Middle Life
Forty.
It’s kind of that age that always feels old when you’re talking about someone else. Then all of a sudden, it’s on your doorstep, and you don’t feel that old. But little reminders appear every day – a kink in the neck one morning, a little more gasping on your regular bike climb, more yawning when you’re on the floor playing cars with your kid – whatever it might be. I’ve largely ignored age and birthdays, but for me, forty marked something different, something important.
My riding crew and I (four of us total) all shared the opportunity and the challenge of cresting forty in the same year. We’d been talking for years about what we’d do to ring it in. When the calendar year finally arrived, we settled in on the Durango to Moab hut trip through San Juan Huts, after considering other more logistically lofty options. With money down and vacation times booked by January, the trip was etched in place for August.
The year moved along, inching closer to our departure date. The conversations were packed with logistics – what bike, what would you carry, how would you carry it, how could we avoid a handlebar bag, what’s your weight splurge, and so on. The planning was as much a part of the trip as the trip itself. Poring over maps and GPS tracks, we ultimately made plans to take each of the alternate routes offered by San Juan Huts, as it included substantially more singletrack than the standard route. We were looking at about 220 miles in 7 days, and just over 23,000 feet of climbing in that span. It’s worth noting that we’re all dads, and largely weekend warriors when it comes to a “training regimen.” I’ve never ridden 23,000 feet in a week in my life.
The bikes and loadouts are of course worth noting:
I was riding an Esker Japhy Ti with no more than 50 miles on the bike. The entire brake system was replaced in an emergency effort just days before the trip. Nothing like testing a critical component on the ride, right? I was loaded up with a Cedaero full frame bag, Old Man Mountain Elkhorn rack and Revelate dry bag, and an Osprey hydration pack. My weight splurge was my Fuji X-T3 and a pair of lenses.
Ben rode a similarly outfitted Moots Womble, with the same Cedaero frame pack and Elkhorn rack. He did a much better job of slimming his rack load into a Sea to Summit dry bag than I.
Josh rode a Kona Big Honzo CR, with all gear loaded into his Tailfin rear rack and trunk bag.
Peter was the only full suspension bike in the crew, a Yeti SB 4.5 with an Oveja Negra Gearjammer seat pack and an Apidura handlebar bag.
We lined up logistics to park a car in Moab the day before the ride, and have a Durango resident friend pick us up in Moab, let us crash with him, and drop us off at Molas Pass for the ride start the next day. If you don’t have a friend like this, you need one. Big shout out to Bobby.
Finally, the countdown clock which had started at 7 months, had finally reached zero. The weather forecast for Day 1 called for 60% chance of rain, becoming 90% chance of rain for the opening day. After a silly big diner breakfast in downtown Durango, we found ourselves in the parking lot of Molas Pass, with 7 days and a whole lot of miles in front of us. The smiles all around were contagious, even with the constant threat of rain hovering overhead.
We took off from the lot, straight into Segment 25 of the Colorado Trail. The trail climbed from just shy of 11,000 feet, through a forest thinning from increasing proximity to treeline. The number and diversity of mushrooms was astounding; most notably, textbook examples of the red-capped amanita, which I’d never seen in real life before, dotted the trail for miles. We eventually broke through the treeline, and the views from here went on as far as the low-hanging clouds would allow. That 60% chance of rain though, just didn’t quite snap open.
The climbs were tough – long and steep, often littered with soaked tree roots that were slippery no matter which attack angle you chose to cross them. Usually, the views absorbed the frustrations associated with the hard climbing, and stopping for a picture was always a decent excuse to catch your breath.
There’s a feeling that can only be felt on Day 1 of an adventure: all of the anticipation meets the fresh adrenaline in the vacuum created by shifting your responsibilities away from your mind. Needless to say, we were all riding that high throughout the entire day.
After battling a pretty muddy and wet day (though we never did directly get that rain), we climbed up to our first hut. Colored green and about the size of two flatbed trailers side by side, we welcomed the sight of the unassuming structure in the middle of the forest.
