Goodbye Arizona

The temperatures are getting warmer down here in southern Arizona. The leaves on the cottonwood trees were yellow when I arrived in November, dropped their leaves in December, and have now grown back green and lush. There are shoots of green grass sprouting up everywhere. New-to-us bird species pass through the yard, such as hummingbirds, Little egrets, and Vermilion flycatchers. The Morning dove's songs are constant, an indicator of warmth. Western rattlesnakes are emerging from their holes to bathe in the sun. The pollen is off the charts, flowers are blooming on the cacti, and I am allergic to everything. It's time for me to say goodbye to this place until next winter and return to Durango, Colorado.

As I write this post, we are packing up our belongings and saying our goodbyes. Goodbye to the view of the Mustang Mountains from the dining room table. Goodbye to our feathered, furred, and scaled neighbors who provided constant entertainment and curiosity. Goodbye to the long exploratory day rides with friends and the afternoon bike rides around the ranch bathed in golden light. Goodbye to the Sonoita characters, to Cristina, Ben, Suzanne, and all the bicycling visitors who shared a conversation and a beer over sunset at the ranch.

With Covid cases on a significant decline in the region, visitors could return to the ranch over the last couple of months. My parents came and so did some close friends. Many of the visitors were bikepackers passing through along the Sky Islands Odyssey routes. Due to having so many separate lodging buildings, camping options, and outdoor conversing spaces, the ranch provided an opportunity to meet new people and to spend time with loved ones in a safe way outdoors. I appreciate these interactions more than I ever did before Covid.

At the Appleton-Whittell Research Ranch, we have laid a solid foundation for the future of more cycling infrastructure and opportunities at the ranch, so stay tuned. Incorporating bicycles into the daily operations and outreach of a non-profit wildlife sanctuary that used to be closed to the public before 2018 is a slow process but certainly one of the most exciting ones to me. I'm looking forward to returning in November to pick this work back up and to share this place with more of you.

Over the last few weeks as we have been cramming in last-minute experiences for ourselves by venturing off the ranch to do some new-to-us rides in different parts of Arizona. One of the days, Hubert, Sean, Adam, and I tackled a single-day ride on the Arizona Trail from Picket-Post Mountain to Kelvin, a 36-mile ride on 100% single track with over 3,500 of climbing (and we were riding it in the downhill direction!). This ride follows an incredible and remote section of the Arizona Trail and one of the few consistently rideable single-track sections of the entire trail system. It was so cool to see the number of people from all over the world, thru-hiking and bikepacking this section. The Arizona Trail is truly a gift to Arizona and the world! Our ride's biggest challenge was that we just so happened to time our ride with the first major heatwave of Spring with temperatures reaching into the low 90's. Even with nearly 4 liters of water per person, the tole of a big day on challenging terrain and sun exposure resulted in chaos by the end of the ride. We all ran out of water with 5 miles to go, Adam abandoned the final climb of the route by bailing to the railroad tracks, and Hubert and Sean ended the ride with a medium case of heat exhaustion. We were lucky that their conditions improved eventually, and we did not have to call in support. This was a humble reminder that the heat in Arizona is no joke, to only stop in the shade for breaks, drink plenty of water with electrolytes, and cover up as much as possible. After some time to recover, we cooled ourselves down by floating the swollen Verde River the following day.

We also visited Sedona for some more mountain biking, which was my first time being there. Wow, is that place stunning and swarming with people. The single-track was incredibly fun and the perfect amount of pucker for my developing mountain bike skills. The crowds of people made me feel like I was in some weird natural amusement park. The landscape of red sandstone bluffs, cliffs, and slick rock immersed in evergreen cedar and pine forests, dotted with prickly pear and agave, was something out of a Jurassic Park or Star Wars movie set with tourism helicopters flying overhead. I didn't have the time to help plan these trips. Instead, our crew relied on the incredibly informative and hilarious graphic guides by the one and only Cosmic Ray and his Arizona guide book, Fat Tire Tales and Trails: Arizona Mountain Bike Trail Guide (New Mighty Moto Locals Only 23rd Edition). Cosmic Ray just recently passed away, and while I never had the chance to meet him, our crew honored him by staying true to his recommendations for route choice and flow direction. We were sure to quote all the salad bars we found ourselves in, too (according to the "G-narly G-lossary of Arcane Trail Jargon" in Ray's Book, salad bar means turfing it into the shrubbery. "The shmorgy of shred").

