Flows would be your best choice for sure, assuming 200# rider weight, plus bike plus gear plus (hopefully) a desire for a somewhat durable wheelset when 'out there'.

36h can't hurt, but I think 32h is plenty durable for a 200# rider.  Stick with a 2.0/1.8 spoke at minimum and you'll be fine.

Good luck.

MC

The 2009 Great Divide Race starts from Port of Roosville, Montana, at high noon on June 19, 2009.  That's just a few weeks away.

The explosion in popularity of the GDR since its inception in 2004 quite frankly took us by surprise.  Since 2004 the rules have continuously evolved to accommodate an increasingly diversified field of racers, but accommodating *every* request was simply not possible.  In fact, bending over backwards to try to accommodate some of the requests was a mistake.  If you've considered racing the 2009 GDR you will have noticed that the date and start location have changed, twice, since the 2008 GDR concluded.  We know better now--we simply cannot please the whims of every vocal minority, and trying too hard can be worse than not trying at all.  Compromises needed to be made by race organization as well as racers, which meant hard choices and tough decisions for all involved.

Moving forward, the GDR will remain true to its roots as a border to border time trial.  There will be no required call-ins, little to no web updating, fewer rules in general.  Overall, we want to emphasize that we're keeping the race as close as we can to its original incarnation: An event where the seasoned ultra-distance racer can come to challenge themselves in the simplest, purest style possible.

We understand that late notice on the date and location changes may be unworkable for those that had already planned their vacation dates, flights, etc...  We sincerely apologize for this.  As always, racers can opt to ITT the route starting whenever their schedule allows.  Adhere to the spirit and letter of the rules, record your times, and check in with us when you're finished.

All the best,

The GDR Steering Committee
www.greatdividerace.com

I'm not in any way related to the sellers here, just thought folks might want to cash in on this great deal. 

http://www.wearbap.com/product.php?productid=16590&cat=390&page=1

This is the pad I've been using for summer bikepacking (and backpacking, and carcamping, and couch surfing) for a few years now.  Not the lightest thing going, but comfy and packs real small.

The price can't be beat.

MC

He also thought since he has never gone up Oracle Ridge that it might not be a good idea in the dark.

What part of Oracle Ridge, regardless of direction, is a good idea *anytime* that you're traveling by bike?!

He spent a lot of the conversation raving about some concoction that Mike C gave him.

Shhhh--they do drug tests after these things now....!

I'm enjoying watching his creepy-slow progress up Oracle Ridge this AM, probably almost as much as he enjoyed watching the 3 of us get tortured along the ridge last year...

MC

A few days ago Moobs was looking for a reason to NOT go to AZ to race, and I had a short gap in the wheelbuild queue.  Great, let's go bikepacking!  But where?

Given the short notice and impending doom forecast for weather, I suggested staying close to home.  How close?  Riding right out the door, west into the Dolores Triangle.

I'm embarrassed to admit that in a decade of living in this valley I'd never been out to the Dolores.  Sure, I've drooled over it on real and online maps many times, but never quite pulled the trigger.  I guess it's one of those places that's destined to be overlooked because it's just out of the way enough, or not on the way to somewhere else.

The day arrived and Moobs showed up at the agreed upon time.  The lad has been riding heaps, and as such has lost the excess adipose that earned him the nickname.  For now, I have no choice but to rename him The Artist Formerly Known as Moobs, hereafter abbreviated as "#".

We tied up last minute minutia (for # this included polishing off an entire Hot 'N Ready pie from Little Sleazers) then rolled out.  How cool is it to go exploring and camping, on your bike, right from your back door?!

To get to the Triangle there is no choice but to climb, first on pavement, then a short bit of singletrack.


A brief diversion to check in on an overlook:


Then back to pavement.  Somewhere west of the Glade Park Store we could sense that we'd punched through the elastic and left 'town' and traffic behind.  And yes, that's a big part of the point...


Among the critters (or tracks, or sign, or poop) sighted while out there were mule deer, elk, hawks, vultures, ravens, coyotes, foxes, and I-swear-to-god fresh muddy imprints left by a big, lone lobo.


Somewhere near the Utah border the GPS insisted that we leave pavement indefinitely.  Twist my arm!  Not much later I managed to nick a sidewall while manualing across a rut, and although I did my best to fix it without sticking in a tube, I wasn't properly prepared. 


What can I say--it was my first dirt tour of the year and I missed a few critical details.  Among them: Not enough GPS/camera/headlamp batts and *no* super glue in the repair kit. 

I fiddled and fought with the sidewall for at least half an hour (using New Skin--same as Super Glue, right??!?) while # enjoyed poking fun at me and my preference for tubeless tires.  He pointed out, accurately, that whenever we ride together I seem to have issues with them.  Point taken, but also worth noting that we've only ridden together ~4 times in the last year.  How many flats have I had in that span?  6 or 7, and 2 or 3 of them were tubed. 

Anyway...

Fiddling complete and tools stashed, we rolled NW towards an idea of a campsite, enjoying the play of light on cloud as it danced before our eyes.


We both found a bit of joy in the small details that are part and parcel of any camping trip, like finding and filtering water, sussing out a good campsite (factoring in current and potential wind and precip, potential fuel sources for the campfire, and paying special attention to the lighting of that fire), arriving at a bomber tarp setup, and adding just the right amount of hot water to your freeze dried glop before inhaling it regardless of taste or consistency.

In other words, we enjoyed all that the evening brought.




And then we slept the sleep of the just.  The 'just plain tired'...

Morning brought clear skies and warm temps, both of which we enjoyed while leisurely packing up and readying for the day.


A 30 second hike from camp brought us a unique vista of some familiar places.  Neat to see Westwater Mesa and Bitter Creek Overlook from the other side of the river.




We climbed away from camp and headed for the main track.  Huge views through here, mostly of Pinon Mesa to the S and the La Sals to the SW.




# was on his single speed, but didn't seem to notice.




We got a real friendly vibe from these signs, placed every 1/4 mile on both sides of the track.  Some people's kids...


The terrain changed from thick pinon/juniper subalpine to red rock desert in the span of 6 heartbeats, right as we began descending to the Dolores.








We filtered water from Coates Creek, then roller coastered up and over to Granite Creek.  A long look at the GPS revealed a sustained climb of 2000' plus coming up.  Time to get to work...






A sign of how cool the spring has been thus far: We flat roasted on a *perfect* ~75 degree spring day, loving every minute of it.


Climb on.


The GPS led us onto a lesser used track.  It got *very* steep for a few.


