The Grinch Stole Summer!

On Thursday, June 12th I ascended to over 11,000 feet elevation to cross Brazos Ridge in northern New Mexico. I was about a half day behind what was left of our group. After dragging the Mule several miles through snow fields, over endless drifts, through mud bogs, streams, puddles, over downed trees, up roads transformed into muddy stream beds at 15% grade, the wind on top literally picked me, bike and trailer and all, up and threw me about ten feet off the road.

Fortunately I was not injured, but my rear derailleur was twisted into the spokes. I was prepared to rebuild the wheel if necessary, but not in that much wind. It was early afternoon so I punched the "Help" button on my SPOT. I know some of you philosophically disagree with the use of the SPOT, but if the wind kept up at that velocity I was going to be blown off the ridge. Fortunately that one gust was rare; although at one point I was shoved up a 5% rocky grade at 5 mph without pedaling.

Several times I left skid marks all the way across the road as I locked the brakes to keep from rolling right off the mountain. I would guess that the average wind speed was between 30-40 mph with gusts up around 60-70 mph. After twisting the derailleur out of the spokes into a middle gear I cancelled the "Help" message and sent an "I'm OK" message. I continued slogging along.

The GPS probably saved my life because there was no way to find the road or when to turn and head d0wn the mountain. The tracks of the two bikes that crossed yesterday vanished in a marsh and I did not find them again until I was passed the "unrideable rocky" section. After a while I tried to find a route around the snow banks, which were about 5-6 feet tall on top on the ridge. However that usually meant getting fairly close to the steep windswept edge of the ridge. But instead of trying to ride I pushed and remained ready to hit the deck on to the soggy ground to keep from being blown off the mountain.

From all the weaving and drifting the odometer readings no longer matched up to the map. However, by keeping one eye glancing at the the GPS I found my way over Brazos Ridge and down the other side.

I later learned that others claimed to have come across Brazos Ridge about four days ahead of me. I find it strange that they left no tracks in the snow or mud. Maybe there is more than one Brazos Ridge? A couple of weeks ago I met some motorcyclists that were doing the GDMBR sobo. They told me that they could not cross Indiana Pass, but they never mentioned any problems anywhere else. I have since learned that three out of the five major passes in the Colorado section of the GDMBR were closed. There sure as heck were not any tracks, except of the two bikes I was following on Brazos Ridge.

Much later in the day I saw where a motorcycle had gone up the road (that was transformed into a creek bed) from Apache Creek about a mile or so, but that is not even close to Brazos Ridge. Nevertheless, I will give them credit for being a highly skilled rider to get as far as they did before they turned around. It became very clear that help could never arrive, except on foot.

Here is a picture from early in the day when I thought I was pretty hot stuff for pushing over a few 2-3 foot drifts. Within an hour or so I was glad I decided to eat two breakfasts, because there was no way to stop an eat much in that strong, strong wind.



This next picture really does not indicate how hard it was to push the bike and trailer up this 15% muddy, rutted grade.



The further up the mountain the more frequent the snow drifts until it was all snow, mud, and streams of ice cold water. A couple of weeks ago I was complaining about burning feet, but that problem seemed to be completely resolved.



The snow and mud by itself would have been sufficient challenge, but with the gale force winds the task was multiplied many fold.



Obviously, I made it, and by the end of that day my technical riding skills had improved dramatically. I tore down the road, transformed into a creek bed, hauling the loaded trailer like it was a super highway. I crashed through snow drift after snow drift and muddy stream after stream as I raced down the mountain to hopefully a warmer, less windy environment. For two days I had been riding and climbing against strong winds, but finally I had gravity (and desperation) on my side.

The derailleur hanger was trashed, so I did not need to baby it. I just did not have any climbing gears, and I needed to keep the derailleur and chain from destroying the spokes. Fortunately, as I descended I discovered that someone had very recently been clearing the downed trees on the road, but there continued to be endless snowbank drifts to get over, through, or around. On the downhill side of every snowbank drift was slippery deep mud and often running water from the melting snow and ice.

From the fresh tracks there must have been someone on a motorcycle who made a good start on breaking a path through the drifts. It did not matter to me anymore as I flew down the mountain like K.C Jones on the Canon Ball Express train. I needed time to dry out, make camp and assess the damage, so with knees and elbows tucked in tightly to the midline I roared down the mountain. Before long I did not even feel the loaded BOB trailer adding to my momentum.

Arriving at Apache Creek a little after 5 was like arriving in heaven. The wind was still blowing, but nothing like it was up on Brazos Ridge. There was a rushing stream nearby to filter water to make dinner and clean up. I hastily set up camp. I went to bed at 7:30. At 11:30 a coyote was howling nearby, and even through the ear plugs he woke me up. I got out of the tent to mark my territory, and I told him how much I was looking forward to having coyote stew for breakfast. He left, and I went back to sleep.