The inside of the hut was simple and modest; four bunk beds lined each side wall, and the rear of the cabin was a basic countertop with a propane stove. A wood stove sat in the center of the hut, and well-stocked pantry shelves lined the entry wall. The hut had an impressively wide variety of bike-specific tools to address the plethora of issues one might encounter, and a handy work stand off the rear deck of the hut. The housing is built to accommodate 8 people, but 4 spots remained open during our reservation, leaving the hut entirely to our group. It was immediately obvious that 8 people (and strangers to one another no less) would have been tight quarters. Two coolers in the middle of the hut served as seating platforms to the provided Crazy Creek chairs. There was a handwritten note written in Sharpie on the door of the pantry stating “piss in the shitter”. More on that shortly.
We took advantage of our circumstance, and spread out. We had grand plans of diving face first into the beer cooler, but Day One was an ass-kicker – one beer left us pretty close to ready for lights out. The pantry led us to a Thai curry dinner for the night.
It was nice to not be on the bike – to feel accomplished from the day, sitting at the provided sun-bleached outdoor picnic table, as the rain clouds loomed overhead. I sat, drinking my beer, and stood to answer the call of Mother Nature. I recalled the Sharpie note in the hut, but this was deep in the forest. Who pees in a toilet in the middle of the woods? I took the piss on a nearby tree and sat back down to my Thai curry and riding buds.
A doe and her two fawns wandered into our camp, and the mama deer wasted no time in finding my pee-tree. I shit you not – she licked the spot I had peed for a solid 45 minutes nonstop. Her kids were clearly bored and wandered into the woods, and I was left with a feeling of obligation to reunite them all. (They did eventually leave together.) So yeah….we learned why you ‘piss in the shitter.’ Some details on the request would have been appreciated.
Back inside the hut, we lit the propane lamps and busted out some cards and the cribbage board Peter had packed. Josh rooted around looking for something to keep him busy, and stumbled across the hut journals. Dating back to 2017, we read about tales from trail authors; some comical, some sticking purely to the facts of the ride day, and some full on fictional, the stories entertained us for hours. We added our mark in the book for Day 1, and closed up shop for the night.
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Day 2 came with a cool morning, but much welcomed sunshine. The wood stove had long since burned out overnight, and the air was sharp. Peter got us started with some bacon and scrambled egg breakfast burritos, and we closed down camp before the dark clouds in the direction of our travel had a chance to open up on us.
Our first task of the day was to sled/skate/skim down the pancake-batter-mud forest service road just below the hut, across Tin Can Basin. This road had been closed off to vehicles by way of several downed trunks, but it still looked as though heavy construction machinery used it on a daily basis. The Russian roulette that was guessing which puddles were tread-deep and which were hub-deep, kept us honest about not mashing through the whole glop fest.
We eventually exited the soup, and began to climb away from the water drainage. In another day of riding the alternate singletrack, Day 2 had us following Slate Creek and later the Dolores River, with numerous river crossings, and big meandering meadows. In the fog of the drizzle and pure humidity, the sun worked to break through and provide some much needed dry and warmth. We downed our Duke’s beef snacks, Fritos, and PBJs on an old metal bridge crossing the Slate Creek in a brief window of sunshine.
In the constantly changing weather (and pressure) patterns near 11,000 feet, the elevation readings on our Garmins were total garbage, so knowing how much climbing remained was an impossible task. Each of the huts seemed to reside about 600 feet above where you wanted them to sit when 4 hours into the ride, and Day 2’s Black Mesa Hut was no different. The climb was lined with raspberry bushes under calm and sunny skies, but I was much too spent to stop and forage. We rolled in to the hut with sun speckling the forest floor, but carrying about 10 extra pounds in mud.
The real feature of Hut Two was the view just a short jaunt from the back hut wall.
We spent the better part of the night overlooking this view, tackling the hard hitting topics – How Mount Wilson and Wilson Peak were named, reparations, and if the expanse we were looking at was 10 million acres. Day drifted to night, and we watched the Milky Way come into view over the San Juans in the distance. Josh taught us how to locate the Andromeda Galaxy in the sky, and I snapped photos of it.
Back in the hut, we checked in with SKKKENND IT, Team Bleh, and the other journaled groups who came before us, before turning in for Day 3.