The climb was cleanable, just not by us on that day.


We sprawled at the top and savored the panorama while snacking on whatever fell to hand.  # killed me with a well-timed ode to his fantasy mistress:

"Ooooo Ooooo Oooooooooooo Little Debbie!  I don't know *how* you do it, only that you never let me down...!"


With mucho 'sploring left to do, we saddled back up and headed across Steamboat Mesa.  La Sals right in our faces, plus stunning views of North Beaver Mesa, Polar Mesa, the Entrada Bluffs, Fisher Valley and Fisher Mesa, and yes, right underfoot.


And then, this.


Words failed then, as they do now.


We gawked, and napped, and regawked.  Snacks were consumed, guesses were made about the watercourses visible below, then slackjawed gawking would resume.


Eventually we saddled back up to investigate the rest of the Mesa.




Pretty nice.  If you're into that...

We were.  In fact, we were so 'into that' that we decided to push our luck with low water supply and just crash up there for the night.  The most compelling reason (for me) to do this was simple: I live down in a valley, and don't get to spend nearly enough time up high!  Waking to thirst seemed a small price to pay to spend a sunset and sunrise up here.

# agreed, so it was settled. 

We found a somewhat sheltered from wind spot and went about collecting wood for an extended stargazing session, as well as setting up tarps and heating water for hoosh.

Then we ate.  And gazed. 


And it was good.

# crashed out after 10 and I followed around 11. 

By 12 the wind was ripping and the tarps were flapping--making just enough racket and requiring just enough attention that sleep would be fitful to non-existent the rest of the night.  At ~3 I fought off a wave of internal panic, brought on by a pattering of raindrops and a realization of how little food and water we had, as well as how much clay was in the soil, and how far we were from *any* pavement.  At ~5:30 the moon vanished behind ever thickening scud and I couldn't take it any longer.  I jacketed and shod myself, trod over to #'s tarp and explained why I thought it was time to beat feet for home.  Somewhat reluctantly he agreed (I think he was *actually* sleeping!) and within minutes we'd stowed and were on our way.


Chased by wind, rain, and snow, we didn't dawdle much on the return trip.


The bulk of the day was spent grinding out one climb after another, then glancing back to see how much the storm had gained.


Breaks were brief and to the point: Filter a liter of water, snarf a handful of junk, lube and drag a chain.  Then, back in motion.


We were lucky, in many ways.  The storm held off, buffeting us with constant wind but never more than a light spray of rain.  The wind was often behind us, a fact we appreciated as we climbed dirt at 10+ mph.  Stretches into a headwind were brief, the temps were comfy for climbing, and once back onto pavement we slowly relaxed and wound down the last few miles to home.

But first:


# would hear of nothing but that we make a short detour.  I tried to rally him into 'real' ice cream, but the words "Haagen Dazs" or "Ben & Jerry" fazed the lad not one iota.  So DQ it was.  I'm an ice cream snob of the first order, but that didn't stop me from licking the cup clean minutes later...

I love having my eyes opened to new places, even more when they're right under my nose.  This trip was a great initiation into what lies just outside of town, easily accessed for a single overnight or a long weekend.  I've already scoped alternate routes into and out of the Triangle, and now I watch as the snowline creeps upwards to allow those routes to open.

Thanks for reading.

MC

Chris had mentioned this morning the possibility of trying to get a little bit of rest before the road climb.  Is the spot where he and Stefan seem stopped the campground with the bathrooms?

Si.

Are you guys able to 'see' more than Plesko, Max, and occasionally Kurt?

Those are the only 'dots' I can see.



Plesko's last known spot was near the Molino saddle ~40 minutes ago.  He should be down across the pavement by now, and headed up the Prison Camp ST.  Fun climb if you're in the mood for it.

I was just looking at the .gpx from my tour through there last year, and while there isn't much comparison between the speeds (I was going a lot slower, even with significant rest), I have a hard time seeing how Chris is gonna make it to Summerhaven before about 8pm+ tonight.  Scott--have you checked your splits?  Perhaps I'm reading them wrong, so verification would be good.

Awesome to see the webcam on Lemmon showing some thick 'n tasty awaiting the lads.  Wouldn't want them to go home disappointed.  At least now they'll have gotten their entry fee worth of entertainment...

MC

good lord, four hot cooked meals for a 135 mile ride

More like two hot, one warm, and one tepid...

I *was* out there over 30 hours...

MC

The ensuing three hours were memorable only for their lack of excitement.  The trail was always well marked, thus staying on-course seemed a foregone conclusion.  Unless you were sleep-riding or staring intensely at your toes deviation would be difficult.  The light winds that had blown throughout the day continued, never enough to demand action (like layering or goggles or warm gloves) but always acting in subtle ways to snatch your attention.


Shortly after ten I decided that I'd had enough for one day.  Part of that decision was not wanting to miss too much scenery by traveling too long under cover of darkness.  I geared down and spun easy for a few, allowing the diesel to cool down and cook out any lingering condensation.  At the top of a rise I found an intersecting trail that didn't look to get much use.  I parked the bike here, hung the "Do Not Disturb" sign, and carried my sleep gear ~40 yards down the side trail to stomp out a bivy in the trees. 

Once comfy inside the bag I poured scalding hot water from a thermos into my suppertime feedbag.  Tonight's menu included beans, rice, sausage, and veggies, which I enjoyed while watching a galaxy of stars winking from afar.  Satiated for the first time all day, I doused the headlamp and zipped myself in. 

The first few minutes post-supper and pre-sleep are always unpredictable inside the bag, regardless of time of year.  Your body has been laboring to produce energy and heat all day (or for many days) and suddenly you stop, pour umpteen calories down the hatch, then insist it's time for lights out and rest.  Your body begs to differ.  I laid there shivering violently for at least ten minutes while my system struggled to downshift into recovery mode.  I envisioned internal switches being flipped, doors opening and closing, even buckets being wound up out of wells, all to help soothe my mind in preparation for what I hoped would be a good long sleep.  Consciously and subconsciously I knew the shivering was unrelated to my core body temp: I was warm and dry through and through.


When consciousness resumed I was shocked to see the sun already in the sky.  Camping has always been about tradeoffs for me--the reward of being out in the hills all day is tempered by the fact that sleep is rarely of quality.  I drew a hand up from the depths of the bag to scrape the sleep out of my eyes and refocus: No different--broad daylight.  Huh.

