We landed in Las Vegas late on a Saturday evening, a day after Interbike, and were greeted by companions
Nicholas and
Lael – something more than complete strangers – outside the airport. Together we built bikes and rolled an hour through the city to the abrupt edge of the desert. A few hundred meters from the last buildings we unrolled our sleeping bags, sometime after 1 AM.
Though we hadn’t any real plans with them, our shared route toward the northern terminus of the Arizona Trail had us forming a sort of allegiance of independent nations that lasted a week. These days of mid-day Miller High-Life, interstate shoulders and city park bivouacs was more approach than experience and, but for the cold beer and good company, Panthea and I suffered from relatively low enthusiasm for most of it. Joining the trail near the Utah-Arizona border, chaffed and grumpy from too much high-speed shoulderless highway riding, was the relief we’d been waiting for and we intended to savour it. Our allies, in their equal excitement, seemed in a hurry to enjoy as much singletrack as possible each day. A stick jumped into my spoke, I hit a tree, and a half-hour of rolling, groaning back spasms ensured our second morning on the trail would be our last sighting of those indomitable speedsters.
At the outset of our trip on the Arizona Trail, I’d mentioned to Panthea that a few options existed for getting across one of North America’s biggest obstacles. The Grand Canyon could be avoided on a 200-mile highway detour, or crossed on a steep footpath. For the latter option, I explained it was possible to ship bikes around in the shuttle bus used by rim-to-rim hikers. Later, as we approached the canyon, I asked whether we should ride around or ship our bikes around. Panthea replied, “I thought we were carrying them across the canyon?!”
“Oh. I guess we’ll do that then.” Plus, it sounded bad-ass.
Scott and Eszter did it. Nick and Lael were doing it.
We bought ratchet tie-down straps at a gas station in Fredonia, abandoned the ratcheting part, and built backpack straps out of the lengths of 1″ nylon webbing. My heavily padded fannypack took the job of waist belt, and Panthea’s ultralight stowaway backpack pretended to offer more shoulder comfort than the 1″ webbing. This might sounds like a good, creative solution, but it was actually terrible.
Perhaps worse than the brutality of carrying 60lbs of bike and camping gear more than 1800m down a canyon, and another 1500m back up, over 40km, were the endless repeating comments of flabbergasted tourists on the trail.
“HOLY MOLY FRIEND! That looks HARD!”
“You have no idea…”
Or,
“IS THERE GOOD RIDIN’ DOWN THERE, PARDNER?”
“No riding allowed until the other rim, actually.”
“WHAT?! Wait! You’re just carrying those things UP THE OTHER SIDE?”
“Yes. We are idiots. And no, this is not the first time we’ve done something this stupid.”
In the face of such interrogation, an inflated ego is maybe weightier than a fat-tired bikepacking steed. The sensible choice, the bicycle shuttle service, requires only $65 and an ounce of humility. Free of the angry monkeys on our backs, we could have enjoyed one of the world’s most scenic hikes with some dignity.
It took two days to reach the South Rim. We arrived unable to bend our legs, and could barely walk for several days afterwards. Still, none were more desperate than the final 5 miles. You see, the bottom of the canyon is a hellish inferno, an extremely dry 40 degrees centigrade. I had to consume an elephant’s ration of water to keep hydrated, and after two days, this fluid flux began to have a powerfully laxative effect.
Perhaps this is a natural response to high-flow fluid movement. Perhaps it is a hereditary reaction to the desert. My memory is imprinted with a scene from my first visit to the southwest on a family road trip in a station wagon with no AC: my father rinsing a deeply embarrassing desert sickness from the inside of his white sneakers at Utah’s Deadhorse State Park.
Either way, the final three rest stops were mercifully spaced 1.5 miles apart, saving me from embarrassment, encouraging a frenzied pace, and offering a potential explanation for the American habit of referring to toilets as restrooms. A bad ass indeed.
As much as we wanted to make it to Flagstaff in two more days to meet friends coming down from Vancouver, our sore jelly legs would not allow it. Instead, Marius picked us up 30 miles short of old Route 66. Together with Marius and Adriana, we planned to ride the Coconino Loop, and then continue back down the AZT once they returned north. A day into the loop, thunderstorms brought us to a slippy, sticky halt in peanut butter mud. The following day we pushed and slid our way through rain and mud to a motel room in Sedona. Already a day behind schedule – a schedule that mattered as Adriana and Marius have real jobs and set vacation dates – we decided to bail on the Coconino Loop in order to maximize our enjoyment of Sedona’s world-class mountain biking trails.
