There is something about the desert, perhaps its absolute vastness, or harshness, that has seemed to always capture the hearts and minds of thinkers, writers, and explorers. These are the same people who’ve told us that by going there to lose yourself, you end up finding yourself. Those seeking solitude hear it’s call beckon from afar. The red dirt carpet that covers the ground serves as a welcome mat that ushers you to its deep canyons which become wishing wells to some or vast reflection pools for deep introspection to others.
George and I went to the desert not seeking anything other than an adventure. We wished to explore lands we’d never visited but had only seen on a map. We chose a route that was challenging and remote, taking us through 74 miles of sand, gravel roads, canyons, and washes. We researched the route, namely the conditions of the roads, mostly trying to unearth how much sand we would likely encounter, but no amount of research can compare to one minute, or in our case, six hours of experience, of truly living it.
Researching and preparing for the ride is half the fun. Or maybe a quarter of the fun. The other part comes from knowing your expectations and plans can and will be shattered in an instant, like a rock to the windshield. One of the greatest feelings of any adventure is simply the anticipation for it to begin. That feeling you get just before the ride starts, of knowing, but not fully knowing what’s in store. Knowing that with each passing mile your expectations will in fact splinter. The glass will crack a little more, in a completely new direction.
The ride itself, while challenging, wasn’t undoable. Had we done this ride a few months ago, when each of us had more bike fitness, we would have been far less destroyed after the ride, but we each concluded that the pros of adventure outweighed the cons of potential physical collapse.
For the first hour of the ride, we were mainly on the road. My big oversized and over lugged tires felt and sounded like a dump truck trying to keep up with traffic on a race track. George’s bike was a bit better suited for road conditions than mine and pulled us to our right turn on to the sandy dirt road of Snow Flats. The departure from the road meant the entrance into the remote and expansive unknown. We would soon reach our high point and begin our long descent into Comb Wash.
Before we could get to Comb Wash, however, we would need to deal with or rather navigate through, in a painstakingly slow fashion, long stretches of deep sand. As it turns out, these sand pits were like a bad habit, easy to get into, hard to get out of. Like most troublesome things, hitting it with too much speed only makes them worse, so they force you to slow down a little and focus. The sand also makes you confront unavoidable realities. At first one tries to criss cross the road in search of stable ground. Your mind also tells you, for just a short while, that you can avoid the deep plunges of sand, which you come to find out is impossible. You eventually realize that there are things we must all accept in life and sand in the desert is one of them. So for 16 miles, George and I plowed through the sand.
The key to riding through the sand is this: accept that it will be there. It will be there shortly after that short stretch of road where you’ve managed to pick up speed. You are not through the sand yet, there is in fact, much, much, more. And it is waiting for you in the shaded spot of the road, just on the apex of the next corner. Also, keep in mind that just as you don’t look at a lake and assume it’s merely a shallow, but unusually large, puddle, the same holds true for sand. Just as you’ve assumed the lake is deep, you should assume the sand, too, is deep. Although you might only be able to see small ripples from old tire tracks on its surface, it is safe to suspect hard ground does not lay just one inch below. The biggest thing to remember about sand is that you will get through it. It won’t be pretty. Your front tire will be going sideways, your back the opposite direction, you’ll have a foot out, yet you’ll be, remarkably, moving forward, or at the very least sideways and forward, but nevertheless, forward. There’s a solid chance you’ll fall, but remember, you’re going slow and as I’ve already discussed it’s safe to assume the sand is deep, so the fall won’t be as bad as you’re imagining in your head. Your fear of falling is worse than your reality of falling.
Aside from the rare flash flood, nothing in the desert happens quickly. And this held true for our pace that day in November. The miles ticked away slowly, but as travelers with no set plans and an entire day spread out before us, the pace mattered little. We turned off Comb Wash road and on to our next several miles of pavement. While we didn’t have anything else to do and were set on taking our time to enjoy the ride, there comes a point when you want a section to be over, to speed up time to get to the next portion of the trip or ride. George rode next to me, but we both knew on his own he would have been far ahead of me. But my bike, not exactly being set up for speed on the road, was slowing us down. I accepted this fact and tried to keep a respectable pace up while also not totally digging myself into a hole. Eventually, George offered to pull us to the next section of dirt. As an overly independent individual, I’m usually not one to accept the help of others. Suffering alone is how I deal with discomfort. But this was one of those instances where I did not have to make the situation harder than it needed to be. With George leading the way, we cruised down the seemingly endless blacktop until we saw the sign for our next turn, arriving much sooner than if we had separately tried to ride on our own.
We took a short snack break when we turned on to the Valley of the Gods Road, a 16-mile dirt road that winds through sandstone rock formations that one can only assume ended up there not because they were carved by the wind, but rather they are in fact gigantic chess pieces left on the board by some giants in the sky eons ago.