I sat up and stretched a bit, yawned, scratched, then checked the time: 7:36.  Even accounting for camp set up, dinner, and time spent shivering while still awake in the bag, I'd slept at least 8 hours.  While packing for the trip I'd made a rushed decision to try a somewhat unconventional sleep pad, reasoning that if it flopped I'd only have to deal with it for one night.  As I stowed sleep gear back on the bike I ran through the physiological checklist to find all systems feeling fine.  No kinks, no sorenesses, and zero recollection of tossing or turning through the night.  The only conclusion I could draw was that the sleep pad was all that and a bag o' chips.  I rolled, stuffed, and delicately packed it while softly whispering "You've been promoted, dear".


Back out on the trail I saw that most of the race seemed to have passed me by in the night.  Instead of staring at the same four tracks laid out ahead there seemed to be dozens, and instead of seeing *only* tire tracks the trail was often punctuated by footprints, schlepping along not just up the hills but even across the flats.


I smiled a bit forlornly as I realized that my non-race mentality had missed many small details along the way, among them memorizing the boot soles of the competition back at the start.  Nothing more motivating than chasing in the waning miles of a race and recognizing weaving tire tracks giving way to familiar boot prints.  Ahhhhh--those were the days...


Lack of time to train and lack of motivation to suffer were two of the primary motivators in my eventual withdrawal from the racing world.  The former unfortunately and ironically led to its own kind of suffering on this day: Two gaping new ones over my sit bones.  Comfort is not a word I associate with seated pedaling on matching saddle sores so I stood and cranked until a break was required, then I sat, spun, and grimaced.  Taint (<-snort!) the end o' the world but it did dampen all enthusiasm for finishing then riding back to the start. 

As the low overcast burns off and patches of blue sky start to elbow through, I round a corner and spot a rider pushing up the next climb. 


Thusly motivated I climb the hill and catch up to Bill Shand. 


Though Bill and I have been acquainted for years mostly through the AK events, we've rarely spent any time together and today would prove to be no different. 


Bill hints that he had a rough night and didn't sleep very well, and though I'm riding a mellow pace and even stopping to compose and shoot pics along the way, he falls steadily back until I'm riding alone again. 


I stop and wait atop one hill expecting Bill to come around and into the good light flooding the trail, but when after 5 minutes he still hasn't appeared I gather that he'd prefer to suffer alone so I pack up and roll on.

Miniature drifts finger across the trail when crossing meadows, then back in the protection of trees evidence of last night's cold shows itself in hoar frost feathers grown up out of the snow surface.  Neither are prevalent enough to make a lick of difference in the overall trail condition--it remains hard and fast and makes for very easy cruising.






I catch myself smiling repeatedly on this morning, impressed mostly by the roller coaster nature of the trail.  The steep ups are welcome respite for my aching ass, and the descents and flats are just too fun to do anything but let off the brakes and hang on. 


Pushing up then screaming and carving down is repeated dozens of times until I crest one particularly steep hill and spot the top of a teepee ahead--our last checkpoint.


I pull back the flap and poke my head in, chatting briefly with the checker and fellow racer Chuck Lindner.  Chuck is thawing frozen bottles next to the fire, and after a minute I notice that he's shivering even though fully layered.  The checker asks if I want to come in and no time is wasted answering him.  Not a chance!  It's a beautiful warm day out here, and it looks kinda cold in there.  I hop on the bike and roll down and across a few more hills before leveling out on a logging road.  Pre-race I'd been told that before the teepee I'd be wishing for the hills to end, then a mile after the teepee I'd be wishing for them to start back up, merely to break the monotony of the flat swampy miles ahead. 

I didn't find myself wishing the miles or the swamps away but I could see how those who came ahead (sans sleep), and especially through the night, would have pined for these last miles to end as quickly as possible. 


Not much to look at and often the trail arrowed straight ahead without discernible grade change or bend for as much as a mile at a stretch.  Uninteresting.  Roughly twelve miles from the finish it occurred to me that I hadn't yet eaten today so I stopped and fired up the cooker one last time.  Mac and cheese topped the menu (OK, OK--it comprised the entire menu...) and as I stuck it inside my shirt to rehydrate Chuck Lindner rolled up. 


We conversed casually for a few minutes about alleged differences between Arctic, gray, and timberwolves (Chuck did most of the talking here because I know little about any of them), habits of ruffed grouse, his home of Warroad to the west, and the timeless unblingy awesomeness of Moots bikes.  Eventually the call of the finish pulled Chuck away and I set to snarfing my cheesy pasta.

The remaining hour or so of riding was punctuated by many trail intersections, all of which seemed to be created to lure (one of them was actually called the Lure-Me-Inn) travelers off of the main artery and into nearby resorts where they'd be fleeced of their money in exchange for food, fuel, booze, or games of chance. 


I carried all I needed or wanted of any of those, so I continued rolling right up to the official finish line.  Never even made it in the door of the joint before being met by Cheryl and Pierre and a handful of already finished racers.  Pierre demanded an on-the-spot decision: Hang out here overnight (in my ride clothes) while spending time with those that remained of the early finishers, or hop in the car with him and get immediately schlepped back to the start where a shower and a change of clothes waited.

It was a tough decision, to be honest.  I chose the latter mostly for the shower option, with the result that I never got to spend any real time with the other finishers, nor finish any of the conversations that had been started on-course.  No sharing or commiserating with the others, just quick redelivery to where I'd started.

After showering I felt great but immediately sensed the emptiness of not connecting with the others.  So--to Dave Gray, Dennis Grelk, Lindsay Gauld, Chuck Lindner, Terry Brannick, Josh Peterson, Dave Pramann, Lance Andre and Charlie Farrow: I look forward to hearing about (or reading about) how it all shook out out there, and hope that we can finally finish those conversations someday.

Thanks to Pierre and Cheryl for having me, and to all of the volunteers that made this event run so smoothly.  Can't think of a single way to improve it.

All the best,

MC

[was]

Although it's billed as a race and treated as such by at least half of the people that show-and-go, I just got back from touring this great trail in Northern MN and thought I'd share the tale and a few pics.

>>>

Neither the hare nor the wolf saw me in their flight across the trail.  

The hare had the enviable advantages of speed, lightness, and agility working for her, and seemed to be using them to maximum advantage as she cut left beneath a red pine, took two quick strides through untracked snow, then stretched a long leap across a dead snag before hitting the hard-surfaced trail.  Two quick bounds and the little gal cleared the bank on the far side, landing a solid six feet out into the fluff before bounding again and again into the thick pines yonder.

