Oliver planned some of the toughest bicycle riding I have participated in. I had a week off. We rode our bicycles from the saddest little park I have ever seen in Rawlins, Wyoming to my front doorstep on Remington Street in Fort Collins — 300 miles and 30,000 feet of climbing.
Oliver used to live in Fort Collins. He studied mechanical engineering at CSU and our friendship started because we both worked as mechanics at Lee’s Cyclery on Laurel street. He recently quit his job in California and spent a few months bike touring up the Western coast. From San Clemente to Spokane Washington. Seeing the sights and drinking the wine of the land. He rode until he got tired and then drove his white VW hatchback out to Fort Collins so we could have a bicycle adventure together before my fall semester started. Oliver is a planner and I prefer to let things unfold. It works out to my benefit because Oliver is always scheming a new adventure and all I have to do is say yes and find the time.
My lovely girlfriend, Julia, drove us up to Rawlins on a Monday morning. We parked in the Spring Canyon parking lot. I had installed bright pink Panaracer tires on my bicycle prior to the trip because I thought they might keep me light-hearted during the suffering that was sure to ensue over the next few days. I usually would prepare for a trip like this by riding a lot, but a mountain bike crash I had the month prior in New Mexico had left my hand slightly broken and I had chosen to rest rather than train.
The day was warm but cloudy, and the wind was blowing aggressively. “I sure hope we have that at our back,” I said. To Oliver as we changed into our bibs and riding clothes and made final preparations on our bicycles. Julia pedaled my bike around the empty parking lot while I changed.
“Oh man, me too,” Oliver said, smiling and looking at the sky. Oliver had challenged himself to pack as light as he possibly could and had done so. I felt a bit overpacked and had even brought my camping pillow which was awkward and bulky and I had just strapped straight to the top of my handlebar bag. Although I knew I would be glad to have it.
Julia riding around the parking lot in Spring Canyon Park, Aug. 2021, photo by author.
I kissed Julia goodbye and we left Rawlins in a flash. Me, anxious with nervous energy and excitement. Oliver composed and ready to go, but also brimming with joy and smiling big. Once we got outside of the Rawlins area we were on a state highway that directed us south. Oliver said as he pedaled standing up, “I love this! This is the best!”
It was smoky. As we pedaled our bikes into broad seemingly endless land with its blanket of smoke I felt uneasy and as if I was peeking into a burning and melancholy future. Afraid that blue sky would become a thing of the past. Aside from an occasional car passing, at this initial stage of our journey, we seemed to be the only ones around. I felt that I wouldn’t be surprised to see some dinosaur or mammoth sauntering across the rolling fields or brush — as if we had found ourselves misplaced in time.
The wind was primarily at our backs for a while out of Rawlins. The fantastic Wyoming road guided us fast through the rolling land. We had to make it about fifty miles before we would reach the national forest to find a place to filter water and camp. Our pace was dictated by the need to reach the forest before it got dark since we departed from Rawlins in the mid-afternoon and finding water in the dark was not how we wanted our first night to be.
Soon thunder clouds rolled over our heads and the lighting teased us in the distance. The smoky air turned wet and heavy and electric. We approached a couple who were also touring by bicycle with their little dog. They were huddled on the opposite side of the road in rain jackets. We pulled over to say hello.
“Where did you start?” asked Oliver.
“Whitefish. You?”
“We just left Rawlins. We are just doing a week. To Fort Collins.”
“Oh, so you guys are full of spit and vigor right now,” she said smiling.
“Yeah haw haw, we’ll see how long it lasts,” I said.
I petted their little dog, Otto, and we parted ways. Otto was deaf and had a little bell tied to his collar so they could find him.
Oliver riding, August 2021, photo by author.