Set among towering red rock pinnacles and the bluish hues of Arizona cypress, Sedona’s otherworldly scenery has inspired a blooming alternative culture and attracted a crop of hippies, freaks, yogis, shamans, mystics, phonies, and other white people suffering from “
special snowflake syndrome”.
A barefoot couple relaxed with their barefoot, diaperless baby outside Whole Foods. Between rants about how western medicine was killing everyone, they held their child over the patio railing, so that it could unleash its torrent of baby diarrhea unfettered onto the landscaping. “
If you eat dead things,” they reasoned, “
you’ll be dead. If you eat living things, you’ll live.”
At the cashier, someone exclaimed upon seeing the total of her bill that she’d go look up the significance of those numbers.
Back on the patio, a woman who proudly subsisted on a diet of brown slurry that she drank from a half-gallon Mason jar explained that she’d been going through a phase of wild energy and “
was basically tripping out all the time.” Her friend replied earnestly with a tragic story of a broken heart. They each told each other how good it felt to talk.
Further down the road, a Lakota man offers “
authentic Karma cleansing” with shamanism imported from Mexico and Los Angeles.
Still, seemingly rare in Arizona, Sedona’s eclectic community is committed to the beauty of their place, and has worked hard to maintain trail access and keep urban sprawl in check. As a result, there are no garish signs or billboards, and camping is prohibited with 10 miles of the town (
to keep out the riff-raff). Despite Sedona’s absurdisms and conspicuous white privilege, the riding was so good, the landscape so genuinely moving, that this rabble remained checked into our motel room for three more superb days of riding.
Having failed to complete the Coconino Loop back to Flagstaff, Panthea and I found ourselves seemingly close to the Black Canyon Trail, made famous in last winter’s
Rocky Mountain Bikes bikepacking video. If we were ever to have a chance at meeting Wade Simmons, this appeared to be it. And so, upon Adriana and Marius’ departure, we rode south on this alternative to the Arizona Trail.
Immediately outside Sedona’s mystic vortex, we met the other Arizona.
Cottonwood: where pickup trucks can double as pedestrian overpasses, and Bud Light is a health food.
We climbed back into the pines, and descended scrubby hills onto an empty plain. Led along dusty roads, over fences, and overland across thorn-riddled fields by my trusty GPS, we dropped further out of the grasslands into a cactus-filled incinerator. Still hopeful that Wade Simmons might be escaping the 38°C heat in that now-famous kitschy country bar, we asked directions from a young couple parked near the trail. The man, all hunch and curled ball-cap, couldn’t speak through his lower lip, brimming with tobacco. The woman, wearing a camo sports bra and an enormous chrome handgun on her hip, pointed us down the road. Their lifted late-’80s Jeep wore the Confederate battle flag across its dash.
“
Would they have helped us if we weren’t white?” wondered Panthea out loud.
I replied, “
I wonder if we would have spoken to them if we weren’t white.” These are realities I can never fully understand.
After a few miles, still no sign of beer or Wade, we accepted that no combination of lite beer and old freeriders could justify such a long detour behind the Johnny line, and made our way back to the Black Canyon.
The winding, rolling trail brought us through a desert of thorn, rock and barbed wire. An inhospitable desolation, meticulously divided and guarded for the sake of a few struggling cattlemen, robbed us of moisture and energy. Welcome signs of the southwest abound: “
No Trespassing, We Shoot.” And shoot they do. Every sign in Arizona wears a bullet wound. Where the trail crossed a dirt road, the air sang with gunfire. We passed men with high-caliber, semi-automatic assault rifles mounted in the back of pickups, exercising their suspension and their God-given rights, as they cleared a hill of vegetation.
The cowboy of yesteryear lives on only in romance. Gone is the way of life – the roaming, wrangling boy’s club – that has come to epitomize a distinctly American notion of freedom. Much as it strangled the desert, barbed wire ended the cowboy trade. No longer were they needed to collect and sort cattle, to drive the herds to a fresh water source. And still, this figure of untamed masculinity is worshiped as an idol in parts of the Southwest – his gunslinging, his unbridled independence, and his fetish for danger mimicked by his Arizonan facsimiles.
They’re right that guns don’t kill people. Men with guns kill people.
I’m not fooled; the guns aren’t for security. They’re for the thrill of being a cowboy or a gangster (
that other American folk saint), a prop for supporting a tantalizing myth of danger. I wish they’d only remember a third charismatic recluse: the jolly vagabond. For thrills and danger and freedom, Mr. Johnny Reb, I offer thee The Bicycle. Take one around the world, up and down a mountain, or both-wheels-drifting, all fast and loose like some kind of funky priest on two wheels. Just don’t take mine. You can have my bike when you pry it from my cold, dead hands.