The wolf had the advantage of hunger on her side, and that seemed to be more than adequate as motivation.  She worked *much* harder than the hare, traveling ~half the distance with every bound, but sheer determination kept narrowing the gap between the two.  When I lost sight of them the mottled gray and black canine was less than 6 meters behind.

And then all was silent again.

Come to think of it, that's *mostly* what I've heard out here on the Arrowhead Trail: silence.  Sounds of (often labored) breathing, an occasional shift of gears, and the groan of fresh snow under fat tires have all morphed into a collective indiscernible white noise.  Every few hours a snowmachine rider has ripped past but their screaming, whining intrusion generally lasts less than 45 seconds from the first hints of approach until the racket recedes into the piney distance.  Then, again, it's back to silence, albeit one laden heavily with two-stroke exhaust.  Smells like youth.

Although the early miles of this event held more of a circus-like atmosphere with riders, skiers, and walkers all vying for position and firm trail as we sorted out our individual rhythms, once we'd completed the ~10 mile long out-and-back traffic had dissolved to nothing.  The circus soon existed only in each individual head: Unless you'd pre-planned to traverse the trail with someone else you were suddenly and gloriously alone.

Fine by me.  Although I hadn't truly planned to be here, it made sense to make use of the Arrowhead as another in a seemingly endless series of "dress rehearsals" or "shakedowns" for a quickly approaching epic Alaskan adventure.  Nearly every local ride at home in Colorado is used to test or shake out some crucial piece of gear, but familiar territory and predictable climatic conditions can remove much of the anxiety attached to equipment failure or poor decision making.  The only way to objectively test and evaluate gear or self is to get outside of one's comfort zone completely.  A new trail, new event, and new people here in Northern Minnesota ensured that I had an ideal testing ground.

A chat at the pre-race meeting with Arrowhead course record holder Dave Pramann yielded his insight that the course conditions were shaping up to be very, very fast.  How fast?  Although Dave didn't think that he'd be the one doing it, he was confident that his sub-16 hour course record would be broken.  That thought had ballooned in my head as I'd packed the bike, so much so that I'd loaded double the food and fuel I thought I'd need.  Knowing that I had zero chance of breaking the record and even less desire to push myself that hard, my thought process in carrying double rations was simple: If I finish in less than a day I'll just turn around and ride back to the start, effectively doubling my shakedown time.

I'd rolled out of bed at 5, eaten, dressed and loaded the bike by 6, threw all extraneous gear into the rental car, locked it, and was spinning down the highway toward the start line by 6:15.  Three+ inches of new snow had fallen through the night, yielding a soft, silent spin down the shoulder of the highway.  Little traffic, a quartering tailwind, and a crisp minus 17*f made for a comfortable warmup before arriving at the trailhead 58 minutes later.  A chipper volunteer with a clipboard recorded my start time then I rolled out onto the trail.

Several others had started already, their progress plotted by a thin red line of LED blinkies stretching through the woods to the west.  I passed a few of them as they fiddled with gear, pissed out the last of their pre-race anxiety, or simply adjusted layers.  


Heading straight into the teeth of the wind for those first 10 miles meant that little conversation was shared: Most simply buried faces into layers and ticked off some distance.




Darkness slowly faded into wan twilight, then the sun crept hesitantly over the horizon and cast long shadows out ahead of us.


The first two cyclists to pass me did so with such speed and relative ease that I instinctively looked down to check for a flat tire, broken chain, or dragging anchor.  They were hauling.  Pramann sat on Charlie Farrow's wheel, the three of us exchanging friendly comments as they motored past.  I caught but a teeny snapshot into the mind of each in that split second, with Farrow seeming relaxed and within himself while Pramann looked a bit on the rivet.  Minutes later they hit the turnaround, reversed direction, and were motoring back toward me.  If any one word could describe these two it had to be determined.  These were men on a mission.


And then they were gone.

I executed a slightly less motivated turnaround and then rolled east back into oncoming traffic.  A feature unique to this race, the initial 10-mile out-and back meant that every participant on course got to see every other racer, face to face, at some point.  Combine pre-race anxiety with the chill in the air and the freshness of the breeze on our noses, and I don't think it a stretch to say that eastbound racers could catch more than a glimpse into the very souls of those westbound.  Nothing was hidden in those early miles.  




What I saw were scads of motivated bikers, followed by a few that weren't so sure about either where they were, what they were doing here, or both.  Then came an assortment of skiers and runners with various levels of confidence and preparedness worn on their sleeves.  Some, like Pierre Ostor, had their gear and gait so finely tuned that I had to stop and take note:


I don't run much but it's easy to spot an efficient and confident runner at some distance, and always a pleasure to do so.

Toward the back of the pack came a few racers that were either stopped and fiddling with gear, or furiously scribbling mental notes to do so with vigor before the start of next year's event:


With some 20 miles ticked off I passed back through the start line and out into new-to-me country.  Last nights snow laid almost 4 inches thick atop a concrete hard base.  That firm base meant that any tire pressure would work: I'd left the hotel with ~20psi front and rear (pavement pressure!) and would have no need to adjust it throughout the entire ride.  But the fresh fluff atop that firm base gave me serious doubts about a record ride happening for anyone ahead.  


Those out in front were working very, very hard to punch a trail through the fluff.  I doubted they could hold their pace while working that hard for another ~110+ miles.  But then I didn't know these people, nor this trail nor landscape, and most importantly I had my own self to worry about.  Lacking any on-course information about how things stood at the sharp end of the race, I let my attention wander to the immediate surroundings.  








Three hours in and still not quite warmed up, I dismounted to push up a short incline in the trail.  As I swung my right leg over the bike to resume pedaling, I caught motion in my peripheral and looked back to see a rider approaching.  He introduced himself as "Lance" but I'll likely always remember him as 'the guy with the party in his mouth'.  Every time he opened it out poured more noise: Revving race car engines, whistles, hoots, grunts, and non-sequiturs from another time and place.  All in all, enthusiasm and energy oozed out of Lance, and then he too was gone.  


Thinking back a few hours to when the early leaders had motored by, then comparing their relative paces in my head, I could only surmise that Lance was going to catch up quick and then, to paraphrase Paul Sherwen, "The effervescent young American won't wait--he'll go straight over the top and punch out into the wind on his own!".

Back in my own little bubble I enjoyed the unfolding scenery and stopped for snapshots as often as the fancy struck.


