Arizona Trail Magic, Day Three
Rolling down Broadway in the pre-dawn darkness, I was leaving Tucson on a mission to rendezvous with the famous Mt. Lemon and its two infamous roads: Reddington, and the Catalina Highway.
For a city of its size, Tucson rather quickly degrades into sandy washes just outside of its eastern limits. The Arizona Trail descends into one of these washes, deep with sand, making forward progress extremely difficult, and in the dark, precarious. Fortunately, I was not alone, as some distance behind me and gaining quickly was a pack of coyotes on their noisy early morning prowl. Their yip and howls were the perfect pairing with the moon that was rising over the city to my west.
The Reddington Road is famed for its ATV and 4WD traffic and I had read about numerous close encounters between both of these and AZTR racers in past years. This wasn't my primary reason for leaving so early in the morning, but it was certainly nice to be climbing completely alone on such a potentially dangerous road.
Climbing slowly, but steadily, it felt as though I was rising to the sun, as every pedal stroke brought me closer to the now brightening eastern skyline. Exiting the broad, dirt road, I dove onto the two-track that descended into a large bowl to the south. Initially, fast and rolling, this route soon deteriorated into a series of rocky cascades that more resembled waterfalls than roads. For my skill set, this was walking territory. No sense in risking life and limb just to ride something as precarious as these rock falls.
Two or three miles after my food break, I crossed the Reddington Road again, where I encountered a rider on a gravel bike. He was bent over his bars, his chest heaving in and out in large, pained motions. "Are you riding with that other guy?" he asked, looking in my direction. No, I told him. I was alone, but what was the guy wearing? "I don't remember exactly, but he seemed to be in his late 50s," he replied. Could be Norb, I thought. He was to have pushed to Reddington last night, part-way if not all the way up.
I soon found myself descending what was one of the most memorable sections of the Arizona Trail, for me. The single-track pitched off of a rocky ridge and proceeded to traverse back and forth across the faces of a large basin/bowl. The trail was twisting, steep and punctuated with sharp drops varying from twelve to twenty inches. It was awesome. My fully suspended bike ate up the shock of every drop like it was candy; soft, fluffy candy.
Having passed over into a second bowl with an equally exciting trail I looked up to see a rider climbing towards me, bent powerfully over the bars. Between us lay a depression where the trail dropped away from both of us into a parabolic arc and then we each had our respective climbs back up to our original trail level. As fate would have it, I was grunting up the far side of the depression as the speedster on a bare bike dropped down the sharp descent directly at me. Trail etiquette typically dictates that the right of way goes to the uphill rider, but this was a bit of a gray area, as we had both momentarily switched our climber/descender roles. As such, neither of us thought we were required to step aside for the other, which is a problem. We continued on our collision course, right up until the last possible moment, and then--we each leaned slightly to our right and miraculously passed cleanly by one another. Somehow.
Looking up, I could see three more riders quickly approaching me, but fortunately, these weekend warriors noticed my bags and pulled over allowing me to pass cleanly, shouting words of encouragement as I passed. I secretly envied these guys, hammering away on such a challenging trail as a brief break in their hectic professional lives in Tucson; then I remembered that they likely had to negotiate a narrow time frame for such an adventure with their families, and realized how lucky we are were to be out there for as long as it would take to achieve our goals with our spouses' blessing.
The heat of the day continued to rise despite the significant elevation high in the hills above Tucson. At one point, I was running quite low on water while descending through some fun, flowing two-track, single-track through a large basin. Doing a quick calculation in my head, I realized that I was going to have to establish a severe water rationing regime in order to not run completely out. I was in the midst of these calculations when I spotted a large water tank beside the trail just ahead of me. Many of these tanks turn into functional mirages as they are as dry as dirt, if not literally full of dirt.
As the trail wound around the tank, entering the only shade for miles, I noticed a bike resting against the edge of the tank, and a rider sitting on the edge of a concrete trough/extension of the tank that served as an access to the sweet nectar of life contained in the tank. I say sweet nectar of life not because it was water, which is necessary for all life, but rather, because of the multiple forms of life that were living in the water. Looking into the algae-laden muck, there were little critters swimming about, clearly visible in the shafts of sunlight that were doing their best to penetrate through the near-sludge consistency wet stuff.