We put on rain jackets and kept going. We got rained on very briefly and then escaped the storm which was gliding north over our helmeted heads. The road carried us further and further. The hardwood trees started to be replaced with pine and aspen. The wind was no longer at our backs but at our sides. The hills would protect us then expose us to it as we climbed and descended. The road turned from smooth pavement to gravel and cows roamed. They would watch us from afar and then run away as we approached.
I was really wanting to set up camp and cook some real food that wasn’t granola bars or dried fruit. Each little snack gave me a burst of energy that would sustain me for about half an hour and then I would start to feel cracked again. We had only been riding for about three hours, but at a decent pace and my packed down bike began to feel heavy.
Cracked is an expression that is common among cyclists. Cracked is what happens when you run out of fuel. It happens on long rides and the effects of being cracked are more mental than they are physical. When you are cracked you might find yourself deep in your mind. In the back of your skull when your spine meets your head and you can watch yourself pedaling your bike but may want nothing to do with it. And images of macaroni and cheese and hamburgers float around in your vision and the world starts to feel loose and distant. Although, it affects people differently. Julia said she gets sad. I get annoyed and quiet and sink deep. Snacks help mitigate the effects and can prevent it entirely if you eat enough and often enough. A couple hundred calories each hour is best for me.
The packed down bikes initially felt heavy after after a couple hours the weight of the bike felt normal, but by mile forty-five or so I was feeling pretty cracked and was practically out of water, but soon enough we passed one of those brown wooden signs that signify national forest -- Medicine Bow - Routt. Oliver started doing some reconnaissance to find water while I idled around the bikes. No water. We kept pedaling. We descended fast on loose gravel and soon heard water rushing. A gulch and a sign that read “Deep Creek.” We got off our bikes and trekked down the water with our bottles and filters. We ate chips and drank our fill. Rejuvenated, we got back on our bicycles and pedaled up the road and soon found a great spot to camp with daylight to spare.
Our bicycles, August 2021, photo by author.
Oliver, August 2021, photo by author.
I made my favorite bikepacking dinner which is Ramen with a can of sardines dumped into it, all heated up and delicious. It is salty and fatty and full of protein and is extremely satisfying after a day of sweating and pedaling a bicycle, although I got a little sick of it by the end of our journey.
The next morning we woke up to cows wandering through the campsite. We slept for almost twelve hours and ate breakfast with tenacity -- oatmeal with dried fruit and peanut butter scooped into it. And strong cups of instant coffee of course. Soon enough we were on the gravel road again and pedaling south towards the mountains that we could not yet see. But the air was thinning out and smelling more mountainous by the mile. Aspen trees were now common and small.
The goal for the end of Tuesday was to make it to The Brush Mountain Lodge. A hunting lodge that houses Tour Divide cyclists during the summer. We rode through Aspen alley and eventually found ourselves on pavement again and then passed a sign that said Leaving Wyoming. Our lunch was English muffins with peanut butter and honey that Oliver had made for us and packed in the morning. It was a hot day and the smoky air hung low. The rolling hills of Wyoming had changed into pointy little peaks and ridges that were covered with green pine trees and low shrubs. Oliver motioned that we needed to turn left at an approaching road and we were once again on a dirt road, pointing due south.
Riding by sheep, August 2021, photo by author.
Oliver didn’t know exactly how far the Lodge was, but we rode at about the same pace as the day prior. I felt worn out already and was growing concerned at how the following days would be. I was sweating and going through my water quickly. The smooth gravel turned chunky and rough. It started snaking around the ridges and valleys. This was a contrast to the straight road of Wyoming. We paused on top of a hill because Oliver wanted to look at the map he had downloaded onto his phone. He figured we were getting close to the Lodge.
I ate one of my little sandwiches and put gloves on because the rough road was rubbing my palms raw. Oliver hung back for a bit and said he would catch up. I pedaled on a felt that annoyed cracked feeling crept into my mind soon enough. My body was unsure of what was going on and wanted real food, not these little meals and snacks that wouldn’t even satisfy me if I was just at home or work.
