old Man River

The water starts out young

And far away

In mist and dew

In tiny itinerant streams

Coursing and joining

Forces with other waters

And eventually maturing

Into the Mighty Mississippi

Life blood of the land

Houses on the hillsides

Houses on the top

Houses on the river

That never stops

Red light green light

Passing port to port

Ships in the twilight

Staying on course

At first we were worried

We weren’t prepared

We’d left something out

We’d get out there and gone

Beyond reach of what we’d need

Couldn’t put a finger on it

We took a risk

Shoved off

Fates to the wind

And later

When the boat gained a rhythm

We opened the bag chairs

And there they were ---

Cup holders

DANGER

ALL VOIDS ARE

CONFINED SPACES

Sign posted on a barge wall

Sean was busy at his laptop. After his third quick move to avoid splash when we crossed a wake he said “Shite, it’s hard to get any work done”. To which I responded “That’s why I’m here”. Bobby added a deep chuckling grin and a thumbs up.

Lock 20 has a little yard with a waterwheel. They let us free float. Lockman came by up top on his little yellow electric Cushman cart as we were going down. Jolly looking fellow to whom we yelled out “Hey, you know how far it is to New Orleans?” He yelled back “Too far. You aint even half way there yet.” “How do you know that? You don’t know where we came from”. “Yeah, but I know where you’re at.”

PULL CORD

IN RECESS

FOR LOCKAGE

Sign for small craft at lock entrance

Overheard in Quincy

Well built community dock and harbor. Twenty bucks for a slip under cover. In the next slip a retired couple on a houseboat. They smile and greet us before we even tie off. Like they’ve been waiting for us. Apparently had heard of us. Bobby had walked up to the slip quietly before we got the boat there and overheard them talking about some guys on a pontoon from La Crosse. Guess our reputation is making better time than we are.

They commence through smiley faces to deluge us with the minutiae of their lives. Each line well worn. Oft repeated. Little vignettes of their past to tag onto any topic at all. Designed to be engaging and conversational. Hand-crafted over time. Refined and rehearsed for effect. Reminding me of the perfect shallow ideals of the ‘50’s. They kind of glom on to us. We don’t glom back; just bob and weave politely through a little banter as we gather up our cooking gear and carry it to the end of the pier to prepare a sunset dinner as Tenzin kayaks off for beer.

A little later I walk back to the slip quietly barefoot to get something. As I near their houseboat I overhear them talking inside their houseboat, arguing back and forth. Bickering. Same kind of practiced routine about it as the bantered chatter. But angry and argumentative.

Makes me think of the old Mohican Peacemaker I know, Aunt Dot, from Stockbridge. When she’s called in to do some peacemaking in a family dispute, she gets the people together and says “What is it about fighting that you like?”

Back at the end of the pier Tenzin returns with the beer and I say “Tenzin, if I ever get like that, don’t take me out and shoot me cuz I don’t want you to get in trouble…but feel free to let me die.”

Early evening light

A wave of bats

Near a half mile long at times

Undulating cohesively

Over the river

Rolling as a fast wave

Thick and connected thousands

Suddenly they split in the middle

And half of this wave veers off to the left

Making its’ own swoop off the river

Low over the east shore trees

The other half of this quick elastic wave

Dives down out of sight behind an island

And poof

It’s over

Unless you could read

The history of the air

You’d never know what happened

We push in the late day light

To get some more miles

Stay on our way to make it

It gets a little rough out there

We’ve passed some harbors

Pushing a little more

A bit of a squall building

Racing the darkness

Trying to keep the elemental

Pieces together

Which we do

Making camp

Making food

Covering the logistical waters

And when it’s done

I watch my three mates

Scrambling for high ground

Looking for signal

Taking their heads to other places

The officious twit

With his hands on his hips

Said ‘we think it was a tornado’

The golden friendly young lady

Pumping our gas

Said she heard it was a microblast

The timid cashier

Wasn’t quite sure

Said her boss was talkin’ wind shear

Whatever it was

It mangled the metal

That once roofed boats in the harbor

And left sections of dock upturned

They say the whole thing

Just lasted five seconds

Evansville Days

A town that knows how to throw a party. Relax the rules. Let your collective hair down. Take all the authoritarians who’ve ever used the phrase “it’s for your own safety” and send them on vacation. Run the whole place on common sense, the Golden Rule and whatever fun folks come up with. And when those tight asses come back from vacation be sure to tell them tales.