Norb was sitting on the concrete edge shaking a water bottle, into which he had likely just dropped a purification tablet. We wearily greeted each other, and I filtered a couple of water bottles' worth of green, bug infested liquid and put some MSR tabs in to kill whatever my filter missed. Given my history on the TD, I was more than happy to take this extra step of precaution.
Soon, Norb and I were lifting and pushing our bikes up a series of switchbacks that were nothing more than a series of steps and boulders that would have been difficult on a day hike, but were crazy-making pushing and lifting 50-pound bikes out of the Valley of the Green Slimy Water. We encountered numerous day-hikers coming down the same trail. Each encounter necessitated an ever-shortening version of just why we were doing such a foolish thing as to try and ride our bikes on such a ridiculous trail.
For the next hour, we negotiated the ups and downs of some of the worst that the Arizona Trail could offer, finally ending up near a small parking lot, where we were greeted by a couple ladies making their way up the crazy trail that we had just descended, if you can call it that. I asked them a question or two about the cactuses that had been my constant companions out on the trail, and they were more than helpful with their knowledgable responses. I have no idea wether these two women were botanists or if everyone in Arizona is born knowing even the most obscure details of the life cycle of a cactus. Regardless, they were very informative and pleasant to talk to.
While we were talking to our new friends, we spotted a small cooler next to the trail topped with a friendly note to AZTR racers. Inside were bottles of water and Gatorade as well as a bike pump, patch kit and a multi-tool. Next to the cooler were 8-10 crushed beer cans. Always a day late and a dollar short.
An hour later, as we dropped down into a day camping area, we spotted a group of people staring at us from the Catalina Highway. They seemed rather intent on getting our attention, which was a bit creepy, given the circumstances. As we climbed up to the highway, it became clear that this small collection of people was actually waiting for us to arrive. There was a van with an attached awning and a handful of coolers sitting along the road, being watched by a dog and four guys sitting on lawn chairs.
"Hey guys, how's it goin'?" They all grinned up at us while nursing cans of Tecate. They introduced themselves as Tucson locals who had dropped out of the AZTR 300 in the past day or so, because of the oppressive heat. Terrific.
They were kind enough to give us all the liquid courage we could drink as well as PBJ sandwiches and Clif bars. These were people who knew exactly what was called for because they had only recently be suffering along with us in the middle of the desert.
They asked about our race and we shared a few stories. Feeling the effects of a couple of cervezas, I told them about my evening ride with Cheech and Chong, and they all laughed uncontrollably. They knew these guys, and by their reaction, I guessed that this was typical behavior for them. I then shared a theory I had developed about the mystery couple in the middle of nowhere outside of Tucson.
"I think that they were our friends' dealers and they had called ahead for a remote delivery." This again, broke them into peals of laughter. I looked at them, puzzled. "No way, man. That tall dude with the beard lives right out there. We rode right by his house." They then added, somewhat needlessly, "If he needed to re-up his stash, he could have just gone to his bedroom!"
Well, it really sounded like a good theory in the heat of the moment.
As we prepared to attack the Catalina Highway, Norb turned to me and stated that we was going to put in his ear buds, crank up the tunes and just zone out on the climb. This sounded like a good strategy, especially from someone who had done this section two times previous. I popped in my headphones and was instantly transported, mentally at least, to a far off place.
Climbing up Mt Lemon on the highway was like a breath of fresh air--thin fresh air, but air none-the-less. I was riding; actually riding my bike on a smooth, rideable surface, and I was climbing! So much fun. The Mt. Lemon climb is a popular route for local riders and as such I passed and was passed by various groups of road riders on my way up the many curves and switchbacks snaking across the rocky slopes, replete with oddly-shaped rock figures that for all of the world resembled indian maidens, and other familiar things.
Finally nearing the top of the climb, I was feeling the effects of the day. My energy level was dropping like a rock in green, mucky water. I was turning the pedals, but very slowly. I kept looking back, knowing that Norb was surely sneaking up on me. Cresting the summit, I stopped to put some warm clothing on and give my wife a quick call.