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Day 3 was set to drop us out of the high alpine, and closer to desert terrain. We were all ready to put away the raincoats for a few days, and get into some warmer temps.
We opted to descend from Black Mesa using the alternate route again. This would involve riding the storied Goat Creek trail – journal entries raved about it, and someone had even written “RIDE GOAT CREEK” in Sharpie on one of the pantry walls. It did not disappoint. A well-worn cattle trail, Goat Creek descends just shy of 5 miles, and about 1500 feet. It begins chunky, but smooths out as you enter the forest. It’s smiles for miles until you realize that’s not mud on your legs, but rather cow shit, and you’re suddenly standing off with a cow broadside across the trail. Fortunately, all the steers we encountered let us by without incident. But make no mistake, there were some tense stare-downs.
Shortly after the fun that is the romp of Goat Creek, Miramonte Reservoir comes into view. A welcome sight for bodies and bikes alike covered in 3 days of mud and now manure, we stripped down and waded into the reservoir to rinse the filth. The bikes got a proper wash too, restoring the tire clearances and shedding some mud weight. By now the sun was out in a temperate 75 degree day. Cotton candy clouds surrounded us, and we had traded the monster peaks of the San Juans for sprawling horizons in every direction.
We pulled up to the Dry Creek hut, welcomed by a large, awning-shaded deck. We’d spent much of the afternoon pondering what SKKKENND IT and Team Bleh thought of the ride today and looked genuinely forward to checking in with our virtual riding companions. With beers in hand, under the shade of the awning, we read aloud the journal entries from our favorite teams.
Feeling particularly in touch with our primitive selves now the third day into the trip, a rousing game of Floor-is-Lava broke out in the hut. We moved from platform to platform, and monkey barred our way across the structure using the roof trusses above. Peter managed to cook us some midday stovetop nachos while half-suspended from the upper bunk and ceiling. Man, I haven’t laughed like that in too long.
Although San Juan Huts provides an impressively long recipe book using the ingredients that can be found stocked in each of the huts, the journal entries are where you’ll find the gold. We were introduced to Carbo-GNAR-a pasta; a noodle, bacon, olive oil, and vegetable dream come true. Yet again, our hut enjoyed a massive view of a valley some 1,000 feet below. We took the opportunity to jump into our favorite challenging pastime, throwing rocks at rocks. You know the game; it always starts the same way — “I bet I can hit that rock right there with this rock,” and challenge ensues.
Dusk fell again, and we hauled the Crazy Creek chairs outside to watch the stars come steadily into view as darkness grew. We talked of satellites, solar sails, and constellations, as we watched cloud cover move in across the valley. We called it there, ready for Day 4, and the midpoint of our trip.
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Day 4 began with a very welcome, long, straight, downhill bomb. I sat on the outer edge of my saddle – mainly to give my saddle sores a rest – and I closed my eyes and let the morning air sail past my face. I remember smiling into the day’s new sunlight; a moment of childhood nostalgia rushing by. No stress and no agenda, besides pedaling until the map told us to stop. This was what it was all about. Freedom. Clarity. Even just….fun.
The bottom of the hill was met in stark contrast with exactly five miles of open, paved highway, with high speed traffic and not much shoulder to speak of. Peter cracked off first, hammering his SB4.5 off the front of the group, with each of us unspokenly knowing exactly what the plan was. We pacelined the 5 miles in 16 minutes, putting down a satisfying almost-19 miles per hour on the 2.6” knobbies. The end of our run on the highway was marked with a wide, rutted gas service road. We moved along the truck route and past several wells, encountering workers each offering a friendly wave under their bright white hard hats.
Our route brought us high and along a bluff ridge with big views of the inbound Paradox valley. We found a shaded lunch spot, and were buzzed by the unmistakeable low hum and blue & orange body of a tarantula hawk wasp. Known to possess the second most painful sting of any insect on the planet, we gave plenty of space to the wasp, while we crushed our A(almond)B&Js.