Nice little two grocery store town, Evansville. Right on the Kaskaskia River. Evansville throws its’ party on Main Street and the River. You can tie up your boat and camp for free.

Turbidity

All or part of 28 states (some say more) drain or flow into this river. Water from all sources; whether falling from the sky or coming up through the ground. It all joins into this river. As a result, especially on the Lower Mississippi, there is a power and scale to it that is hard to fathom. It is relentless, unforgiving and as busy as it can possibly be.

There are whirlpools down here (some folks seem to call them eddies) that sometimes dot the surface as far as the eye can see. Vortexes. So much swirling subsurface power that the surface stays flat. Ominously, deceptively flat. Even the winds, upstream, downstream or cross winds, can’t disturb the surface. When the waves are breaking, the whirlpools look inviting and friendly. They are not.

There are what you might call families of swirling whirlpools; bunches of little vortexes within a grander one. The flat circle might be 50 feet across, some say they’ve seen them well over twice that size. A big one is concave in the center. If it has little ones within it, they might be concave too. And not more than a foot away might be another of equal size and complexity.

Speaking of complexity, right in the middle of a sea of these vortices might be an equal number of boils. Those being places where the water seems to be erupting upwards from somewhere. You can even hear the big ones over the sound of the motor. (They say the big whirlpools hiss, but I haven’t heard it over the sound of the boat.) It’s a kind of bubbling or boiling sound.

The whirlpools and boils will push this boat somewhat unpredictably with their interaction. The way most of their power is subsurface. The way the whole dance is moving downstream very seriously while it’s doing whatever all else.

Jonathan Rabban in his book ‘Old Glory’ calls the effect on a small boat “slippery”. Can’t disagree with that adjective.

So you can have the current making an overall ripple; the wind making waves in a different direction; smooth amoebically circular flat surfaced whirlpools that pull down over a foot in their centers; and boils that bubble up many erratic inches, even at these low water levels.

This River requires one’s attention…and respect.

You Can’t Make This Shit Up

Yesterday a fish jumped onto our boat

We were several seconds stunned

As no doubt was the fish

Then we hooted and laughed

At the two pound flying carp

Because it was the stuff

Of impossible tales

Generations of fish stories

Flopping around on the deck

Like we’ve never seen before

Nor likely hence

A few hours later

Turning East to

Run up the Kaskaskia

All of a sudden

Whoosh here comes another one

Right through the open door

On the front of the pontoon.

We whooped and hollered

Someone mentioned dying and

Going to heaven

The improbability more

Than we could really assess

And then this afternoon

Just after the Ohio joined in

While the waters were roiling

As the two mighty rivers sorted out

Their new and irrevocable marriage

No more than a couple miles downstream

Some bigger fish started jumping

Alongside the boat

They’d jump a few feet in the air

Then hit the water only to jump again

Sometimes 3 or 4 times like a stone

Skipping on water

And we were jazzed by it all

Pointing and yelling out

So as a joke

I got up with a grin

Went and opened the bow door

And before I could get back to my chair

This 25 pound flying carp

Landed on the front deck and came

Flipping and thrashing through the door

All the way back to Tenzin at the wheel

Trailing blood and scales

And I remember thinking

Wait a minute that was supposed to be a joke

I tell you

You can’t make this shit up.

Then toward evening

Pulling into Hickman Harbor, Kentucky

Motoring slow toward town

6 more fish jumped onto the boat

For a total of 9.

It would’ve been 10 but one bounced

Off Bobby’s chest

And landed back in the water.