Early afternoon I still hadn't found my groove and thought maybe lunch could change that.  I parked the bike in a sunny, sheltered-from-wind spot, then unpacked and fired up the stove.  Within ~20 minutes I'd turned a quantity of trailside drift into ounces of near-boiling water, which I then used to rehydrate a baggie of sausage stroganoff.  I tucked the baggie against my belly while waiting for it to fester, then wandered about snapping random pics in the immediate vicinity.  A few riders toodled by as I lunched, among them was Terry Brannick.  


Terry rolled nonchalantly up and spent a few minutes shooting the breeze.  We talked (of course) about gear choices for snow riding, Alaska, trail conditions today, and compared notes on our Epic gear.  Terry seemed relaxed and in no hurry whatsoever, eventually continuing on his way as I commenced to eating.  Based on our few minutes of interaction I guessed that Terry and I would leapfrog each other along the course, neither in any hurry to get anywhere, each just kind of taking it all in.

Imagine my surprise when, over 25 hours later, I learned that Terry had won the race!

Lunch finished, I repacked the bike and moseyed ahead.  The landscape seemed to be slowly morphing from lowland scrub and swampland to rolling hills with drier, sandier soils.  I'm no forester but the proliferation of vast groves of enormous white pines seemed to point to this conclusion.  Clear skies had been replaced by some scud and then light snow falling.  Rounding a corner I caught up to Dennis Grelk, never quite making contact but tailing him at a distance for the better part of an hour.


If any one picture can capture the essence of the Arrowhead I experienced, it is the one above of Dennis.  When I gaze upon it I see a human gliding silently and gracefully through the forest with alluring light, sinuous trail and a subtle sense of mystery all compelling him forward.

Low rolling hills were the MO of the next few hours, the trail descending off of one, often across a wood-bridged seasonal creek, then climbing another.  I found these derelict structures irresistible in that they usually provided a window into the doings of the local fauna.  Tracks of rabbit, fox, wolf, marten, deer, grouse and bunting were almost always in evidence along these micro-drainages.






As afternoon wore into evening the hills seemed to get longer and steeper, or maybe it was my failing energy levels?  




Uncertain on which to blame but clearly unable to stay on top of a gear for long, I resolved to up the energy levels with another dose of real food.  Near the top of a steep pusher I found a flattish spot off-trail, perfect for kicking back and watching the sunset while brewing up another hoosh.  The jet-like roar of my stove made conversation difficult with the three riders that appeared over the next 20 minutes, each off and pushing up the same hill that had caused me to question my energy levels.  


All three were plenty friendly and interesting to talk to, but each also seemed much more focused on what lay ahead than anything I had to offer, so before the last salmon light faded from the western sky I found myself dining solo on a chicken & cheese pasta dish.  

The remaining 8 miles to Elephant Lake were memorable only in their refusal to follow a straight line: The trail wound, ducked and dove relentlessly before finally exhaling us out onto the arrow-straight trail across the lake and into our halfway checkpoint.  I leaned the bike and stepped inside, greeted by many familiar faces and an intense, discomforting heat.  I'd been borderline too-warm all day and felt near to a swoon inside the closeness of the checkpoint cabin.  Having just eaten and refilled my water containers with melted snow a few miles previous, I needed nothing from the cabin so I quickly excused myself and continued up the trail.

...to be continued...  

Mike,
Still have the Katadyn bottle for sale? if so, I'm interested.

Brian

Yes.  mike.curiak at gmail dot com

Somebody's been thinkering a lot lately.

I agree wholeheartedly that records aren't the best measure, as conditions vary so widely.  Still, they give us something to shoot for--a concrete target when so much else is (often by design) kept undefined.  Records will/should never go away.

I know this is just semantics, but the term 'points series' seems petty, demeaning, and silly.  To me.  That said, I can't come up with anything better just yet...

Perhaps I have a bias here but I don't see how you can have a Grande Boucle and not include the AK Ultrasport 350 and 1100.  They predated every other 'endurance' mtb race that I'm aware of, and in many ways have served to define and guide the genre.  Another worthy of inclusion might be the Arrowhead 135.

I think including divide races might be a good idea, though there may be some wild disagreements on how to weight their importance. 

The white elephant in the room here is the idea of legitimizing this style of racing and adding needless bureaucratic complexity.  While I think the idea of crowning a king and queen every year is benign, others may feel that we've already gotten too uppity with our rules and blogs and websites and SPOT trackers, etc...  As long as this sideshow doesn't ultimately leave any footprint on the individual races I think it could be a good thing. 

Which brings up another point: Who makes the decisions on which races to include, how to weight their 'importance' in the overall scheme, etc...?

Interesting ideas to consider...

MC

Look at any of ScottM's pics of his Leviathan setup.  Scott's pack is identical (it was made by the same seamstress, at the same time, as the one I'm selling) in every way.

Cheers,

MC

A small heap o' stuff for sale:


Exped Downmat 7, short.  New, never used, never removed from the stuff sack.  Dusty from shelf-storage.  Details here:  http://campergoods.mybisi.com/product/29186/Exped-Down-Mat-7-Short-Black_333836.html



$65 shipped.

NIB Osprey Raincover.  $10 shipped.


Some sort of emergency bivy sack.  Basically a glorified garbage bag.  Waterproof, pretty light, pretty small.  Don't think I've ever used it, but it's been here for ~5 years so it's pretty unlikely that I'll use it if I haven't yet. 

Cover the cost of shipping and it's yours.

Adventure Medical Kits Thermo-Lite Bivy bag.  Impulse bought it, brought it home and laid it out in the back yard, but never used it 'out there'. 

Details here:
http://www.rockcreek.com/products/listing/item1391.asp?ref=RCO_googlebase


$15 shipped.

Eagle Creek 'handlebar bag'. 

Don't remember what the original stated-by-the-manufacturer use was for this bag, but I bought it and used it as a handlebar bag on a remote AK summer tour.  Used 3 days/nights.  Added a few straps to stabilize it and it worked great.  Dusty from storage. 

Lots of compartments/dividers inside and the condition/cleanliness of the interior give a good idea of how 'new' this bag is.
$20 shipped.

Mountain Hardwear Absolute Zero down parka.  New, never worn outside the house.

Details here:
http://www.mountainhardwear.com/Product.aspx?top=1426&prod=1250&cat=1463&viewAll=False

$280 shipped.

PayPal preferred, check or money order considered.  mike.curiak at gmail.com.

Thanks,

MC

[there]

OK, so I've posted this elsewhere and this is nothing more than a cut-and-paste into BP.net.  But if you take the time to read through it it just might light a wee bit of a fire under you in preparation for something...

