Spine Of The Dragon

Been there, got the t-shirt

Finally home from the land of uranium mine tailings and technical single track riding. My body took a pounding on those tracks, and then more so on the 43-hour homeward journey.

Was it all we expected? I’d say yes and much more so. We rode a lot, even though booger-on-the-finger late spring ice prevented us from riding some of the more famous trails like Porcupine Rim, Slickrock though Amasa Back certainly showed us a thing or two about high-end free-range riding.

The place we stayed had a lot to do with making it a great holiday; Pack Creek Ranch is a special place, with a compelling history, and offered comforts and luxuries far removed from the “cheapest rooms in town” motels we would otherwise have been forced to consider. American motels are just about as sick as the muck that passes for food at places like Wendy’s and MickeyD’s.

Pack Creek Ranch, hang-out of Seldom Seen Smith

Which doesn’t mean we didn’t eat cheeseburgers. In fact we did just about every day at a different diner, places like Milt’s with its organic burger patties, La Hacienda with chili con carne sauce and onions, or Moab Brewery for the biggest burgers in town and very fine home-brewed draught beers.

As an all-round holiday it ranks up there with the very best – comparable say to the dhow sailing and diving holiday I did in Madagascar two years back. In good time we’ll get a video produced on the ride, and if the powers that be at Ride mag accept my story, you can read more about it there (I’ll let you know if and when).

Small town, main street, big landscape

Mike said he thought he’d like to live in Moab, and that his and his wife Jo’s old hippie instincts would fit in just fine (although he did take to shouting “redneck” at some of the larger trucks that pass for bakkies round there). Don’s big disappointment was not seeing a rattler on the trip. “Still too cold,” the wise man in The Trading Post store told us.

Would I go again? I’d say yes, but then again there are so many places to go, so many trails to ride (think Whistler). I believe the thing you have to do is grab each opportunity as it comes and wring the heck out of it, and I reckon we did that. Just ask my aching leg and my sore ribs.

Stay cool, ride easy and catch the joy as it flies

The eardstapper

5 jet trails, if you look closely

I was driving across the burning desert

When I spotted six jet planes

Leaving six white vapor trails across the bleak terrain

It was the hexagram of the heavens

It was the strings of my guitar …

One of my favourite songs from one of my favourite songsters, Joni Mitchell (this one from the album Hejira). It’s a tribute to Amelia Earhart, and these lyrics have spoken to me since I first heard them. In fact there are only five vapour trails in the photo, partly obscured by clouds, but they were much clearer to us in the Utah sky earlier today while we were out riding the Sovereign Trails about 15 km north of Moab town.

Sovereign Trail waxed

The desert was not exactly burning when we headed off on the Sovereign Trail system, but the day was almost warm, just as we were starting our last ride. One thing about Americans, or at least Utahans, or maybe it’s just Moabites, they are very courteous. Turn to cross a road on your bike and cars stop for you, even if it’s against the normal flow (imagine that in SA, hahaha).

Mike demonstrates the correct pushing technique

On the trail they allow hikers, horses, mtbs, dirt (motor) bikes and even whatever RVs can make it, or try to. But here’s the thing: RVs give way to dirt bikes, dirt bikes to mountain bikes, mountain bikes to horses and hikers. And it works. Say what you like about living in our anything goes society in SA, sometimes a system that gives a bit of way (manners if you will), can feel like a refreshing breeze. But then again, you never know what other stuff the wind is going to blow in.

Whatever, the riding out at Sovereign Trails was nice and technical: either the trails here are getting easier, or, whatever. It’s classed about the same as Porcupine Rim, which we were unable to ride (snow, ice), but was kind of – not exactly – boring, but same as much of the rest.

All together now, "Where the..."

The thing about the place is, and this is another thing about the US of A you have to admire: the trail system is run on a trust system. The state land had been made available on condition that everyone behaves according to a set of codes and rules. And, amazingly, everyone does, or so it seems.

That famous sign

As per usual we got a shuttle out to the trail head from Moab Cyclery, and from there, including the 15 km ride back to town, and about 3 or 4 km of interconnecting sand track, we rode about 35 km today. Or so I think (Don is sleeping so I don’t want to wake him just to confirm that). Suffice to say it was a good enough workout to justify the mango and strawberry smoothies we enjoyed back in town. They cost $5 each, which seems okay until you realize that’s nearly R50.

So travel broadens the mind, but narrows the wallet.

Stay cool, ride easy, and I hope you enjoyed our little sojourn in Moab.

