The solitude, the pace, and the effort of the thing

I forget about cross country skiing
until I am compelled to remember it.
This is a shame.

When I was too poor to be able to afford to buy a pass for the mountain I xc-skied a lot.
I have always enjoyed it,
as I did today.
The solitude, the pace, and the effort of the thing work for me.

It's hard to feel like I missed an epic morning on the mountain.
 When I had one
 of my own.
All alone.

The path of greater resistance

Tumped. Ow.

When riding through the woods mid-winter it's often wise, though commonly counter-intuitive, to choose the path of greater resistance rather than otherwise.  In opposition to the balance of the year, in winter, the path of least resistance is often steel-gray and icy, or tracked-in deeply-furrowed frozen mud. Both of these conditions, while somewhat enticing, are treacherous.  If you fail to assess them cautiously they will quickly, and with little warning, tump both you and your bike. Often in that order, thus bringing your bike down on top of you.  Thereby literally applying the phrase "adding insult to injury" to your condition.

In winter, safe riding and good traction exist where the snow is less shiny but deeper, where the ground is well-vegetated and not smooth, and where the rock-tops rise higher than the trail's tread.

This is your line in winter: trail, rock, grass, trail, snow, rock, rock, trail.

trail, rock, grass, trail, snow, rock, rock, trail

A warm, dry spell mid-winter. It's time to ride local! No lift-lines, and no driving to Sedona!

My ride today, a short, 11-mile dog-bone-shaped singlespeed recon across Rocky(t) Ridge, down Nightranger, across Forces Of Nature and back, found the trails more and more open, dry and rideable as I roamed east from home across the south-facing slopes of the Dry Lake Hills and Mount Elden.

Little Horse Wash

We walked a bit down the Little Horse Wash near Sedona today, without our dog, who stayed home, sick and on several meds for some horrible strain of kennel cough... the kid's got a bit of a cold, too, as her rashy nose-holes will attest.

Archival Footage: The cumulative effects of erosion

The following post was originally published at FlagstaffBiking.org on July 3, 2003. Ten years later, little has changed...

---

I stumbled upon a USFS trail crew doing radical rock-obliteration work on Rocky Ridge trail yesterday. Despite recent efforts to encourage positive, proactive communication and cooperation between the USFS and local mountain bikers by organizations like flagstaffbiking.org, NFTA, and FELT, the evidently purposeful misdirection, and dare-I-say intentional deception, goes on as before. 

By the time you read this, it is likely that Rocky Ridge trail, as you’ve known it, will no longer exist. 

Under the auspices of grant-funded work and a new designation as a section of the Arizona Trail route, Rocky Ridge will soon join the dozens of miles of local trail that have been re-engineered to reflect one-public agency's, and really one over-zealous individual's idealized view of what a nature trail should be.


In light of what was happening on Rocky Ridge yesterday, I rode it both ways, up and down, and tried to savor each moment. As has always been the rule, in the end, Rocky Ridge won. I was happy to leave it that way. After twelve years of struggle I’ve had but a few moments of brilliance on Rocky Ridge, and for all the effort they have, though few and far between, each been worth the challenge. No local system trail is more special to me than this one.

The zoo, my daughter, and I.

Today we went to the zoo, my daughter and I.

She took pictures, "for mama. So she can see what we're doing."

I think she took some nice ones. [click to enlarge]

One-legged wild coot

Avy Class

We did some of this...

As I write this, we're arguably still in the midst of the primo storm-cycle of the season, having received more than 20 inches of ~4% snow (blower powder) above 9700 feet since early Saturday morning.

So, how exactly did I spend the last two-and-a-half days?  Did I shred my double-rocker'd monster-fat powder skis?  Did I tear it up in the out of bounds trees?  Well, no.  Not exactly.

I made just two runs all weekend.  Why?  Because, I've been in avalanche education class to get my Level 1 certification since Friday afternoon, thanks, in part, to a generous scholarship the folks at the Kachina Peaks Avalanche Center awarded me.

And a whole-lotta this...