We made short work of day 4. We quickly found our surroundings looking much more Moab-y, with winding canyons of the Dolores River below, and the La Sals in the distance, appearing as the final boss we’d need to face in just a pair of days. Among a veritable maze of desert service roads, the Wedding Bell hut appeared before us, perched high on a stepped canyon wall with fantastic views all the way out to the La Sals.
The hut was hot, and this deck didn’t offer the same awning as the prior Dry Creek hut. We huddled tightly into the limited shade of the hut wall, and as had now become a routine, we located the journal, and read the “latest” entries (some dated as far back as 2017) from our virtual riding companions, even though separated by years in many cases. There was some catharsis, or feeling of kinship, in reading about the challenges and victories of those who’d come before us – to get their perspective on the ride we had just completed. It was validating, in many cases.
As the sun fell to the horizon miles off in the distance, we played cribbage at the picnic table until the last light was out. The vastness of the canyons below us was a feast for the eyes, as the shadow play came to life from the low sun angle. The sun slipped away on another beautiful day, and Day 5 began to come into view.
Day 5. Stepping out of the Wedding Bell hut with that canyon-to-horizon view to the La Sals was an inspiring start, to say the least. Even with pads loaded with chamois cream, the saddle sores sang out in protest as we threw legs over the bike and rolled away from the hut. Today again was slated to be a mostly downhill route, down into the Paradox Valley.
The road skirted the perimeter of Wedding Bell Mountain, and we remained in its shade for the better part of the morning. We still had yet to experience the beating August sun that we had expected in Western Colorado, and had read about in the journal entries extensively. The terrain rolled smoothly, as we saw our first day without a singletrack alternate.
We carried along a lengthy two-track road above the valley, flipping between hardpack and loose sand off and on. The road soon came to an abrupt stop, as we arrived at the “Ketch ‘Em Up Trail” we’d read so much about in our San Juan Hut literature. The Ketch ‘Em Up trail is described as a downhill hike-a-bike, “except for the most experienced of trials riders.”
“That’s a typo, right? Trails riders is what they mean.”
They did not. Ketch ‘Em Up drops about 1,200 feet in just under a mile, and is a trail only in the sense that it‘s a visible connector. It is not rideable. With a fully loaded pack, using the brakes to maneuver over rocks and just to keep the bike from running away was critical. Conversation was low through this time, as we all concentrated on keeping our ankles intact over the awkwardly angled rock, hoping for that next corner that we could coast down to the highway below.
One lost water bottle and mangled bottle cage later, I exited the Ketch ‘Em Up, to the the highway into Bedrock. We’d read that the Bedrock general store had ice cream, which we’d all felt we’d earned by this point, but wanted to save room for the plentiful farm fresh food and air conditioned oasis of the Paradox general store as well.
The Bedrock General Store was a scene straight out of an old western. Dilapidated clapboard siding was in disrepair, and a small gang of twenty-somethings sat on the porch as we pulled up. There were about 6 beer drinking, Pit Viper wearing ‘kids’ hanging around, who informed us the store had been closed since early pandemic days, and ice cream was a pipe dream. They also made it clear that the beer they were drinking was, I’ll say, limited to their group.
We wished them well on their voyage, and carried on to Paradox.
Visions of lush green grass and massive trees, WiFi for calling the family, and snacks and beer kept our pedals turning through the otherwise terribly boring long, straight stretches, zig-zagging through the western slope agricultural fields. Building density increased slightly, and it became apparent that we’d arrived in Paradox. The general store and an oddly large, new elementary school were the only real buildings to note, and the store appeared to be closed on this particular day. Of course it was.
Our idyllic visions were a bit different from reality: the locked up store gradually became a residence as it extended into the property. A large, industrial kitchen stainless steel countertop with a tarp overhead stood adjacent to the house, and a DIY shower walled in with old interior doors stood next to it. We poked around for a moment looking for an open entrance, when we were greeted in the driveway by a gentleman wearing sturdy gardening clothes.
He introduced himself as Greg, the keeper of the Paradox General Store.
Greg recognized us as Durango to Moab travelers straight away. He immediately invited us to have a seat, and offered us use of his outdoor shower to clean up, and the industrial kitchen setup to wash clothing or spray off gear. It was clearly not his first group passing through. Our biggest interest in the moment was topping up with water, and beating the heat in the shade.