Perhaps a greater obstacle than the Grand Canyon, the sprawl of Greater Phoenix lay between the end of the Black Canyon Trail and our return to the Arizona Trail. For sixty miles, we rode brand new bike lanes on grid roads through brand new suburbs. Cave Creek: private luxury; Carefree: a misnomer; Scottsdale: was desert a decade ago; Tempe: “
we only care about football”; Mesa: built in 1960, last maintained in 1995; Apache Junction: built in 1965, last maintained in 1965. Technically, we barely entered Phoenix-proper.
This desert megopolis is one of humanity’s boldest experiments. Built on a vast and mostly waterless low desert plain, its residents depend on imported water and food, and climate control to protect from lethal 50°C summer days. We were witnessing an ephemeral piece of human history, the saguaro cacti in North Scottsdale front yards older than any home within the city limits.
A day later, we were back on singletrack, and the Arizona Trail. This section, south of the Picketpost Trailhead, is perhaps the most scenic desert segment of the route, as it winds through cactus-forested crags and deep-cut ravines. But, with our bikes loaded with water, it was not easy. Slowed by evening thunderstorms, we struggled to make our next water resupply. By late afternoon when clouds and flashes on the horizon began to threaten again, we’d not reached our next reliable refill and were nearly out of food. Panthea made camp by the Gila River while I pushed through the brush to fill up from its putrid murk. With our flight from Tucson approaching, we left the trail again after a resupply in Kearny, and followed jeep roads to Oracle, at the base of Mt Lemmon.
As Phoenix booms, many southern Arizona villages are going for ghost. We passed through played-out, exhausted old ranches, mines, and villages. Only the faded “
No Tresspassing” signs and more barbed wire fences remain intact. Even so, the old cemeteries lay empty. Despite the austerity of the desert, staying long enough to die seems a new concept.
In Winkleman, most store fronts, excepting the Circle K, are all boarded broken windows. Outside the Circle K, as I sipped on pale coffee, another cowboy stopped his old pickup for a snack. His uniform – jeans, roper’s boots, a felted hat, mustache, and bulging belly – is ubiquitous from Amarillo to San Bernardino. His language too. We’d crossed an old and now unofficial border into the Hispanosphere. The man emerged from the convenience store with a cold Sprite, a corn dog, and a single Pulparindo candy.
Our route across the top of Mt Lemmon stood nearly 2000m above our low point on the Gila River. In a day, we made this climb on a blissful dirt road, avoiding a steep, rocky carry up the trail. Near the top, and in fading light, the sky unleashed another torrent. Without a rain jacket (
what kind of British Columbian would need a rain jacket in the desert?), I pedalled hard for an hour into the cold deluge. We dreamed of a warm hotel room in the ski-resort at the top, but finally, soaked to the bone, I could no longer keep warm. We spent a night inside our tent, as it shook and flashed in a furious electrical storm, a few hundred feet below the high point. In the morning, we found lingering snow in the empty village of Summerhaven.
The Arizona Trail extends to the Mexican border. For us, it ended in Tucson, where we spent a day in
Transit Cycles, hanging out with Duncan and packing our bikes into boxes for our flight onward to a family wedding.
From September 19th – October 24th, Panthea and I rode our mountain bikes from Las Vegas, NV, to Tucson, AZ. We found a land of stark beauty and troubled humanity, a place of contradicting hostility and warmth in climate and history. Perhaps October is the wrong month for a ride across the desert, but the beauty of the skies, towering thunderheads, and incandescent sunsets, make up for any struggles. We learned a Sonoran language, and in October the desert speaks in clouds. But, like music, even more is said in the silence between notes. When the clouds have exhausted their spark, a booming depth – the lifeless infinity of our night sky – tells a greater narrative.
About the Author-
When not exploring the mountains around his native Vancouver or away on bikepacking travels, Skyler Des Roches funds his adventures with work in northern forests. You can read about more of his trips on his blog
www.offroute.ca. In a few weeks, once he's finished collecting enough digital zeros bushwhacking around Alberta's frozen boreal forests, he's bound for a new long-distance bikepacking route along the length of Chile. Stay tuned for that.
Thanks to
Porcelain Rocket,
Westcomb, and
Easton for their support.