The eardstapper

You have to pay your dues to get into heaven – just $2 in Moab

Slickrock, now that’s what’m talkin’ bout. And that’s what we came to Moab for. I wanted to ride it again tomorrow, and the next day, but the other guys want to ride something new each day. We have only one more day’s riding here, is my point.

Why? “This is the Slickrock Trail. The Promised Land. The point of the pilgrimage,” preaches the Moab mountain biking pocket guide. Hallelujah and Amen, brothers and sisters (in this state you can’t be sure who is and who ain’t).

High Plains drifters

Slickrock is what makes Moab unique. Totally. And what a blast. It’s a number 4 sandpaper roller coaster. If you’ve got the legs, and the nerve, you can ride it all. Apparently there are people who can ride the entire 17 km there-and-back trail in around one and a half hours. “Riders in excellent shape,” as the guide book puts it – we saw one such rider who cranked past us while we were falling about laughing on top of Cogs To Spare climb (they’re called “steeps” here). Palookas like us take about five hours.

Rough seas cast in Navajo Sandstone

Once again we reckoned if we had the chance to ride it a few times, got to know the lines, we’d quickly build up the nerve and even the stamina to ride about 90 % of Slickrock. But there are some sections, the ups – not so much they downs – that would take a whole lot longer to wax. You’ve got to see them to believe them. You not so much lose your nerve as fall about laughing, that anyone is capable of riding these maverick waves fossilized in Navajo Sandstone.

You want us to ride what … ! Top of Cogs To Spare “steep"

What goes slickrock down…

Yup, that’s about the right association, big wave surfing in rock. And if you fall here, heavy metal fans, you come out deep purple in rock. Imagine being thrown down a 20 metre standing wave of number 4 sandpaper. When you get used to it you find the rock surface “holds your tires like a pitbull holds a bone”. But if you don’t treat that pitbull right, it will maul you. There is a short, 2 km practice loop at the start, just to settle your nerves, or rattle them, depending.

This evening we drove into town to catch the Banff mountain film festival, and then we saw real nerve: the superhuman Alex Honnold free climbing the three biggest rock walls of Yosemite in 18 hours. The scariest movie ever made, no questions.

…must come slickrock up

So, right my leg is still lummied, my ribs ache (especially when I laugh), my lip is blistered, but I reckon I’m one happy, satiated pilgrim. I’d be happy to ride round and round the paddock at our ranch all day tomorrow. But I will be glad to get back to the land of warmth and sunshine. Snow looks cool, but actually it is c-o-l-d.

David E's snowshoes

Stay cool, ride easy and never forget to feed the pitbull inside you.

The eardstapper in mountain bike heaven

The boys riding down the Colorado towards Amasa mesa

Ah, you just cannot beat the local knowledge thing. We headed into town, clear skies but a chill wind so still all wrapped up) eager to ride the classic Porcupine Rim (riders have died there!), but were told no ways, too much ice, snow, rather go do the new Amasa Back trails a short way out of town, round the bend in the Colorado River.

They build trails in the hills here like termites construct anthills on the savanna plains of Africa. The good people at Moab Cyclery (where, for new eyes to this blog, we are being looked well after and hired our Santa Cruz Tallboy bikes). They reckoned Amasa Back was better than the other Moab classic, Poison Spider and just as gnarly. It was, and that Tallboy played its part.

The heroic landscapes around Moab just invite you in

When we arrived I was given a medium frame 29er, which I found a bit too short and upright for my frame and riding style. Also (and here I hear you issue an “ooooo…” much like the one Donald did when I went arse-over-kettle), the brakes were opposite to those on my beloved Patrick (as in Morewood).

How the locals ride it

Up til now we’ve had the trails pretty much all to ourselves, but this weekend marks the start of the thaw season, when skinny wheel and fat tire riders descend on Moab – it was a bit like Tokai on a summer Sunday morning. We watched what looked like a mom and her son (on downhill bike) wax the first set of rocky drop-offs on the ride, Don went next, then I.

It was all going well, until it wasn’t. I cannot remember what happened, other than suddenly I had grit in my teeth, an ache in my ribs and a rising hematoma on my right thigh (the same one I mashed in Lesotho on our Spine ride). Clearly I had touched my front brake out of subconscious urge, instead of the back one, and the rest you can see when I post Mike’s GoPro footage as a YouTube clip when I can upload it.