While the last few weeks have been hectic, I'm savoring these final moments and looking forward to slowing down a bit in Durango. I didn't get to see everyone and do everything I wanted to during my stay in Arizona. Still, I am incredibly grateful for the opportunity to spend time here, especially during such a challenging year. I am confident that the winter of 2021 and 2022 will bring more opportunities to be together, to share a ride, a sunset, and a conversation.

I'll be changing my focus back in Durango. I will be assistant coaching for Devo Exploras, a 6-8th grade all-girls bikepacking group, and fundraising through The Cairn Project to create more opportunities for young women and girls to get outdoors. All the while I will be preparing my mind, body, and equipment for the Tour Divide Mountain Bike Race in June.

While I will miss the beauty and the solitude of southern Arizona, I am looking forward to being back in Durango, having fewer splinters daily, taking baths, being around trees, floating down the Animas River and not driving an hour and a half to the grocery store for a while. Thanks as always for reading my ramblings. On to the next chapter!

A Getaway in the Chiricahua Mountains

Photos by Hubert d'Autremont. If you like handmade custom bicycle culture consider supporting Huberts work by purchasing a Rangefinder Book.

The Chiricahua sierra has been on my list of places to visit in Arizona since I started visiting this part of the world. In 2018, fresh off two and a half months of bike touring in Japan, New Zealand, and Australia, Adam and I attempted to ride back home to Durango from Tucson. Within four days we called it quits on Christmas Day when we got caught in a blizzard in the Chiricahuas. Our friends Benedict and Nam graciously came to the rescue, transporting us to the nearest hot spring and then to the nearest town so we could rent a car and finish the journey back home. It was one of the best Christmases to date. 

I didn't return to the Chiricahua cordillera until recently when I attempted the same route. This time, I was riding in the opposite direction from Las Cruces, New Mexico, back to the Appleton-Whittell Research Ranch in Elgin, Arizona. After pedaling two hundred miles in anticipation, I learned what all the fuss was about as I slowly approached the east side of the mountain range where a citadel of stone columns, spires, and hoodoos rose from the forest. Contrasted with the bleak, flat, and exposed desert of the vast San Simon Valley that I had just pedaled across, the Chiricahuas offered dense shade and a respite for my sunburn. They were also beaming with life; white-tailed deer, turkeys, javelina, and even running water after one of the driest monsoon seasons on record. 

The Chiricahua Mountains’ namesake comes from the Indigenous People to the land. The Chiricahua Peoples battled to defend their territory from Spanish-Mexican settlers and armies for over two hundred years. However, after the Gadsden Purchase of 1854, they were ultimately and violently forced from their lands by the U.S. Army so that Euro-American settlers could colonize the West. The mountains themselves are located thirty-five-miles north of the southern border of the U.S. with Mexico, and on the eastern Arizona border with New Mexico. The main gravel road that travels across the range is seventeen miles long, split between a 2,700 ft climb and a 2,000 ft descent. This road is a rare high altitude gem through one of the largest of the Sky Islands of southern Arizona, reaching 8,000 ft (the highest peak in the Chiricahuas reaches 9,763 ft).  A “sky Island” is one of many isolated mountain ranges in the Sonoran and Chihuahua deserts that produce multiple life zones with increased elevation. This phenomenon creates an island habitat for diverse flora and fauna surrounded by a desert sea. 

As I pedaled the ten miles of  winding and twisting gravel road to the top of the pass, I couldn't help but think back on what the jaguar experts who have spoken at Ruta del Jefe have said about this place. These experts believe that the Chiricahua Mountains are now the ideal habitat for American jaguars and Sonoran ocelots. Sure enough, in 2019, a rare spotting of a Sonoran ocelot was recorded by Conservation CATalyst, the same group who documented El Jefe, the famous American jaguar who lived in the Santa Rita Mountains. If you wonder what an ocelot looks like, understanding its name's origins should give you a good mental picture. The word "ocelot" comes from the Mexican Aztec word, tlalocelot, which means "field tiger." For more ocelot coolness, check out this remote action camera footage of Lil Jefe documented in the Chiricahua massif. Lil Jefe, named after his famous relative, has inspired hope for the future of conservation habitats for these extraordinary creatures, such as within the canyons of the Chiricahua from mining, urbanization, and deforestation. Lil Jefe also serves as a symbol to raise public awareness to protect his species from poaching and retaliatory killings from their perceived threat to livestock.