As a side note, bans on biking where horses and donkeys can ride (like Grand Canyon National Park) are absurd. We are one of the fattest countries on the planet and the last thing we need are restrictions on exercise.
1. Your traveled from one post-resource-extraction community to another on a month long vacation- a form on entitlement many would like, but few attain.
2. You saw some people and made some pretty harsh judgments based on nothing more than your preconceived attitudes and their appearance, with a modicum of knowledge about local history.
Speaking for myself, (as another resident of a different post-resource etc.) we love it when the tourists come to town to tell us what backward hicks we are. Sarcasm aside, your writing comes across though written by sophomoric a*sholes.
@skylerd - your description of the people you encountered is just plain lazy...stereotypes often hold some validity, it doesn't mean that you write in the same generalizations...any more than you would use a famous person in reference to the way someone looks...it's just lazy. I do complement you in that there were some really nice images here but, again you were lazy...using the same image repeatedly without additional context...and the Instagram style lunch bag shots?
I can see you are better than this article. As you head south on your next adventure maybe try to engage in the community you are passing through rather that fly over it.
advrider.com/index.php?threads/rach-ed-ride-the-tat-on-honda-c90s.1085263
Hoplophobia: Check
Bigoted perspective of locals: Check
Tumblr worthy. Great pics though!
As for their encounter with the people out in the desert with guns: I've had the exact same thoughts run through my head. There's some scaaaaary people out here who probably aren't responsible enough to be armed.
Seriously, who do you think you are to go to someones home and make generalizations about them and nit pick their way of life?
Great article but The Cowboy way of life is not dead in Arizona. I grew up on a 40,000 acre cattle ranch outside of Wickenburg, AZ. My family still owns an operates this ranch today. We have about 600 head of cattle and 72 horses. I now live in SLC for school and work but those are my roots. BTW, MTB there is amazing, its full of steep mountains and the trails that exist would blow your mind. My secret zone!! Well I guess not anymore..
ah hah, there in lies the secret...
Ill give you a hint...
If you look you are too surly see them. However, they take shape by ones imagination.
I replied, “I wonder if we would have spoken to them if we weren’t white.” These are realities I can never fully understand.
Give me a break man... Because there are SOOOO many black people in Vancouver, right?
Dude, there's like... three black people in ALL of Canada, so let's dial down the self righteous tone a little bit.
It's original history isn't exactly sparkling, but it's modern history is rooted in racism against blacks. I'm all for individuals to have the right to fly any flag they want, but considering the context, & the motivations of the people who put that flag up in front of official government buildings, it should be removed from any official government building not dedicated to telling the history of the civil war. (museums, essentially.)
Which is completely rooted in racism. I'm sorry that you don't like that, but not liking the facts doesn't make them not the facts. Some people may be ignorant of it's role in recent history, but that doesn't make a flag used as a rallying symbol for racism suddenly no longer a symbol of racism, it just makes those people ignorant.
Lemmy collected war memorabilia, including Nazi flags. But he didn't fly them in front of his house, because he understood that there's a fundamental difference between collecting things from history, and waving the banner of a group of people who murdered people they didn't like.
With that said, Arizona is a unique and incredible place; I lived there for a few years and loved every second, to the point where I've returned at least once every year of the past decade, even if just for a weekend. You'd also find that the diverse people and cultures are a fantastic mix, if you'd lower you nose long enough to actually get to know them. You'd be amazed at how quickly those "assault" weapon-toters as well as the hippies will go way out of their way to help *anyone* when they need it most.
Open your mind buddy.
This article comes off as complete intolerance and is really just a bummer to read. Consider your audience on this website and concentrate on the stoke of the ride and what bonds us as humans rather than what divides us.
Poor form. I hope Pink Bike pulls this piece of intolerant judgement.
He just might come down to Brazil to set you guys straight.
Being a 5th generation rural Arizonan i don't consider my self entitled to anything here. I do however feel i speak for most people when i say that the most annoying perception of a "out of state visitor" is the author of this article! Ranching is very alive here. As educated as this author wants to sound, educate your self better. Typical naturalist extremest. next time your in rim country ride some of the newer trails near Pine. Scratch that, prefer you didn't.
To make it short. Keep your rhetoric to your self!!
"FOR THE LORD SO LOVED THE WORLD HE MADE RANCHERS, MINERS, AND LOGGERS TO KEEP AND PROTECT HIS CREATIONS!
It's brutal, so don't feel bad.
right click "save as webpage, complete"
We have rocks & cactus that will try to kill you incessantly, as well as steeps that make good riders cringe, I assure you.