...bigger?  Maybe colder?  Epic-er?

Anyone else thinkin' about A-K '09 yet?

Like moths to a lamp, swallows to Capistrano, or post-race cankles, there's a certain predictability to autumn.  Daylight wanes, temps fall, precip rises, and invariably my thoughts turn north to Alaska.  Each February of the last 11 years I've made a pilgrimage to some part of that state to spend time, usually alone, enjoying the backcountry.  This year I'm not exactly sure how I'm going to spend that time, nor where, nor with whom.  Like so many circling moths I'm not even completely sure why I choose there.

No matter where you live the rest of the year, it is cold.


It starts at very expensive and only increases as you go.


There is often anxiety,




and tedium,


and monotony.


But on every trip there's at least one moment that I wouldn't trade for anything.

Sometimes it's a combination of scenery and light.


Other times it's an interaction with a human


or animal(s).


Occasionally it's indefinable, which is a groovy way of saying that it can't really be explained, can only be experienced.




Whatever it is, it always happens.  That collection of memories is more valuable than almost anything else in my life.  It is irreplaceable, and it has had a huge part in shaping the person that I am and the direction that my life has taken over the last decade.


On autumn days like today when I can see my breath while toodling with the dog around the block, there's no place my thoughts would rather roam.


Time to start getting ready.

MC

Day 5+

The wind slapped us around all night long, whipping the tarps into a flapping frenzy and guaranteeing that real honest-to-goodness sleep never happened for more than a few seconds at a time.  Camped as we were near the lakeshore, each time a gust ripped through the trees it'd bring a succession of waves landward.  Waves lapping at the shore sounded an awful lot like a large carnivore whetting its whistle, or slopping noisily along the waters edge.

Easy to imagine that last while half-sleeping in a strange place through the deep dark of a blustery night...

Dawn seemed to come later than usual, finding us chilled and groggy and needing a good climb to get warmed up and clear out the mental haze.  Fortunately, we had no choice but to ascend semi-steeply right off the bat.

So groggy and out of sorts was I that for the first few hours composing pics held little allure and I simply rode, and gawked, and enjoyed each moment as it passed.  A rarity for me and not an unpleasant one.  Eventually the alpine scenery aroused me from that strange slumber and I leaned the bike near the edge of a talus field for an on-high perspective of Scott riding past.  I pushed buttons, twiddled dials, sighted my subject and then, with an altogether inappropriate-to-the-grandeur-of-the-scene 'beep' received confirmation that my perspective of that moment had been immortalized.

Then on we went.

Although the motivation to snap pics had returned, the coordination to do so wasn't necessarily present.  Seconds later I clumsily exited a switchback and saw another perspective that seemed worthy of a pic.  Knowing that Scott was close behind, I rushed to dismount the bike, lean it, fetch the camera, power it up, aim, fiddle, and fire all in the space of about 6.2 heartbeats.  Somewhere before I'd extracted the camera things went awry, with the result that I became entangled in the bike and went tumbling down into a talus field.  It was an ugly fall. 

I came to rest on my chin with the bike on my back, and needed more than a second to disentangle myself enough to take stock of the situation.  Dabbing the back of my glove to my chin showed no blood (yet), so I turned my attention to the other apparent aches slowly clamoring for attention.  The most obvious was a finger pointing roughly 90 degrees to any orientation I had yet seen.  Ow.  I removed my glove to verify the injury, then relocated the digit using inline traction.  Examining closely the already bulbous joint produced an odd queasy feeling in the pit of my gut, which rose quickly and threatened to dislodge the meager breakfast I'd eaten short hours before.  Without much thought I remounted the bike, determined to ride (and encourage) the wave of adrenaline that followed the crash, in hopes that it could override the nausea.  Seemed to work, as joint swelling and an immediate dull ache were the worst I'd have to complain about through this day and the next.


Blazing ever downward into Idaho, the trail reentered the trees and, confusingly, became more rocky, ledgy, and technical as it descended.


We bottomed out over 3000' lower only to find a virtually unrideable ascent stretching back up to the divide.  Lacking any other option, we pushed our bikes up the unrelenting pitch, occasionally breaking to snack on trailside berries as they presented themselves.  By the apex of the climb my gut was full of fruit and my gloves were permanently stained from their juices.


Life seemed pretty good at that moment.  It was then that I realized I had achieved what all vacations should at least set out to do:  I had shed the concerns of my day-to-day existence and was living, as they say, in the moment.  The broken digit, the endless slaving ascents, the lack of sleep, the incessant wind, the interminable filthiness--all of it added up to something not much worthy of consideration as I grinned through gaping mouthfuls of overripe berries.

Perspective thus adjusted, I grinned even bigger.


The ensuing miles were different from those past only in that my perspective had altered and with it came a lighter frame of mind.  Gentler grades, sweetwater springs, duff trail, and slanted light that spoke of autumn more than summer.


On into the afternoon and evening we followed the ridgeline separating east from west, Atlantic from Pacific, distant panicked snobbery from less distant groovy-hippiedom.  At some point the trail tipped upward at an attention getting grade, and up we pushed for a time.  Regrouping at a knoll a short discussion ensued, wherein it was decided that given all of the collective route knowledge that we possessed, backtracking to a forest road and descending to a highway was likely our best course of action.


And that's just what we did.

The trip wasn't ended there--they never are.  More effort and struggle was involved than either of us had expected, intended, or planned for, but a day later and with rejuvenated spirits we found ourselves smiling and recounting the finer points of the trip as we drove easily southward to resume our everyday existences.


As always, we're already discussing and looking forward to the next one.

Thanks for reading.

MC

[9 AM]

Snuck out for a quick two-dayer with Fred back in May.  Great to get out in it, doubly great to be able to refine gear a bit more.  Fred's fitness is coming around fast (no pun) as evidenced by the fact that he was out ahead the whole damn time, as well as by the fact that I had a hard time getting out of bed at 9 AM this morning.

Fred putting in a little extra oomph to keep it flowing.




Paintbrush glow while Fred earns the climb.


Great flowers and a brief break with impending doom on the horizon.


A 4 hour spring shower (with snowline just ~1000' above us) meant a severe revision of our route plans.  Wet clay in this region is simply impassable, prompting a 30-mile stretch of abandoned hwy to get to a c-store.  Much consumption ensued.


We didn't leave the c-store until close to midnight, and were tired/sleepy enough to stop and drop just about any time.  Cold evening temps prompted us to ride a few miles before bivying, just to get our core temps back up.