I told her about how frustrating the day had been and that for the first time I had thought about quitting earlier in the day. I felt bad confessing this, but was emotionally rallying and eager to see what Oracle Ridge had in store.
Within ten minutes, Norb was approaching the summit, as was a dark minivan. The van swung sharply towards me as I gathered my things in a pull-out along the highway. The driver's side window rolled down, and a friendly face appeared. "Hey, I am the owner of the Summerhaven store, and if you are thinking of heading down our way for supplies, I will be there, even though we are closed. Just knock on the door and I would be glad to let you in." Wow. I told him that I was good on food, but that he should ask Norb if he needed anything. "Already spoke with him, " he said. "I have been tracking you guys for the past couple of hours." I thanked him profusely and asked him his name. "Phil. Name's Phil. Make sure you stop if you need anything." And with that Phil was off, charging down the hill into the now shadowed turns that led the way off of Mt Lemon.
Arriving at the Oracle Ridge trailhead, Norb and I were met by a through-hiker who looked to be in her late twenties. She was lightly packed and grinning from ear to ear. "Hey guys, how's it goin'?" We both just stared at her placid face and quick pace as she strode away from the trailhead sign, looking like she just stepped out of an Eddie Bauer catalogue. "I thought Oracle Ridge was super rough and difficult," I offered. "She looked like it was a piece of cake." Norb chuckled and shook his head.
"I think I am going to call it a day right here," I announced, spying a grassy area just beyond a tangle of logs near the start of the trail. "I have had a physically and mentally tough day and need some sleep." I added, as if I was the only one who had done any riding that day. Norb agreed that the day had been crazy, but he was determined to push on another 3 hours or so onto Oracle Ridge.
I admired his bravery and never quit attitude. This is one tough sixty-year old dude, I thought to myself.
"Well, hopefully I will see you down the trail, Norb," I said, and with that, we again parted ways; Norb attatcking Oracle Ridge under a setting sun, and me attacking a can of soup and a bag of chips, chased by what was now, hopefully, clean water.
As I began to dose off, a helicopter rose from a landing pad, not a quarter of a mile away, and roared by me, close enough for me to clearly see the pilot's helmeted head. I hoped that he wouldn't report me to the camping authorities and have me hauled off of the mountain and into some cold jail cell reserved for vagrants.
However, after the day I had just experienced, part of me hoped that he would.
More to come.
Rolling down Broadway in the pre-dawn darkness, I was leaving Tucson on a mission to rendezvous with the famous Mt. Lemon and its two infamous roads: Reddington, and the Catalina Highway.
For a city of its size, Tucson rather quickly degrades into sandy washes just outside of its eastern limits. The Arizona Trail descends into one of these washes, deep with sand, making forward progress extremely difficult, and in the dark, precarious. Fortunately, I was not alone, as some distance behind me and gaining quickly was a pack of coyotes on their noisy early morning prowl. Their yip and howls were the perfect pairing with the moon that was rising over the city to my west.
The Reddington Road is famed for its ATV and 4WD traffic and I had read about numerous close encounters between both of these and AZTR racers in past years. This wasn't my primary reason for leaving so early in the morning, but it was certainly nice to be climbing completely alone on such a potentially dangerous road.
 |
| Moon over Tucson, Reddington Road |
Climbing slowly, but steadily, it felt as though I was rising to the sun, as every pedal stroke brought me closer to the now brightening eastern skyline. Exiting the broad, dirt road, I dove onto the two-track that descended into a large bowl to the south. Initially, fast and rolling, this route soon deteriorated into a series of rocky cascades that more resembled waterfalls than roads. For my skill set, this was walking territory. No sense in risking life and limb just to ride something as precarious as these rock falls.
 |
| Yep. That IS the trail.
The climb out of the basin was equally steep, but much more rideable, fortunately. The sun was beginning to rise, warming the ground that was starting to radiate heat back at me. As good as it felt, this concerned me a bit as I tried to imagine what the midday sun might bring. I stopped for a quick bite, letting the sun warm my face. Neither in front of me, nor behind, did I see any other racers. I was decidedly in my typical 'no man's land'.
|
 |
| And, so is this. |
I soon found myself descending what was one of the most memorable sections of the Arizona Trail, for me. The single-track pitched off of a rocky ridge and proceeded to traverse back and forth across the faces of a large basin/bowl. The trail was twisting, steep and punctuated with sharp drops varying from twelve to twenty inches. It was awesome. My fully suspended bike ate up the shock of every drop like it was candy; soft, fluffy candy.