Despite my lack of turns over the past several days, I've certainly not lacked for time-on-snow.  The Avy Level 1 class requires 24 hours of coursework, about 20 of which are spent in the field, which in this case really means on the mountain.  So, while all my friends were turning chairs and blowing through huge overhead, waist-deep pow all weekend, I was skiing uphill to stand for hours on end at 10,000-11,500 feet, in near-zero temps, in the middle of high alpine glades and gullies, doing countless beacon searches, digging snowpits, charting conditions, and looking at faceted snow-crystals and depth hoar with a jeweler's loupe, while it snowed and blowed and snowed and blowed the entire time, without interruption.

And this...

It really was a heck of a lot of fun.

I won't bore you with the details.  Nevertheless, for the record: I'm really glad I finally got this training, even though it meant missing out on a couple of otherwise awesome ski-days.  Avy training's not for everyone.  But, I've wanted to learn the nomenclature and fundamentals of avalanche science for years (I'd also like to get my WFR).  For me, Avy training meshes quite naturally with my, shall we say, fondness for winter weather-watching, as well as with my abiding affection for the winter season in general, snow skiing in particular, and my penchant heading out into the backcountry/slackcountry to do it when I get the chance.

I learned a lot from our instructors, David Lovejoy, Derik Spice, and Troy Marino, over the course of the weekend, and I hope to be able to continue to build on my newly acquired foundational knowledge in the field.  I may not ever go after my Level 2 cert (it's a four-day course).  But I hope to be able to catch an opportunity now and then to head out with the ski patrol to dig and assess a few more pits.

 

And this.

Likewise, and more importantly, I hope that what I've learned helps my friends and me to make better informed, reasonable decisions when skiing together on untracked snow out of bounds.

You stink

One really nice thing about the hoard of well-dressed-in-denim touristy-folk ranging hither-and-yon in any given direction, always within sight of the parked Pink Jeeps atop Chicken Point, is that they all smell wonderfully. Like soap and shampoo, clean linen and floral perfume.  When you're riding uphill on a singlespeed in Sedona you notice these things.  Because you're going slow.  And because you stink.

The blister on my palm hurts.

Singlespeed in Sedona is hard. Rigid singlespeed is harder. Drop-bar rigid singlespeed is, no question, the hardest.  Wrap those bars in cotton-tape alone, and, you're not being tough, or faithful to some long forgotten classic vintage.  No.  You're just being stupid.  You deserve your blisters. And your sore legs. And the broken spoke in your rear wheel.

Once, years ago, my wealthy aunt and uncle visited northern Arizona and asked us to drive down and join them in Sedona for the day, which we did.  After brunch, they surprised us with the news that they had booked us an exclusively chauffeured Pink Jeep Tour of our very own (they bought-up all the other seats). I've biked around the Chicken Point area a thousand times, for going on some 25 years now.  But that trip was my first, last, and only Pink Jeep tour through the area to-date.  And, I must admit, it was a lot of fun.  Not just for the good company: my wife and our well-beloved aunt and uncle.  But also for the comedic-cowboy commentary provided by our admittedly very skillful driver.  We took the company's signature tour out to Chicken Point and got to do the whole-shabang: the slow-screechy skid down the steep slickrock near Mushroom Rock, and the gnarly Devil's Staircase descent, too.  It was a hoot, and well beyond my own meager skills as a four-wheel-drive driver.

I mended my broken wheel down at the shop this afternoon; needed an FR-6 to remove the freewheel (not sure why I've never bought one of my own).  It's been quite a while since I've been able to spend any kind of time down there.  Nevertheless, I am pleased that there are a few of my former coworkers hanging around the place who still remember my name, and that they're willing to let me use a tool or give me a hand now and then when I need it.  However, just in case the place was filled with new crew members (this has happened the last few times I popped in), I arrived bearing the proper oblation.  It never hurts to hand-off a six-pack of Fat Tire to the mechanics before you ask to borrow a tool.

Beer can accomplish great things, especially in a bike shop.