Acute right turn comin' up.  Hard to see the vague trail in the dark, so navigation by GPS was often necessary.


Rise and shine.


Damp trails early on caused some delay while we scraped mud or searched out detours.


The one thing that pics rarely convey is wind.  Throughout the day I'd estimate we were bucking an average ~20mph headwind, with rare lulls and frequent ridgeline gusts of 30+.  As we crested this ridge (and every one thereafter) we were met with a blast to the face. 


To put the day in perspective, a 'normal' mid-May ride in this region would feature ~90 degree temps, lots of sand, past-prime wildflowers and cheat grass going to seed.  We never took off the leg warmers, drank less than half of what we thought we would, and the flowers seemed like they were still on the upswing.

Nice flow through here.


The previous day's rain packed most of the washes down real good.


Some were moister than others, and this one was pretty heavy on alkali soup.


Some were simply impassable.


Moto-installed trails in this region have many things in common.  Among them are ridicu-steep hills that no human could pedal up.  The spines they ascend/descend are aesthetically pleasing for sure.


Not thirsty at the moment, thankyouverymuch.


Clouds boil as Fred crests another pusher.


'Ow' is the best word for the constant steep spines.


Claret cups brightened the landscape, as did paintbrush, flax, phlox, chamisa, globe mallow, and 62 others whose names I never remember.








Go that way.


Now come this way.


Yay.


Again I say yay.


Neither of us ever cried uncle, neither did we complain at the brief bits of flat ranch road that connected the steep singletrack. 


You are here.


Fred's a spiny fella.


Hauling the mail as the day winds to a close.


Our route connected one of the most popular regional routes (first day) with one of the least popular (second day).  We saw a few motos, a ~dozen or so bikers and a few vehicles on the first.  And the second?  A few sheep and a man atop a horse, cresting a ridge a long way off.

Some trails are so fun and well put together that I can't wait to get back out on them.  Others?  Not so much.  I doubt I'll ride this one again (at least not in it's entirety) but I'll never forget it either.

Day five.

Spinning up the dirt road from Jackson, Montana headed for Miner's Lake and the CDT, we came upon this:

After ruminating on it for about 6.2 seconds the thought that my mind settled on was simply this: a penis implant would likely have been cheaper, would certainly have used fewer trees, would not have degraded the view, and stood a better chance of making an (in)significant improvement to the owner's self confidence.

Harumph.

Fortunately we left the ranches and entered the forest pretty quick--the only structures up here are derelict cabins left over from miners and an occasional gate, and very few of either.  Mostly we just saw a lotta mountains, rocks, trees, flowers, and lakes.  And poop from large omnivorous critters.

You know--the good stuff.








The higher we climbed the better the trail seemed to get.  Well built switchbacks connected long stretches of rideable if techy singletrack. 






We were loving the trail almost as much as the scenery.  Somewhere on our way north we'd crossed a threshold where the alpine lifezone dipped down into the 7000' range.  Nearer to Lima we'd been at 10,000' and still in sage desert.








Simply couldn't stop composing and snapping pics this day.  The light was just so-so but the amount and quality of subject material underfoot was staggering.  I almost had several meltdowns when trying to decide which way to point the camera.  At one point I was so overstim'ed I just plopped down on the ground, turned the camera off, and *looked*.  Wanted to make sure I'd *seen* and *been* here instead of just photographing it.  Made sure to take a few deep breaths to suck up the sweet stench of decaying organic matter too.  Not much of that back home in the desert.






And then we crested a ridge and started downhill, with an immediate and unbelievable (to me, but then I'm easy to impress) increase in fun, chunk, tech, and scenery.  In short, the trail got funner and the lookee-looing got better.


















Earlier than planned my tank hit "E" and after the requisite ~30 minutes of denial while attempting to clean a tech climb that required more than just abundant energy, I pulled over at a lakeside campsite and started collecting wood for a fire.  The day had never warmed past ~60 and the incessant wind had me chilled before the sun fell beyond the nearest western ridge.  Scott was in disbelief that I wanted to stop and I wasn't able to convince him (least I don't think I did) that the early halt wasn't a choice--I was simply cooked and had no more to give.

Banking some rest was the idea, but the wind had other plans for us...

Day three.

Everyone has something they still like to do that they haven't messed up by making it too complicated just yet.  Bikepacking is mine.  By its very nature it is a minimalist activity--there's only so much crap you can tote along and still be able to ride techy singletrack. Less crap in the pack means less crap to wonder or worry about, leaving you mostly free to enjoy all of the external stimulation.

Assuming of course that you chose an externally stimulating place to go bikepacking.  In our case, we had--so far so good. 

What am I on about?

Minimalism.  Simplicity.  Being chaos-free enough in the noggin to notice and appreciate the little things around you that add up to a lot more.

For example: Waking up and having this be the very first thing your eyes focus on is just ducky in my book.

That view told me that all was right in my world, at least at that moment.

Then your brain starts to cogitate a bit and you realize that Hey! I'm still alive! And the bears didn't eat my food! And the bugs are mostly gone! And I'm no more filthy than when I got in the bag! And it isn't raining!

Suddenly life seems pretty in-focus.  At least for me.

I have to be honest--for most of the rest of this day there wasn't a whole lot of brain wave activity going on.  It started with that sunrise view, with the smile produced by that view, with the uplifted feeling that followed the smile.  Throughout the day I was mostly in the moment, enjoying the views, the wind (for it removed the bugs), each bite of sustenance, drink of water, even the dreaded bike pushing was ok by me.

Beat the hell outta pushing up daisies.


Mid-morning we met a CDT thru-hiker.  She was cordial but obviously had zero interest in company.  I didn't feel much like talking either so that was fine--on we went.


Maybe an hour later we rolled up to Morrison Lake and saw the fish feeding.  Not a whole lot of hesitation--I unpacked the fly rod, walked a dozen steps to where I could see a few trout offshore, then cast. 


Between the gusts and my piddly 4wt rod the wind had a lot more to say about my placement than I did.  But still--the fly hit the water and at that precise millisecond the water around the fly just erupted.  I set the hook and played this beauty for ~90 seconds before landing it. 

I look at the pic, now, and although the size of the fish is underwhelming (even though it felt as fat as a football in-hand) I still get a bit of the thrill of that moment.  One of the highlights of the trip for me.

Side note--I don't know diddly about fishing and even less about fishing gear, but I *do* know that a 4wt rod makes any fish a heckuva lot more fun to catch.  You have to work for every catch, and mistakes aren't covered up by gear.  Mistakes equal a lost fish--no more, no less.