We charged devices, called family, and generally lounged around, as Greg regaled us with history of the town of Paradox, beekeeping practices (‘swarms’ are incredibly fascinating, by the way), and stories of other D2M travelers he’d bailed out of tough spots.
After several hours kicked back in Greg’s space, the temps had dropped enough to begin making our way to the hut. Greg’s hospitality wasn’t over yet – he followed us out to the hut, leaving us with fresh tomatoes, cucumbers, and ice. Ice!! The farm fresh salad we made ourselves for dinner that night was among the best meals we ate during the entire trip. Thank you, Greg. You are a legend.
Day 6. The fearful Day 6. At 20 miles and 5,500 feet of elevation gain, Day 6 hung over the trip from the beginning. I recalled Day 1 at just over 4,000 feet and 18 miles, and the difficulty all that singletrack brought us. I noted that this day offered more gain on more fatigued bodies and my cheeks were over sitting on a saddle. We had all day to accomplish the goal, though.
The climb out of Paradox Valley wasted no time in showing its face. The incline switchbacked its way up the mesa wall over 2000 feet. I watched my faster ridemates pull away up the hill, as I settled into my 52 tooth and let cadence do its slow, gradual thing.
And that’s what I was here for – to pedal. To get lost in thought. To think about how this road was formed. How a chainline affects chain life. Is that my bottom bracket creaking? Check out that old house down there. How did they get to it? I bet it gets awfully hot in this valley. Not for me. Glad we’ve got this thin cloud cover today, nice and cool out. I like this rear rack, but I know what I’d change about it. I hope I’ve got enough water for today. I’ve had the song “Counting Blue Cars” stuck in my head for 3 days now. ‘Tell me all your thoughts on God/’cuz I’d really like to meet her…’
The grade began to relax, and I exited my climbing carousel of thoughts and rejoined my tripmates.
The mesa walls changed to tall pines in short order, and we closed in on the Utah border. An uneventful state line, we stopped for our obligatory photo and continued on. We were now entering private land, owned by the Redds. Greg had talked about the Redd family farming and land empire. We expected some degree of “Yellowstone” ranching, but the Redd plot of land felt….strange, as though it was too much beautiful land for a single family to own. Trucks marked with Redd Ranch drove by, and ranchers offered a wave, as they corralled cattle for a forthcoming auction, we’d learned.
The hut was located on one of the many spurs of Geyser Pass Road, which were all named Geyser Pass Road, oddly enough. The GPS was a lifesaver in this moment, as the road was steadily deteriorating into mere cattle paths, not resembling much of a road any longer. The La Sals loomed overhead, and the second climb of the day began to present some grade. We broke into two groups, lifting the highly capable bikes over sub-surface soccer ball-sized boulders that now comprised the trail.
Ben and I arrived at the hut second. As predicted, Josh, “the man most likely to break a spoke,” had broken a spoke on his climb to the hut. We dug out the Kevlar spoke repair kit and started work on it, all eight hands getting in on the action at some point or another.
After 3 days in the desert valleys, it was nice to be back in the high alpine. Everything was green and lush again, albeit more brisk than the dry heat of the 4,000 foot elevation marker. We ventured off the back of the hut, stunned to stand face to face with the final summits of the voyage, the La Sal Mountains. Straight ahead lie tens of thousands of acres of forest, culminating with the rocky, treeless peaks. Cows roamed all over the Redd land, many staring us down as intruders in their space. We took in the vastness of the expanse with awe.
We strolled about the adjacent land, occasionally encountering Redd staff, and it felt unspokenly clear each time that we should remain in the vicinity of the hut, and not wander. We returned to the hut, packed our bags one final time, and clicked off the propane lamps.
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Day 7. The Whole Enchilada. If you own a mountain bike, you probably know of this legendary trail. Descending more than 6,000 feet over 30 miles, it’s one of the longest continuously descending trails in the country.