Oliver looking at his map and the land, August 2021, photo by author.
I had chosen to use my gravel bike on this adventure. It is a bike that is designed to be fast and efficient on gravel roads but is not as comfortable as a mountain bike as it has no suspension of any type. I was already wishing that I was on my mountain bike and my cracked annoyance started to be directed at Oliver for confirming that my gravel bike would be a good option and then showing up for the trip with a mountain bike. Of course, if we had truly known what the following days would be like I would have never chosen my gravel bike. This regret started to take over my thoughts, but the choice was made and there was nothing to do but pedal on.
All of a sudden Oliver had caught up with me. We came around a corner and there was the Lodge sitting on a hill right next to the road. “Well. that’s it!” said Oliver. We were both a bit shocked to have arrived so soon. It was barely two in the afternoon and we had come as far as we needed to that day.
The Lodge overlooked a valley and had an open gate and unlocked doors. There was no one around, but somebody had written on the whiteboard that they would be back around 2:30 to make pizza. We let ourselves in and found cold sodas in a refrigerator.
Soda fridge at Brush Mountain Lodge, August 2021, photo by author.
We sat in the shade on the porch and laughed and drank cold soda. The best soda I have ever had in my life. I was so excited about pizza that I giggled just thinking about it. Soon a man on a four-wheeler rolled up the driveway and asked if Kirsten was around. We said no. He turned around and left.
Then Kirsten suddenly appeared. She lived in a house further up the hill behind the Lodge. She asked us if we knew how to fix a washing machine. We shook our heads. She tended the wood-burning oven that was situated on the corner of the porch and radiating heat.
“What kind of pizza do you want?” she asked and then listed a few options. She was very mattered of fact and I felt like maybe we had crossed some boundary by letting ourselves into the unlocked Lodge and taking sodas.
“Pepperoni sounds good, thanks.”
She fetched some frozen pizzas and tossed them into the oven. The oven was so hot that they were fully cooked in two minutes and were starting to burn on the edges, but cooked perfectly. Oliver and I each ate a whole pizza. She had beer too but made us drink two cups of water before handing those out. “You guys are no fun if you don’t drink water,” she said. I wasn’t quite sure what was meant by that but I was eager to drink cold clean water.
“How often do you host cyclists?” Oliver asked her.
“Most every night. This year especially. It gets busier every year.”
“Oh wow, this is a full-time job huh.”
“Oh yeah. There were four people here last night.” She sat on a little round table with high seats and rolled herself a spliff. She told us a story of how she played matchmaker the week before. A young man who was touring by himself and a young woman who was also touring by herself ended up at the Lodge at the same time and she convinced the young man to stick around and get to know the girl. He did and they ended up continuing on together.
Then the couple that we had passed the day prior with their deaf little dog, Otto, rolled in and joined us on the porch. They were offered pizza and drinks and soon enough we were all sharing stories.
A bunch of cows and calves wandered onto the property while we were eating and chatting. Then a bull stamped its way out of the woods and through the open gate at the end of the drive. He was bulging and broad and sniffed out all the cows, but eventually wandered away nonchalantly. Kirsten tried to shoo the cows from the porch with no success.
Kirsten talking to cows, August 2021, photo by author.
Kirsten offered rooms to rent as well as camping in the yard. Oliver and I decided to split a room and sleep in beds. It was $60 for the night. I felt spoiled. We had only camped one night so far and I could take a hot shower and my belly was full of pizza and beer and chocolate. It was the high life. We were princes in Kirsten’s solemn little kingdom way up in the wilderness of Northwest Colorado. The smoke was not present and the sunset was clear and beautiful.
Oliver and I stretched on the floor in quiet contentment before going to bed. The unfamiliarity of the bed and room made it hard for me to fall asleep, but I eventually did and slept soundly. Even out in the wilderness, I feel familiarity inside my blue and green tent and sleeping bag -- my little nest that I can take with me anywhere I go, by foot, bicycle, or otherwise.