Awesome.

Moments later the wind *really* came up and further casts equaled balls of fly line around the rod, my legs, and on the sage lining the lake.  Time to get back on the trail.

Wind dominated everything about this afternoon.  When riding we countersteered as much as possible but still were involuntarily removed from the trail a few times each when the gusts raged then stopped, then raged some more.  When pushing the bike I'd keep it on the upwind side of me--easier to control it when its worst habit is to push harder into me.  A little something I picked up up north...



I know you're not supposed to 'fight' anything anymore in this PC world.  Simply put, if forward progress was to be made on this day, most of the time it involved struggle.  And since we knew the trail was going to get better (it *had* to...) we opted to move forward.


Mid-afternoon brought us to this oasis.  Unquestionably one of the nicest springs I've ever had the pleasure of dunking my salt-encrusted melon into.


What followed was an oasis of a different sort: rideable singletrack.  How and why this section was favored with built and fun trail is unknown.  What is known is that we were both tickled repeatedly to round a corner and *not* see an unrideable grade stretching out before us.  We were even happier that our GPS track proved wrong the higher we got: instead of kicking up and directly crossing stacked contours we wrapped around the side of the mountain on reasonable grades connected by switchbacks.

I call it an oasis merely because the miles of trail on either side of it aren't really worth duplicating.



The ensuing descent was beyond brilliant, at least relative to everything we'd ridden the past two days.  More contour trail, more well-built switchbacks, more fun tech challenges linking miles of fast test-the-limits-of-your-tires singletrack.

The delayed gratification only made it that much sweeter.






Bottoming out at Bannock Pass Scott finally came clean and verbalized what he'd been hinting at for the past ~12 hours: not enough food in his larder to continue.  We sat atop the pass and discussed potential detour-to-food options, but the wind made it difficult to hear each other and we could only agree to drop off the divide and down into the 'town' of Grant where he was sure we could get a meal.

The meal didn't seem certain until it was warming our bellies, and although I hadn't felt hungry for the previous 48 hours I could have eaten three times what our heavenly hostess ("Diesta") served up.

Looking west from our rented cabin that night, into Idaho and the smoke from a shortlived fire being fanned by the incessant blow.


The next day (day 4) we rode ~south along the GDMBR headed back towards Lima.  This section of the Great Divide Race route was one of my favorites each time I rode through on it, but years later it was difficult to see why.  The views to each side (including the high ridgeline we'd followed the past few days) were still great and the remote flavor was still somewhat there.  But it was difficult to see the forest for the crappy dirt road we were riding.  Call me a snob (the shoe fits) but riding dirt road simply does not scratch the itch.  Give me singletrack, heck even doubletrack, the twistier the better, and keep the dirt roads for the Texas wheelchairs and minivans.

We're mountain bikers, we deserve better.

I'm not much for stats but my favorite number of this trip comes here: It took Scott and I 3 solid days of difficult travel to traverse the CDT to Bannock Pass from Lima.  It took us half a day to ride the GDMBR back to Lima.  The distances were similar as was the locale, but all similarities ended there.

Day two.

Scott still snoozin' at daybreak:


Next AM I was up at first light and casting onto a mirror smooth lake.  Where had all the caddis gone?  A few hits but not many fish moving had me disappointed at my hasty mistakes the previous night.  Tiptoeing around the shoreline and trying to 'look more, move less' I felt a slight tickle on the side of my neck.  I instinctively swatted but then my mind flipped out of 'mosquito mode' and into 'fishing mode' and I brought the palm of my hand up to see the caddis I had just mashed.  Ooooo.  Within minutes the lake was abuzz again with the hatch and this time I was ready.  In the space of ~an hour I landed 4 rainbows, 4 or 5 cutthroats, and even (I think) a Dolly.  Wahoo! 

Scott's perspective of the morning's excitement:


After the first few catches I started to think about food--I'd smack-talkingly told Scott that I could probably catch breakfast faster than he could get a fire going to cook it.  I'd brought foil and spices to cook the fish with, but Scott seemed antsy to get moving, no doubt fueled by the knowledge that the first ~half of today's route was known good trail.  Grudgingly I put the rod away (despite the screaming protests of the fish) and broke camp as the sun crested the ridgeline.

We meandered up Deadman Creek for the next few hours:


Mostly mellow grades punctuated by a few steeper made-by-motors (or so it always seems to me) pitches brought us out into a meadow below this wall of peaks.  I didn't know what their proper names were, but the words 'striking' and 'crenelated' leapt repeatedly to mind:


So stunning was the skyline that I had to forcefully move my gaze nearer lest the macro get missed entirely:








As we rolled through the saddle and began descending into the Nicholia drainage I didn't see any choice but to lift my gaze and enjoy the distant scenery for a spell. 








All too soon we had left the high amphitheater and were meandering back into the desert.




And by 'meandering' I mean...


We spent a few hours regaining the divide after Harkness ("Heart o' darkness?") Lakes.  Some of it was mellow and rideable but significant portions were not.  As I crested the ridge Scott motioned towards three CDT thru-hikers coming our way.  Our chat with them was brief and somehow strained.  Hindsight reveals that we were all plum tuckered near the end of a difficult day, and there simply wasn't much energy left to converse.


We said our goodbyes and started pushing again.  The next several miles would prove to be trailless as well as breathtaking.  Late summer *and* evening light provided all the contrast a wannabe photog like me could hope for.  Even better was that the cairn-to-cairn travel slowed Scott down enough to give me an extra minute to compose a few of these shots.










A frequent sight when touring with Scott: checking the GPS.  He'll probably disagree, but it's *not* common for him to exude crepuscular rays from his right shoulder.


With the last of the sun we descended into a drainage (on *trail*!) and could instantly feel the coolness that presaged the sound of running water--we were both low and needed to fill.  When the rivulet appeared I was having so much fun descending the techy, chunky singletrack that I just kept riding.  My knee-jerk assumption was that we would follow the creek down, so there wasn't any urgency to stop *right now*.  Ahem--you know what they say about assuming.  Some backtracking was involved to water up, then we descended again to find a campsite on the first flattish spot we crossed. 


I started my little alcohol burner with the last light in the sky, then we ate, hung the bear bag, and set up our tarps by headlamp.  Actual sleep was fitful for most of the night--hordes of mosquitoes kept us inside of our bags despite the stuffy temps.  Still, sleepless downtime is still downtime, right?