Having passed over into a second bowl with an equally exciting trail I looked up to see a rider climbing towards me, bent powerfully over the bars. Between us lay a depression where the trail dropped away from both of us into a parabolic arc and then we each had our respective climbs back up to our original trail level. As fate would have it, I was grunting up the far side of the depression as the speedster on a bare bike dropped down the sharp descent directly at me. Trail etiquette typically dictates that the right of way goes to the uphill rider, but this was a bit of a gray area, as we had both momentarily switched our climber/descender roles. As such, neither of us thought we were required to step aside for the other, which is a problem. We continued on our collision course, right up until the last possible moment, and then--we each leaned slightly to our right and miraculously passed cleanly by one another. Somehow.
Looking up, I could see three more riders quickly approaching me, but fortunately, these weekend warriors noticed my bags and pulled over allowing me to pass cleanly, shouting words of encouragement as I passed. I secretly envied these guys, hammering away on such a challenging trail as a brief break in their hectic professional lives in Tucson; then I remembered that they likely had to negotiate a narrow time frame for such an adventure with their families, and realized how lucky we are were to be out there for as long as it would take to achieve our goals with our spouses' blessing.
The heat of the day continued to rise despite the significant elevation high in the hills above Tucson. At one point, I was running quite low on water while descending through some fun, flowing two-track, single-track through a large basin. Doing a quick calculation in my head, I realized that I was going to have to establish a severe water rationing regime in order to not run completely out. I was in the midst of these calculations when I spotted a large water tank beside the trail just ahead of me. Many of these tanks turn into functional mirages as they are as dry as dirt, if not literally full of dirt.
As the trail wound around the tank, entering the only shade for miles, I noticed a bike resting against the edge of the tank, and a rider sitting on the edge of a concrete trough/extension of the tank that served as an access to the sweet nectar of life contained in the tank. I say sweet nectar of life not because it was water, which is necessary for all life, but rather, because of the multiple forms of life that were living in the water. Looking into the algae-laden muck, there were little critters swimming about, clearly visible in the shafts of sunlight that were doing their best to penetrate through the near-sludge consistency wet stuff.
Norb was sitting on the concrete edge shaking a water bottle, into which he had likely just dropped a purification tablet. We wearily greeted each other, and I filtered a couple of water bottles' worth of green, bug infested liquid and put some MSR tabs in to kill whatever my filter missed. Given my history on the TD, I was more than happy to take this extra step of precaution.
Soon, Norb and I were lifting and pushing our bikes up a series of switchbacks that were nothing more than a series of steps and boulders that would have been difficult on a day hike, but were crazy-making pushing and lifting 50-pound bikes out of the Valley of the Green Slimy Water. We encountered numerous day-hikers coming down the same trail. Each encounter necessitated an ever-shortening version of just why we were doing such a foolish thing as to try and ride our bikes on such a ridiculous trail.
For the next hour, we negotiated the ups and downs of some of the worst that the Arizona Trail could offer, finally ending up near a small parking lot, where we were greeted by a couple ladies making their way up the crazy trail that we had just descended, if you can call it that. I asked them a question or two about the cactuses that had been my constant companions out on the trail, and they were more than helpful with their knowledgable responses. I have no idea wether these two women were botanists or if everyone in Arizona is born knowing even the most obscure details of the life cycle of a cactus. Regardless, they were very informative and pleasant to talk to.
While we were talking to our new friends, we spotted a small cooler next to the trail topped with a friendly note to AZTR racers. Inside were bottles of water and Gatorade as well as a bike pump, patch kit and a multi-tool. Next to the cooler were 8-10 crushed beer cans. Always a day late and a dollar short.