The theme of the Lodge was caloric. Breakfast was pancakes, sausages, eggs, and as much coffee as we could fit inside of use. The breakfast dessert was more pancakes but with m&ms and peanut butter. I was stuffed and we stretched out in the sun before packing up our bikes and preparing to leave.
Kirsten was joyfully rolling spliffs and offered to roll us our own if we wanted. I accepted and smoked very little of it before extinguishing it and saving it for later in my handlebar bag. We packed up our bikes and headed out -- back on the gravel and pedaling up. “Based on the map, it looks like we have a big climb ahead of us,” Oliver said. Although we had been climbing most of the ride so far, it was gradual and long. We were headed into mountain pass territory where King Colorado mountains loomed and the real climbing would begin. The goal for this day was to ride through Steamboat Springs and partway up Buffalo Pass to find a place to camp, since camping in Steamboat would be illegal or challenging or both.
Routt National Forest Boundary in Colorado, August 2021, photo by author.
The gravel road took us by more cows and fields of yellow flowers that waved at us as we went by. The sky was clear and the sun was harsh, but the air grew cool and thin as we continued to pedal up. The road led us out of the fields and into the open mouth of the forest where tall aspens stood. The road grew steeper and poorer. It turned into double track lanes and riding smoothly meant zig-zagging around to avoid large rocks and loose sections or gravel.
This first mountain pass is when I really started to regret choosing my gravel bike and not my mountain bike for the journey. Oliver dropped me soon and I just had to mash my lowest gear, 34-32, and keep pedaling slowly but surely up the mountain. The road eventually became too steep for me to pedal up so I got off and pushed my bike over cobbles and loose rocks. The road would have been a challenge even in a Jeep. I caught up with Oliver at the top of the mountain. He made quick work of the climb and was waiting around for me and drinking water.
It was midday and we hadn’t seen another person since we left the Lodge in the morning. I ate a snack and drank water in the shade and mentally prepared for the descent that was sure to be mad and fast and long. We couldn’t see very far because of the trees, but the air indicated we were probably 10,000 feet in the air.
“I’m going to go fast down the descent. I’ll see you at the bottom. Don’t crash.”
“I won’t. See you down there.”
I had to pick my way very intentionally down the descent to avoid sharp rocks and deep eroded lines. I had to stop every few moments to let the blood flow out of my arms and replenish. It was exhausting. I descended as fast as I could, but on the packed-down gravel bike, it was relatively quite slow.
Rocky road, August 2021, photo by author
About halfway down. I stopped for a longer break and just listened. There was absolutely nothing to hear except my own blood pumping. Not even a breeze. I heard no one or no thing -- no animal, or plant shifting. All was quiet and I felt very small standing on that little road on that big mountain.
Oliver was waiting for me again at the bottom. Bopping around in circles on his bike. We kept on riding and the road smoothed out. We started to see houses on big pieces of property here and there. In the distance, Hahn Peak stood prominently with white snow decorating its rocky top.
“Now that is a big mountain”
“Yeah, imagine how much colder it is up there right now,” said Oliver.
Our descent continued by ranches old and property new and for sale signs with smiley real estate agent’s faces printed on them. We reached a little corner store where the road turned into pavement. I told Oliver that I wanted to take a break and get something to drink.
We paused in the shade. I ate a sandwich and drank water while Oliver studied his map. An older man with a very small and angry chihuahua asked us about our bikes and trip.
“Where are you going?” We told him. “I can’t believe you guys have everything you need on those bikes. I thought I packed light in my van.”
“Lighter is better on the bike!” Oliver responded.
“Sheesh. You guys are living the life right now, don’t forget it.”
We returned to the road, I felt better and was excited to pedal on some pavement for a change. We rode fast and in silence, trading off the leading position and just really hauling the mail down that smooth Colorado road. Steamboat Springs was about 20 miles away and I was already excited for a big meal and cold beer. We pedaled past fenced-in horses and over creeks with trout hiding in the slimy rocks. The air was thick again and felt good to breathe.
