Nine years ago, I flew to Durango, Colorado, to meet up with Ron (aka @ultraromance) and Adam for a week+ long tour to Emporia, Kansas, for the 2017 edition of Unbound Gravel. I was in charge of the route and plotted us straight over Elwood Pass out of Pagosa Springs, Colorado, in the second week of May. I knew the snowpack would be bad, and before we left, we even considered making snowshoes in the field. Just in case, I reserved Elwood Cabin at the top of the pass.
At the base of the climb, there’s a National Historical Marker titled “A Perilous Journey,” which describes the deadly route settlers navigated horse-drawn wagons across the pass. A fitting omen. We hit the snow line a couple of thousand feet below the summit. We ended up post-holing into the night before finally finding refuge in the Elwood Cabin, where we melted snow for water and Adam and Ron tended to the minor frostbite they had gotten from hiking through the snow in sandals.
It’s one of those stories that captures the curiosity, stubbornness, and slight irresponsibility that define shoulder-season rides in the Rockies. It also marks the start of the journey Adam and I have been on together.
To celebrate nine years of adventure—and this beautifully imperfect life we continue to nurture together—we were craving a big, silly ride. So, in our semi-annual tradition of escaping the bustle of Durango during Iron Horse Bicycle Classic weekend, we decided to ride from our doorstep over Kennebec Pass, topping out at 11,700 feet. This ride always calls to us around this time of year—our way of getting an early taste of the high country and seeing how much snow is left.
For the record, I did check the snow map on Ride with GPS, which showed 50+ inches of snow over a 4-mile stretch at the top of the route. That gave me pause, but not Adam. Based on past experiences, we figured the snow would be firm enough to walk across, maybe even ride in places. We could easily turn back if it turned out to be a total slog. Ultimately, curiosity overpowered concern. We left early, packed with food, lights, and layers, ready for a big day out.
About a mile from the top, we hit our first major snowbanks along the Colorado Trail. Adam broke trail, and we pushed our bikes upward. At first, everything looked familiar—like previous years—until Adam took a step and dropped through the snow up to his left hip. As he struggled to climb out, the other leg punched through. Then it was my turn. I fell through too, managed to scramble out, only to break through again on the next step.
The snow was the consistency of a slushy—occasionally firm enough to walk across if we spread our weight carefully over our bikes, but more often we were suddenly breaking through hip-deep corn. This went on for a while. Blood from shin scrapes marked our post holes like the trail of a wounded animal.
Admittedly, it stopped being fun for a bit. It felt somewhat dismissive and cavalier. But we’d signed up for this—committed to either pushing through or turning back. And we were prepared for both outcomes. In the end, we pushed through and got exactly the adventure we came for… and then some. Adam even said he doesn’t think we need to do this ride again. But I have a feeling we’ll be back—maybe next time with a little more respect for the snow map and snow shoes in tow.
All told, this doorstep-to-doorstep adventure tallied 53 miles, 7,000 feet of climbing, 2.5 hours of post-holing, 4 miles of hike-a-bike, in 10.5 hours. We got it out of our system. We’ve proven—again—that this ride isn’t a good idea right now. There’s still a lot of snow up there.
What does this say about us? That we’re curious to a fault. That we learn things the hard way. That we find joy in the absurd, even when we’re bleeding and cursing in hip-deep snow. That our relationship has been shaped by these kinds of choices and adventures, equal parts stubbornness and wonder.
Adventure, for us, is about surrendering. It’s about pushing into the unknown together, making peace with discomfort, laughing at the mess, and emerging—muddy, bruised, and maybe a little wiser—on the other side. Or, at least more connected.
We don’t always make the best decisions. But we do commit. To the ride. To each other. And to the lesson that sometimes the mountains need more time. So, let them melt.