Nothing wrong with that. I personally define adventure as any endeavor in which the outcome is unknown. Depending on your level of security, physical condition and financial health, this could mean anything from walking around the block to making your rent at the end of the month. In fact, stress and adventure are two sides of the same coin. Heads: I'm freaking out. Tails: what a great adventure!
I'm being a little glib, but I still believe that everyone needs a little uncertainty in their life. There is nothing worse than a completely predictable, completely safe, routine life. Not everybody has the money or the body to climb Everest, but everyone can dream and explore. Push their own boundaries. Even in their own neighborhood.
Over the years, I've come to perfect the art of the mini backyard adventure. These are little “projects”-- usually in the near vicinity-- that I can dabble with on my infrequent days off. One year, I heard a rumor they were scouting a trail from Sedona to Cottonwood. Using Google Maps and a half dozen day hikes to scout, I pieced together the route for myself and hiked the 16 miles before it officially became the Lime Kiln rail. Another year I put together clues from the internet to find the route of the old wagon road down Grief Hill. It took me three months and a dozen hikes, but I finally found the route. Last year, I again used Google Maps to piece together several trails that would take me from the bottom of the Verde Valley to the top of Mingus Mountain. I'd never heard of anyone who'd done it, but I worked it up for myself, set a date and did it. To real adventurers, these would be considered pretty pedestrian feats. To couch potatoes, they might seem like bold feats of daring-do. I don't know, but I do know I need these little infrequent challenges to stay alive.
This year, I got a new scratch I had to itch. I wanted to ride my bike all the way down Mingus Mountain. Top to bottom. I got the idea a couple years ago when the local bike shop advertised a group ride down the mountain. It was rated expert only. I'm definitely nowhere close to being an expert rider and the singletrack route they had selected looked really extreme. Still I knew that the mountain was covered in old jeep roads and I wondered if I'd be able to piece together a less extreme route. Again consulting Google Maps, I thought I could. So one morning last month, I drove to the top of the mountain where the highway crests the pass and, with my bike and a full Camelbak. started pedaling.
The first pull up the mountain was very familiar. I often park at the pass and rode the rest of way up the mountain on the gravel road. It's a steep, but fairly short pull with a huge payoff –parking your bike on the lip of the hang-glider launch ramp! Today, though, I turned off before the summit and onto a road that paralleled the top of the mountain range. To my surprise, it was downhill –much faster than I anticipated. It was so steep in some parts, I was leaning back and riding the disc brakes. Soon I was at my next turn—Allen Springs Road, which I knew was going to be downhill most of way, but it started out mild enough so I relaxed a little and enjoyed the early morning cruise through the pine forest. At one point I startled a couple mule deer who gave me a curious look before disappearing into the woods.
There was one canyon descent into Gaddes Canyon (the route I used to hike to the top), and other than the steep rocky climb on the other side, I thoroughly enjoyed the scenery on this portion of the ride. As I experienced on my hike, this is the hidden part of the mountain, Thousands live in the foothills, many visit the summit, but this area in between is kind of no man's land with varied micro-climates, running streams, pockets of pines and manzanita groves that drip with solitude that very few ever see.
Shortly after the pull out of Gaddes Canyon, I rounded the shoulder of the mountain and came upon the first expansive view of the Verde Valley. Often times I've sat in my backyard at dusk and seen the headlights of four wheel vehicles appear high on the mountain this spot. Now I was there and, it was at this place, the trail started getting dicey. The descent was steep but, worse, rocky--the kind of loose rocky marble alley that despises bicycles. Those big loose rocks—hit one just right on a bike and it careens you sideways. Almost impossible to roll over them at low speed ,but dangerous as hell any faster. In a couple places I unclipped from my pedals and dragged my feet on the ground while riding the brakes. Rock slalom skiing takes utmost concentration and, though true mountain bikers love this shit, it was the least favorite part of the ride for me.
After the drop from the shoulder of the mountain, the road becomes a shelf road and follows the contours of the mountain at pretty much the same elevation for miles. This was the most enjoyable part of the ride. Without the steep descent or dangerous obstacles (just ignore that huge plummet to the valley on the one side of the road), I was free to enjoy the scenery of the day. I serenely pedaled in and out of little oak groves. Springs appeared on the mountainside and funneled under the road in pipes and then disappeared into the vastness of the other side. The morning was still cool and the trees shaded most of the ride. The whole valley lay spread out below me to the right. I told myself if I ever did this ride again, I would ride this road all the way back to Jerome.
Instead my goal that morning was Cottonwood and my turnoff appeared to my right. I described the ride to a bike group as a long, beautiful gravel ride spaced intermittently with rocky horror death plunges. This was the worse of the death plunges. I didn't even try and ride this one. Riding alone in this remote area, this would be a terrible place to fall. Even an adventure sometimes calls for common sense so I unclipped and walked the bike clumsily down the rocky trail in my steel-cleated bike shoes. Clink, clink, clink. Then, back on the bike, I rode past the huge Copper Chief and Iron King mine fields, forcing myself not to stop and rockhound. Then another steep descent towards Cottonwood. It was at this point, leaning back on the bike and squeezing the brakes, that my wrists just started screaming. I could barely squeeze the brakes hard enough to keep from flying down the hill. Even as I started to curse “meat-cutter wrists,” I realized quite sheepishly, that due to the sustained free fall and my subsequent death grip on the handlebars, they had slowly rotated out of position. The bars were almost upside down and I had been trying to squeeze the brakes from a very odd over/under position. I do carry a small tool kit on the bike, so once I figured out the problem, it was a quick fix.
Once correctly aligned, it was a smooth sail. As I got closer to the foothill subdivisions of Cottonwood, the road gradually improved and I relaxed and let the bike take on some additional speed. By the time I passed the first people I'd seen all morning, I was a blue streak of joy.
It was a great ride. Once in town, I took a short-cut through a new subdivision to my brother's house. Pedaling slowly and savoring my survival, I relaxed and and contemplated the fine morning. People were busy waking up and going about their nine to five day. Construction crews were showing up on the jobsite. Garage trucks were starting their daily prowl. Through the ordinary I rode, a man with a smile, a secret, and another small victory that would fill my heart for a few more weeks.
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