Having ridden The Whole Enchilada in years past, we opted to try out the Moonlight Meadows alternate around Burro Pass. The trail wandered through large swaths of last year’s burn zone, and across glorious meadows covered in a low-lying mist, evaporating under the first light of the day. Gravity fed our speedy movement through the woods, and we ultimately reached the connector to the Hazard County section of the Whole Enchilada, which began our victory lap to the car in Moab.
Hazard County is very flowy single track, down a light grade descent. The trail swishes back and forth in a serpentine fashion, through 5 foot high scrub hedges. There is big visibility all the way down to the Porcupine Rim area, and your eyes remain busy with all the sights to see around you, nevermind the need to read the trail at the high rate of speed.
Day 7 had caught up to me. A few sleepless nights, general muscle fatigue, saddle sores, you name it – I was handling the bike very poorly. Bouncing from one side of the trail dirt to the other and frustrated with myself, I said aloud, “if you don’t get your shit together, you’re going to wind up in the hospital.”
While coming around a sweeping left bend, all in the snap of a moment, it happened. My pedal struck a ‘knuckle’ stump of a chopped bush, and over the bars I went. I landed on my shoulder, sliding to a halt on my back. The momentum of the 46 pounds of weight I was carrying continued on as well, coming to a hard stop atop my legs. I was momentarily pinned to the ground, unable to move the bike from my body. My companions were well ahead of me, and it was up to me to move from this place.
Attempting to lift the bike from my legs by the rear seatstay yoke, it didn’t budge. The power from my right arm seemed enough only to indent the skin in my fingertips, nothing more. Reaching across my body with my left arm, I was finally able to make some space between the bike and my legs, and kick the bike off me by the top tube. I stood, hands on my knees, and nearly broke down. My bones were all intact fortunately, notably my collarbone, which is usually the first to go in such an impact. I regrouped, stood the bike up on the wheels, realigned some very twisted bags, and threw a leg over the saddle.
It was the slowest I’d ever descended any part of the Whole Enchilada. It became very apparent as we worked through Kokopelli that I was not right. Lifting the front end of the bike over reasonably simple obstacles was proving an impossible task. I caught up with the group, and informed them I was headed down Sand Flats Road, and we’d meet at the celebration spot, Milt’s.
The pavement of Sand Flats was refreshing. Battered and bruised – both body and ego – I coasted down from UPS, eventually connecting with my ridemates, who also opted for a pass from LPS and Porcupine Rim. We cruised into Moab and our final trip meal unceremoniously, but as meticulously planned from Day 1 – a Milt’s diner burger, fries, and a shake.
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Riding bikes is incredible, that’s not exactly a secret. It’s a return to the freedom of childhood; to the first taste of the ability to roam and explore. To move under your own power and volition. To problem solve, to socialize, to map your surroundings. I really believe that ‘bike people’ understand the world in a different way.
We’ve all got kids, families. We’ve got 9 to 5s. We do all the things in our lives that we have to do, because we have to do them. But for a week….for one magical week, all we had to do was ride bikes. That was it. That kid deep inside whose dad just took off his training wheels was able to step out of the obscurity of a memory and live – truly live – again. Durango to Moab wasn’t about the accomplishment or the trip itself; it was about remembering how to be free.
Durango to Moab, and 40 years of life on this good earth. In each case, lots to look back on, and reflect upon. This is the part of the story where I tell you how epic this trip was, and how it was once in a lifetime. How it could never be recreated, how it was some sort of capstone to my youth. That’s not quite my truth, however.
This trip was the one on my calendar all year that I counted down toward. 40 was an age I sort of thought was an eternity away, just a dot on the horizon.
Now that the trip is over, I don’t feel some massive sense of accomplishment, (although I do recognize its significance) – I just want to get to planning the next trip. It’s almost as if I caught a glimpse of my own potential.
Now that 40 has come and gone, I don’t feel any older, any less capable – I just want to keep on going. It’s almost as if I caught a glimpse into the next 40 years.
That’s where these two parallels collide; Life is meant for living, every last ounce of it. Milestones are great for checking in with yourself, but they’re only a rest stop on the journey.
Keep going. Keep doing awesome things. Never, ever, ever stop.