Day 2: Luck
There is a scene in the old Clint Eastwood movie "The Eiger Sanction",
when the climb has gone totally to hell, death is in the air, and
Clint looks at a fellow climber and says: "We'll make it."
"I think not," says the climber. "But we shall continue with style."
It is well below freezing at sunrise when I climb out of the tent,
make coffee, and contemplate my crippled rig. I have two problems:
even if I fix the rim tape, one spare tube is not enough margin for
where I'm headed. Anyway, nothing works if I can't fix the rim tape. I
pull out my first aid kit and unroll a length of surgical tape. I try
it on the rim. It's a little wider than I might like, but with care it
fits nicely in the space. I have no idea whether it will hold over the
long term, but it will definitely do for the short term. I mount a new
tube and tire, toss the (now useless) punctured tube into the camp
dumpster, and pack up to go. My schedule puts me at Buffalo Creek by
the end of the second day, but this will be impossible to accomplish
on the singletrack. I am already way behind. I check the maps, and
plot a workaround on County and Forest Service roads, maybe about
twenty-five miles, with a couple thousand feet of climbing. I consider
the reliability of my MacGuyver'ed rim: from Buffalo Creek, it is an
easy bailout to the (aptly named) town of Bailey on U.S. 285. Ten or
eleven miles. I can ride for the day, camp at Buffalo Creek, and then
cross over to Bailey where I can get a cell signal to call my contact
in Boulder for a pickup. My new route avoids the nasty possibility of
getting stranded with a mechanical in the backcountry. OK then. This
works.
I have recovered well from the brutal day before, and the ride along
the deserted road up the river in the cool morning air is beautiful.
My spirits rise, and I make good time, climbing steadily beside the
river. I bear left at an intersection of County Roads 96 and 97, and
climb past the tiny towns of Foxton and Ferndale, really nothing more
than a couple of roadside lodges. My legs feel great. At the end of
the county road is the town of Buffalo Creek, and I don't expect much
more. Much to my surprise, at the roadside in Buffalo Creek is a run-
down Conoco station housed in an 1880's stone building. I peer in the
window: it looks dark and closed. Damn. I wander around back, and find
an open door, leading to a dusty, dark store with Gatorade and corn
chips and Spam squatting on the dusty shelves.
And a patch kit. The patches are useless, thick things intended for
car tires, but the adhesive will work for me, and I still have plenty
of patches from the kit I packed. I can't believe my luck. I buy the
patch kit and a quart of Gatorade and check my maps. From here, I have
a short stretch on pavement and then cut onto Forest Service
doubletrack up Buffalo Creek, climbing toward Wellington Lake, and
Stony Pass beyond. It's an easy ride into Green Mountain campground, a
beautiful spot with campsites nestled along Buffalo Creek, swollen
with runoff from the big snows in the high country. I pitch camp on
the sunny afternoon and do a little laundry, washing my sweaty gear in
creek water and hanging it to dry in the parched Colorado air. I see
lots of people here, families who drove in through Bailey to car camp,
and clutches of clean-cut teenagers from "Camp Firewalker", which I
discover is a Mormon Church youth camp at Wellington Lake. They're all
on mountain bikes, and regard me with wary curiosity.
To go or not to go? I have a choice. From here, it is a quick ride to
Bailey, to cold beer and hamburgers and rescue. Five or six miles the
other direction is Stony Pass, followed by a long descent into a
deserted backcountry valley. I am getting a feel for my physical
limitations: I can tow the trailer for five, maybe six hours, and then
my legs simply cease to function. No amount of willpower will make it
possible to turn the cranks further than than that. With the glue from
the Conoco patch kit in hand, I have adequate coverage for the
possibility of flats. The rest of the gear is working nominally. The
only (internal) variable is the MacGuyver with the surgical tape on
the rim. I pull the tire and check the rim tape. I have no idea
whether it will hold for another week, but a day of fireroad riding
has left it none the worse for wear. I make a fire to ward off the
chill, pour myself an absinthe, and weigh the risk. The external
variables of weather and terrain and luck are always present, but the
gear is sound. Looks like a go.
I sleep like a baby, rise with the sun, and break camp in the chill
morning air. The mountain peaks are hung with low clouds, and I begin
to worry about the weather. I stop and ask a car camper if he's heard
a weather report, and he says ten percent chance of rain. I hope he's
right. I climb past Wellington Lake and head toward Stony Pass,
nestled in the aspens at about 8,500 feet. I am pretty decently
acclimated to 5,000 feet, but up above 7,000 my heart rate soars with
the slightest effort, and I stop frequently, gasping, and stay still
until the racing of my heart recedes, then continue, and repeat. The
trailer is very heavy. I crest Stony Pass at around 8:00 A.M. Behind
me is civilization and safety. Below me is the Hayman Burn, destroyed,
abandoned, haunted. I begin the descent.