You can’t make this shit up.

I’d add that the next morning another fish came 6 feet out of the water and over our side rails, just missing Sean’s open laptop and thumped down in our stern…but I don’t want to stretch my credulity beyond what the uninitiated can believe.

Cairo

Where y’all from?

We put in up in Wisconsin.

Where y’all headed?

Just to Memphis. We heard tell they got some damn good barbeque down there and we’re fixin’ to get us some.

We got good barbeque right here in Cairo too, but Memphis, that’s the best alright.

Barge Wake On The Lower Mississippi

“You take about 36 empty barges and a big tug going upstream on the Lower and you got yourself a phenomenon.”

This is the stuff into which

Bobby did a bow stall.

The initial waves are big slow rollers

Then you meet the churn

Spinning off the four foot rolling holes

Following the stern

About then run into waves returning

From shore

Having ricocheted off both banks

They cross through each other

And in so doing make waves out of wake

That break straight up

On the surface

While underneath the cross currents

Meld momentum and move on

With giant slow motion.

When the biggest wave breaks over our bow

The tug and barges are a mile away.

Steady As She Goes

We passed the Roberta Tabor

Pushing fifteen loaded barges

Our first day out of La Crosse

And again, and yet again

Ten days later

Thirty miles shy of Memphis

Tenzin found some time to think

Sean in a hammock blogged away

Bobby called it a rare vacation

There was cold beer each and every day

Folks are going to great lengths these days to keep the Mississippi from its’ old tricks of shifting course. They want to keep it right where it is now. Mark Twain said used to be a fellow could go to sleep in one state a slave, and wake up in another a free man.

So these days they have wing dams and rip rap, locks and levees, dams and the mighty expensive Corps of Engineers. Stilts for the stubborn and sea walls for the rest.

People have a circumscribed sense of adventure. They don’t want to move to another state even if they don’t have to leave home to do it. Guess they don’t want the hassle of pro rating their year’s taxes between two states, or have to start all over again fighting with another school board. But life is short, and it might be worth it just for the fun of watching the apoplexy it would cause local politicians.

Anyway, we’re sure doing whatever we can think of to keep that scary old river right where it is. When people misunderstand something, and are afraid of it they don’t treat it well. Real power deserves real respect. So folks wall the river out of their lives, like an enemy. Well they don’t have to look at it, but they still gotta smell it.

OBSERVATIONS

Each day a few lone butterflies flitted past out in the middle of the river. Some right through the boat. Black, red, yellow, blue ones.

It would be a good idea to have a radio set along to communicate with tugs, locks and other larger boats.

Those new cots with mosquito netting tented over them would be ideal for sleeping on the boat or shore.

If I were to do this again it would be in a faster boat.

You could run the Upper with a minimum of supplies --- gas, food and shelter. Good maps can get you most everything when needed. The Lower is more problematic. Almost nothing is readily available by water.

Maps: What this Mighty River running needs is a good Lonely Planet type guide of maps and tips and relevant information. Neither the Corps of Engineers charts nor Quimby’s guide tell you what you need to know about the river and what is where on its’ shores.

Great Blue Herons are the dominant large bird all the way down. Sometimes several per mile standing still in the shallows.

The best way to go down the river is in a hammock.

Not much wildlife seen on the shores other than birds. The occasional deer, and the odd thing Tenzin and I saw that looked like a giant gray squirrel with digging legs (bushy tail and all).

You can go for hours (at our speeds anyway) on the Lower without seeing another private craft --- just tugs with barges. You can go days without seeing a proper dock --- just primitive boat ramps here and there. The valuable and singular exception being Hoppie’s Landing. An oasis on the water.

Before going read Jonathan Rabban’s “Old Glory” paying special attention to tips on small craft navigation. And Mark Twain’s “Life on the Mississippi” for texture and depth—and a sense of change.

THE GOOD SHIP SUNBIRD

A lesser vessel would not have fared so well.