I wanted to be the last person on the mountain pass to increase my chances of having an unusual critter spotting. I pedaled slowly to capture the last sun on the range. My senses were heightened to the slightest rustle of leaves as I hoped to see something, anything. But I saw nothing until later that night at camp when the darkness and my heightened sensitivity turned to paranoia when I heard something(s) rustling in the grass around me. Was it a jaguar, a mountain lion, a black bear, or an ocelot? I could not see it. Having spilled my mac ‘n' cheese dinner on the ground beside my camp, I decided that whatever critter was looming in the shadows would now be even more interested in me. So, I buried my cheesy spilt  meal, folded my sleeping pad, bag, and bivy into a taco, slung it over my shoulder, and rode down the road to a different camp spot. My thinking was that sleeping in a more established camping area would deter whatever critters the last site had produced or, at the very least, allow me to see them coming. Within an hour, I heard the same noise. I sat up quickly, my heart racing, shined my headlight in the direction of the noise and finally spotted the culprit of my fear—a skunk. I was only somewhat relieved, having heard recent stories of skunks who like to cuddle with campers inside their bivouacs, so I shined my light on the little ball of black and white fur until they strolled away. 

After yet another sip of this wild-feeling place, I was determined to return to explore some of the few gravel roads I noticed while traveling on my short visits. The roads, scenery, camping options, and serenity seemed ideal for a little gravel getaway, to escape the grasslands for a shaded pause within the forests, and for Adam and I to connect with friends Hubert and Sean before the holidays. In preparation, I put a few cycling routes together while Adam added some hikes to a Ride with GPS collection, which gave us various options to choose from for a three-and-a-half-day base camp in the Chiricahua range

The trip started like any does when you meet your friends in a new faraway place. The fresh smells of pine and juniper complemented with cool, clean, crisp air inspired a sense of wonder and excitement for what would unfold in the following hours and days. We caught up with each other, picked our optimal camp spots and angles, prepped the bikes for the weekend ahead, and gathered a Yule log and tinder to keep us warm and in the holiday spirit when the sun would go down. 

Over the next three days, we spent the first two riding gravel roads through the mountain and in its foothills to see where they would lead. These days started late, around noon, after we had slept in, thawed out our frozen water, sat by the fire, and had a heaping breakfast. By the time we would leave camp the temperatures would be perfect in the mid-60s, but would get chillier by the hour as the sun sank behind the mountain skyline. Driven by the beauty and curiosity for what lay around the next corner, we spent these days riding further than our initial plans, making up for our late starts by maximizing the dusk and enjoying the sunsets. We did this even though it required cold ears and fingers as we rode into temperatures dipping into the low and frigid forties. We would return to camp, use the spirit and momentum we had gained from our ride and get straight to work on getting the fire started, warming up, and feeding ourselves, to make the outdoors habitable and pleasant. We would talk by the fire and over-guess the time of evening until we resigned to the call of our warm sleeping bags and pillows. We peeled ourselves away, one-by-one for an early bedtime, leaving the last two standing to douse and bury whatever coals of the Yule log that remained. 

I had planned an ambitious eighty mile circumnavigation of the Chiricahuas for the third day of our gravel getaway. However, our group felt that we could all use something less committing and more relaxing. After all, the holidays and our old priorities of using this time of year to "train" for the early season's gravel events like Ruta del Jefe and the Mid South felt a little pointless due to Covid, canceled events, and fewer friends visiting this year. The benefit of this decision is that I now have another reason to return to this magical place. As an alternative to the big ride, we opted for a nine mile round trip hike to Silver Peak. A nine mile hike compared to an eighty mile ride sounded like a piece of cake, so we approached our morning like all the others, casually sitting by the fire and shooting the breeze until noon when we set off to ride to the trailhead to start the hike. 

I'm not much of a hiker to be honest, and I quickly fell off the back. I did what I could to manipulate the group to slow down to my pace by positioning myself toward the front of the line, engaging in deep conversation, stopping to look through my binoculars, and taking pictures. If you are a slow hiker like me, give this strategy a try sometime - it works. The trail meandered at a low grade. We continued to march slowly up through each of its different biomes, from the low desert cacti to scrub oak, pinyon, and juniper, to eventually ponderosa pines and douglas firs. All the while, we were surrounded by a wonderland of rock faces, pinnacles, towers, steeples, battlements, and obelisks; eroded from layers of ash caused by a  volcanic eruption that occurred twenty seven million years ago.