I managed to ride most of the rest of the outride to Pot Hole Arch, but coming back was type 3 fun (not at all). Then, ah, the wonder of drugs – Mike produced a bunch of Myprodols, and then Don held me down and shoved a fist full of Sandoz into my pie hole. I named the ride the Valley of the Dolls.

Then we retired to Milt’s Diner, a real local hang-out on East 400 East that leads out towards Slickrock, where I licked my wounds while we tucked into chili cheeseburgers (an organic burger patty, the owner is a fitness super marathoner freak, smothered in chili bean sauce and onions).

Amasa Back is, we all concurred, the best single track riding we’d ever seen or dreamed of, and haven’t even hit any of the old classic rides here yet. It was beyond our technical ability to ride it all, but we reckoned if we lived here and learned the right lines, we could ride about 90 %. The final 10 will only ever be for boys (and plenty proficient girl riders around here too) with fat knobby tires and flat takkies.

Some local culture, American Indian petroglyphs in Moonflower Canyon

Tomorrow it will have to be more drugs for me as we head out to Slickrock; in Moab, have bike, must ride!

Stay cool, ride easy and as for drugs, just say maybe

The eardstapper

Good morning sunshine... Mike and Kevin in sightseeing kit.

It snowed. Then it rained. Sharp needle drops. It was cold, the day starting off at -7 F. The sun did not even bother to peep in. Not a good day for riding if your natural habitat is sunny, so we went sightseeing.

First we drove into Arches National Park, the park that Edward Abbey made famous and it returned the compliment. He campaigned, you might even say he raged, against opening up the park to vehicles, and when he lost that fight he packed up in Moab and moved to Tucson, Arizona.

The park is a work of wonder, natural wonder, with rock formations that reminded us of the ruins of ancient civilisations, but in a world inhabited by giants. You can see why Abbey wanted to keep it pristine and to be appreciated only by people who really got it, on foot, horseback or bicycle (although this was before the age of mountain biking).

Ozymandias of Moab, look on my works ye mighty and despair.

The thing about America is… and this is not my first or even second time here… everything is so big. Unnecessarily so, to our more modest eyes. The landscapes are huge. The vehicles are unnecessarily massive, and so are the people. We saw many more mesas than buttes (a mesa being wider than it is high, you will recall from geography 101). So in the chicken and egg debate, are the RVs so big to fit the all the obese people, or do people here grow to fit the vehicles? Your call.

Don and Kevin admire nature’s work, Delicate Arch.

The Arches landscape was largely obscured by clouds and rain, but we did get out and get wet to walk to the upper viewpoint to see Delicate Arch, one of many in the park. Then we retreated to La Hacienda for some warm sustenance, and you realize why they get so big. No supper required.

What’s for supper bit … I mean boss?

We did not ride, but we took some pity on all the skinny-tire junkies who had bussed in from all over to celebrate “the thaw” bicycling festival – all out there in their rain and snow gear, pushing against the wind in the spirit of spring and harvest bounty.

Tomorrow is predicted to be cold but clear (starting off around -5F). We’ve all got cabin fever already so we reckon we’ll start off at around 10, or later, once the sun has shown a respectable face. But what to ride?

We figure all the classic rides here are seriously tough, but we’re going to have to do them. The debate is, risk a “strenuous, technical” classic in full Michelin man gear today, or leave that for the next, predicted to be warmer day. There are two camps in our cabin, so watch this space and till then enjoy the pics of Moab and Arches in springtime!

Stay cool and ride warm

The eardstapper

The canyon rim

Wow! Did I mention the wow factor? Once again our Danish (did I mention he was a great Dane and not a bulbous Swede as previously reported?) come up with a cunning plan that scuppered our own plan to ride the Gemini Bridges trails. “Do you want maximum fun for minimum effort?” he inquired.

Do we look like a bunch of friggin African sun worshippers, or a bunch of Utahan hill jumpers? Magnificent Seven turned out be the most amazing day’s riding any of us could remember – 15 kilometres of dipping, bucking, tripping track that weaved a tenuous thread along the edge of an inter-connected system of canyons with names like Bull’s, Art’s, Crip’s Hole and Little. That took us about two hours.

Mike rides the canyon rim, Bull Run

While never entirely out of our comfort zones in terms of technical riding, we were never entirely in them; if your thoughts or sight wandered for more than a second, you could end up in a hole, or splattered against a rock wall. And it was just about all down hill! Except for the inevitable little connecting bits they call “steeps” in these parts.