In Steamboat, we ate expensive tacos and then got some groceries at a gas station. We drank tall cans of Modelo down by the river. There was a sign that said “No Swimming.” We tossed sticks into the water while we chatted and laughed about the day all we had seen and experienced so far. It had been a long day, and there was still far to go. The late-day light painted our little river scene golden and green. Oliver and I were both feeling uneasy about the displays of wealth and consumerism that we saw in Steamboat and found comfort sitting down by the bank of the river. We had grown accustomed to mainly each other’s presence and eating simple meals -- minimal and quiet -- mainly just hearing the sounds of our bicycle chains rolling over the gears and our tires slapping over loose gravel, rocks, and pavement and wind in our ears. The bustling ski town was sort of a shock to the senses.
Our bicycles leaned up in Steamboat, August 2021, photo by author.
Oliver with beer, August 2021, photo by author.
The sun had started to set and we still had to ride up Buffalo Pass enough to find a spot to pitch our tents for the night. We got back on our bicycles and started riding out of town. We started gaining elevation and soon the pavement ended and the gravel road began. We filled our water bottles in Steamboat at the taco shop, but we had at least 2,000 feet of climbing to do before there would be any chance of filling our bottles in a stream or at a campsite spigot. The sun was down and we pedaled slowly but steadily up into the dark quiet forest. People in cars with mountain bikes on their hitches passed us as they headed back into town. Many smiled and waved as they went by. I felt free and alive. My legs loosened again and I felt like I could ride my bike straight up the moon as it crested the forest in front of us.
It was getting quite dark as we approached the campsite and trailheads which were about halfway up Buffalo pass. There had apparently been a mountain bike race that day and people were packing up and leaving. They poured down the mountain with bicycles on the back of their cars and smiles on their faces. They cheered us on and waved as we pedaled up and up. We approached the parking lot in the final light of the day and there was a tent with people playing music and packing up bikes and EZ-Up tents. “Bear in the area” signs were posted around. We did a lap around the small campsite loop and found that there was no spigot to drink from and refill our water bottles.
The tacos and beer had worn off at this point and I was getting ready to call it a day at the first opportunity to set up camp, but we still needed water. “I bet they have water at the race tent,” I said.
“Yeah probably so.” We pedaled over with a sense of urgency as it was clear that they were moments from rolling back town to civilized steamboat. As we rolled up to the tent I saw that they were preparing to dump out large Gatorade coolers full of cold water.
“Hold on! We need some water!”
They looked a little surprised to see us but eagerly offered the water. One guy who was blatantly stoned started taking our bottles from us and filling them. “Chug that and I’ll fill it again. Do you need food?” It was a miracle.
“Yeah if you're offering.” As bottles were filled the guy started delivering gigantic cookies and bags of chips. Then he went to the truck and came back and handed me something wrapped up in paper.
“Thanks. What is it?”
“Ham sammich.”
“Incredible.”
He left and came back with more. He was handing us snacks and sandwiches with such intent and speed that I started dropping them and stuffing food into my mouth and pockets. He asked, “where are you guys going?”
Oliver said, “Fort Collins eventually. Up Buffalo pass tonight.”
“There’s water further up too -- in streams. You’ll find it.” He spoke with a tone of familiarity to our endeavor. “Freebird just started. You guys can’t leave until it's over.” So we listened to Lynyrd Skynyrd and stuffed snacks into any available space on our bikes. We each had ham sandwiches and chips and cookies and little cans of Coca-Cola. The temperature had dropped significantly with the loss of sunlight. We put on jackets and equipped ourselves with lights so we could continue up the rocky road in the dark to find a spot to camp, as the campsite was full.
Man dumping out water on Buffalo Pass, August 2021, photo by author.