At what felt like halfway through the hike, we took a snack break and checked our progress. To our shock, we saw that we still had 2,000 ft yet to climb. With daylight already dwindling, I knew we could not get to the top and make it down before total darkness, and of course, most of our group did not bring headlights, insulated jackets, or gloves. Despite all of this, no one seemed interested in turning around. I realized at that moment that this hike had just turned into a long, late, and cold adventure, one in which I was the weakest link. I sprang from my seat and started briskly hiking and jogging to the top as fast as I could while the guys continued at their natural conversational pace, just a switchback or two behind me. 

Silver Peak was as glorious as its name. The viewpoint provided spanned far south into Mexico and across the broad San Simon Valley of New Mexico. These are views you can't get from the seat of your bicycle. After a short break to eat a late lunch and rest our tired feet, we started the trek/hike/tramp/trudge down the mountain. The short period of brisk hiking that I had done to reach the top had finally taken its toll as my quadriceps and hips tightened and atrophy set in, necessitating a long, slow, every-person-for-themselves tromp down the mountain. Just as darkness started creeping through the valley, we reached the trailhead, retrieved our bikes from the bushes, and then found ourselves in an awkward standoff with a pack of javelinas devouring a tasty and spiny prickly pear. After they moved along, we pedaled our way back to camp, thoroughly exhausted from a weekend well- lived. We spent our final night connecting beside a fire, a simple experience that we used to take for granted but now cherish as one of the few places it is safer to be together. 

The Chiricahua chain offers a quiet escape. Located two and a half  hours from Tucson, they will likely stay that way for a while. Still, like any special place like this, the serenity of them  will inevitably come under threat in years to come as more people migrate from the big cities to find solace, clean air, and cooler temperatures in this ever-warming planet. When it is safe to do so, get out there and enjoy it for yourself, but please do what you can to help keep this place a viable habitat for all living things to coexist, thrive, and enjoy peacefully by leaving no trace and donating what you can.

Sky Islands Odyssey East Loop Print Pre-Order

Mary has been illustrating my concepts for rides and landscapes for over ten years now. There have been some classics over the years, but I have to say that this illustration of the Sky Islands Odyssey East Loop is my favorite. Mary created this illustration last year, depicting the classic view of the Mustang Mountains from east mesa as bikepackers approach the Appleton-Whittell Research Ranch along the route. The image includes some of the iconic elements and wildlife you'll see, particularly around the ranch. When Cream Design and Print in Tucson, AZ, printed the design on some seafoam green t-shirts to be sold through the AWRR, they threw in a single print, which gave Mary's artwork a whole new life. I've meant to get some made and sharing them with you ever since, and I finally got around to putting the order in a few weeks ago. When we are simultaneously stuck in our houses on video calls and dreaming of the places we have been or want to go, a little inspiration and decoration can go a long way. This print provides both. These will be available and shipping the week of February 14th, but I am opening the pre-order for the limited quantity of prints now.

Humanitarian Crisis in the Borderlands

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If you have attended Ruta del Jefe or read the Sky Islands Odyssey route guide, you know that not everything down in the borderlands where I live is about frolicking pronghorn in a beautiful grassland landscape. Beneath the surface is the reality that the U.S. immigration policy, Prevention Through Deterrence, deters migrant refugee traffic to more hostile terrain that is less suited for crossing and better suited for enforcement. As a result of this strategy, hundreds of undocumented migrants suffer or die from dehydration, starvation, and the extreme journey through the desert each year within the borderlands.  

I am reminded of this reality daily while living on the AWRR throughout the constant drone traffic overhead and surrounding border patrol check points. The other day, however, I was riding around the ranch and came across a deserted backpack by one of the cienegas, which was a harsh reminder that even in five inches of snow and ice, refugees are still passing through the desert. No More Deaths, a humanitarian aid organization that provides water and food along migrant routes, just came out with a new report as the third installment of their series: Disappeared: How U.S. Border Enforcement Agencies are Fueling a Missing Person's Crisis. The report, Left to Die: Border Patrol, Search and Rescue, and the Crisis of Disappearance, written along with La Coalición de Derechos Humanos, finds that Border Patrol systematically ignores and mishandles search and rescue emergencies in the borderlands. 

I encourage you to read the report, view this short video of the findings, and donate to No More Deaths for their essential work in bringing light to these issues.