An hour later, as we dropped down into a day camping area, we spotted a group of people staring at us from the Catalina Highway. They seemed rather intent on getting our attention, which was a bit creepy, given the circumstances. As we climbed up to the highway, it became clear that this small collection of people was actually waiting for us to arrive. There was a van with an attached awning and a handful of coolers sitting along the road, being watched by a dog and four guys sitting on lawn chairs.
 |
| Mt. Lemon trail angels |
They were kind enough to give us all the liquid courage we could drink as well as PBJ sandwiches and Clif bars. These were people who knew exactly what was called for because they had only recently be suffering along with us in the middle of the desert.
They asked about our race and we shared a few stories. Feeling the effects of a couple of cervezas, I told them about my evening ride with Cheech and Chong, and they all laughed uncontrollably. They knew these guys, and by their reaction, I guessed that this was typical behavior for them. I then shared a theory I had developed about the mystery couple in the middle of nowhere outside of Tucson.
"I think that they were our friends' dealers and they had called ahead for a remote delivery." This again, broke them into peals of laughter. I looked at them, puzzled. "No way, man. That tall dude with the beard lives right out there. We rode right by his house." They then added, somewhat needlessly, "If he needed to re-up his stash, he could have just gone to his bedroom!"
Well, it really sounded like a good theory in the heat of the moment.
As we prepared to attack the Catalina Highway, Norb turned to me and stated that we was going to put in his ear buds, crank up the tunes and just zone out on the climb. This sounded like a good strategy, especially from someone who had done this section two times previous. I popped in my headphones and was instantly transported, mentally at least, to a far off place.
Climbing up Mt Lemon on the highway was like a breath of fresh air--thin fresh air, but air none-the-less. I was riding; actually riding my bike on a smooth, rideable surface, and I was climbing! So much fun. The Mt. Lemon climb is a popular route for local riders and as such I passed and was passed by various groups of road riders on my way up the many curves and switchbacks snaking across the rocky slopes, replete with oddly-shaped rock figures that for all of the world resembled indian maidens, and other familiar things.
 |
| The Indian Maiden |
 |
| I was hoping that this meant there was a bear puppet show ahead.... |
Within ten minutes, Norb was approaching the summit, as was a dark minivan. The van swung sharply towards me as I gathered my things in a pull-out along the highway. The driver's side window rolled down, and a friendly face appeared. "Hey, I am the owner of the Summerhaven store, and if you are thinking of heading down our way for supplies, I will be there, even though we are closed. Just knock on the door and I would be glad to let you in." Wow. I told him that I was good on food, but that he should ask Norb if he needed anything. "Already spoke with him, " he said. "I have been tracking you guys for the past couple of hours." I thanked him profusely and asked him his name. "Phil. Name's Phil. Make sure you stop if you need anything." And with that Phil was off, charging down the hill into the now shadowed turns that led the way off of Mt Lemon.
Arriving at the Oracle Ridge trailhead, Norb and I were met by a through-hiker who looked to be in her late twenties. She was lightly packed and grinning from ear to ear. "Hey guys, how's it goin'?" We both just stared at her placid face and quick pace as she strode away from the trailhead sign, looking like she just stepped out of an Eddie Bauer catalogue. "I thought Oracle Ridge was super rough and difficult," I offered. "She looked like it was a piece of cake." Norb chuckled and shook his head.
"I think I am going to call it a day right here," I announced, spying a grassy area just beyond a tangle of logs near the start of the trail. "I have had a physically and mentally tough day and need some sleep." I added, as if I was the only one who had done any riding that day. Norb agreed that the day had been crazy, but he was determined to push on another 3 hours or so onto Oracle Ridge.
I admired his bravery and never quit attitude. This is one tough sixty-year old dude, I thought to myself.
"Well, hopefully I will see you down the trail, Norb," I said, and with that, we again parted ways; Norb attatcking Oracle Ridge under a setting sun, and me attacking a can of soup and a bag of chips, chased by what was now, hopefully, clean water.
As I began to dose off, a helicopter rose from a landing pad, not a quarter of a mile away, and roared by me, close enough for me to clearly see the pilot's helmeted head. I hoped that he wouldn't report me to the camping authorities and have me hauled off of the mountain and into some cold jail cell reserved for vagrants.
However, after the day I had just experienced, part of me hoped that he would.
 |
| My happy place atop on Oracle Ridge |
More to come.
Sweet - great writing, keep it up!
ReplyDelete