Don and the Goony Bird

I guess it would be true to say we are still building up confidence to tackle the slick rock trails of the area, which are – by every reference – “extremely strenuous”.

Anyway, back to the magnificent seven, Bull Run leads into Great Escape then Art’s Corner, Little Canyon and finally Gold Bar (you could continue all the way to Gold Bar Rim and Poison Spider, but that apparently is for only extreme hot-shot riders who like to be beaten up by (and here I quote our guide book,)“extreme-extreme” trail. Not today thanks.

Total descent for our single track, around 575 metres over 15 kilometres. Then we had to weave our way out of Little Canyon along several kms of powder sand, followed a 250 m climb out the canyon up Art’s Rim mesa and a 250 m run down to the highway, and finally about 25 km along a cycle track down to the Colorado River and into town, 42 km in all for a full day’s worth of fun.

We were ice cold and soaking wet when we rode into town to hunt down the huge jalapino cheese burger. Dave E, ever the chevalier of the iron steed, greeted each female of age we met with a “happy international women’s day” cheer.

Alas, Davids E and T are leaving us in the morning to return to their work-a-day lives, which will bring an unearthly quite to our cosy ranch house.

Stay cool (or warm) and ride easy. We just might sit out today and hope for a bit of sun tomorrow.

The eardstapper

A cabin just for you 'n me - snow looks nice, but is c-o-l-d!

The day not so much dawned as seeped in under a thin layer of low cloud, again colder than we Africans would have liked; but the sun did come out later and tried to warm up the frigid air.

We chose to ride Klondike Bluff, a mixed ride of gnarly single track, slick rock and sand, climbing around 700 m from the desert floor up to a viewpoint overlooking Arches National Park and the Klondike Bluff (hence the name). Once again our plan was hijacked, but in the nicest way. For the record, total altitude gained was much more than that, mostly in short, sharp, leg-burning sprints interspersed with some long, chest-wheezing slogs. It’s what we do.

The cause of our misadventure was local rider Jan, a Swede who came to Moab around 20 years ago to rock climb, met a local lass and put down some roots. He joined us and led us on a merry ramble – some rideable, much of it not, so it became a bike-hike – through a maze of rocky ridges and gullies (the words “gryke” and “dint” come pouring back from some school geography class) – and added some hours and significant sweat to what was planned as an easy day out.

Jan (far right) shows us a huge, bird-like dinosaur track.

What should have taken about 3 hours extended to around 5, covering only about 30 km in the process. But for mountain biking thrills, it scored a high 8 out of 10. You wouldn’t find the route without Jan’s guidance, and he reckoned most riders wouldn’t want to. We got home knackered, showered and collapsed into sorry heaps. Then, a few hours later, hit the Moab Brewery for the hugest cheeseburgers you’ve ever seen [note to self: should have taken a photo].

EKG Trail – we called it ECG for good reason.

My mission for tomorrow (light rain predicted), is to search out The Outlaw Inn, favourite eating place of one Edward Abbey, whose spirit is the underlying score of our sojourn here), and where – apparently – hangs the old sign “Welcome to Moab – uranium mining capital of America”, or maybe the world, we’ll see.

We’ve been advised that, given the rainy forecast, we want to ride Slickrock, the trail that put Moab on the world mountain biking map, but also a bit of a rattler of a ride (can take 2 to 5 hours, depending). Given our performance on the slick rock today, looks like we’re headed for another five or more hour epic up there in the weather (reason: rain makes chocolate mousse of the other tracks around).

Also, and somewhat sadly, it’s the last day’s riding for Davids Evans and Tet, who joined for a short while. Dave T our token African American, a safari tour operator now residing in the winelands north of San Francisco, and Dave E who schlepps around between Durbs, Mala Mala and Mashatu and diverted from a sales tour of the US to join us. He might not have the filthiest mouth in SA (that would be his mate Craig G-C), but we suspect it might be in the USA. Things will get cleaner, if a shade more sober. David T is our good Zimbabwean boy – every home should have one.

Now it’s time to take my cramping legs to bed, perchance to dream, perchance to snore, perchance to sleep the sleep of the well-satisfied mountain biker. Oh Moab, thou art fairer than we had dared to dream.

Till tomorrow, stay cool and ride easy

The eardstapper

Having set up our Abbey Road impersonation the previous day near our digs at Pack Creek Ranch, the opportunity to do another Beatles cover version presented itself at Klondike Bluff view point. At least one of us thought we were doing a tribute to the Village People – a bit gay there Don (second from left)!