Reader, before I talk about the inevitable low point of the ride, it’s important to make a note about choosing your riding partner. This is not a trivial matter. In fact this selection process is likely harder than any route you’ll likely encounter. Finding the right person is like finding water in the desert. They’re out there, but you’ll have to work hard to find them. When you travel, ride for hours on end in harsh or trying conditions, push yourself to your limits, it’s important to have someone with you who can not only see, hear, and deal with you at your best and worst moments, but also knows how to react to you or with you during these times. It’s one thing to experience joy or pain alone, but quite another to experience them while looking at someone who simply cannot share the same feeling or help you in the way you need help. No one needs to feel alone, together, especially if you find yourself in the desert. There is far too much aloneness there to begin with. Your partner needs to know, or rather feel, what you need at various times in the ride and you must do the same. Nature has a way of stripping your personality and character down to its truest form. The trials and tribulations that you go through allow you to emote unadulterated forms of euphoria and torment that are hard to come by in day to day life where you can easily mute or hide parts of yourself. Simply put you are your purest self out there and your partner needs to not only understand this side of you, but love this side, for in loving it, they can look after it.
When George and I turned onto Valley of the Gods Road, we were four hours and thirty minutes into our ride. We took a short break for a snack and to assess how we were. I was feeling a bit beaten down, but still able to turn the pedals over. We didn’t want to dwell too long on my waning energy, so side by side we rolled through the large red chess pieces that towered over us for the next thirty minutes. At the high point of the road, we do what we always do before a descent, look at one another and knowingly speed up. We each tried to go as fast as our bikes and the terrain would allow. George, being so much stronger than I, always pulls away from me in these sections, but remains somewhat in eye sight. We’ve gotten to a point with each other that riding separately isn’t a slight to the other. George is simply faster than I am and that’s life. I know he’ll always be waiting for me at the next turn, the top of the climb, or viewpoint.
And as predicted, when the road leveled out, George had begun to pedal slowly so we could reunite. At this juncture, about five or so hours into the ride, my lack of cycling fitness and just general cumulative fatigue from the previous day’s running race was starting to show. The small crack that I felt at the beginning of the road began to splinter into several directions, so much so that I had to acknowledge it. Indeed, I had a problem.
There are some problems that we encounter in life that we can, either during or afterward, derive meaning from. We can learn a greater lesson. However, some are just problems or perhaps stretches of time that are not meaningful. Simply put, they are the pinnacle of sucks. And there’s nothing to learn from them except that you’ve been dealt a shit hand right now and you need to deal with it until you’ve got new cards. And that’s what the last five miles of the Valley of the Gods road was. It was rutted and composed of loose gravel. To the eye it’s 3-4% incline was undetectable, but absolutely detectable to my sore quads and to add insult to injury, there was a headwind. There was also nothing I could do about any of this. These things were just factual. These five miles were the proverbiale bridge that I needed to cross to get to my final destination and the troll needed to be paid. On my GPS, I could see where the road ended and the final climb for home began, so I knew this part would suck for at least, but no less than five miles and I could only hope that after that, the pain and annoyance would be less, but I couldn’t say for sure. The vertical profile of what’s to come can only tell you part of the story about what you’re headed into, the rest, as everyone comes to find out, is determined by a wing and a prayer.
George, a smart man, pedaled ahead, either knowing I’m someone who needs to suffer alone or because he needed to suffer alone himself at his own pace. Either way, I greatly appreciated this. For five miles I hated the whole damn thing. My legs, this route, the damn road, the wind. All of it. But sometimes, or rather, most of the time, it is a totally normal experience, to not just hate, but actively loathe, what hand you’ve been dealt, even if, or rather, especially if you’re the dealer. But it’s also normal to just accept your wretched fate, for the time being, put your bitter head down, move through it and hope that it ends sooner rather than later.
And, like most painful things, it did end. We began to climb Moki Dugway, a three-mile climb that took us from the valley floor to the top of Cedar Mesa, where it would drop us off at the four-mile dirt road that would lead us back to our campsite. The grade was far steeper than that of the previous five miles, but at least it felt like I was climbing. In the Valley of the Gods, it just felt like we were suffering for suffering’s sake, with what felt like minimal progress, and without the benefit of striking views unfolding with each new turn. On Moki, however, there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that I was on an actual climb to somewhere and I was in fact, making progress forward. Unlike in the valley below, each steep incline was rewarded with a new, higher view of the valley, it’s roads and the massive chess board below.
I met George at the junction of Moki and the dirt road that led back to our camp. We quickly turned our bikes down the road that we started on several hours earlier. Those four miles felt longer than they did when we rode them the opposite way that morning. The sun was setting and was just low enough in the sky to be shining directly into our eyes. As we rolled directly towards it, the excitement for rest, food, and a change of clothes were palpable in the arid desert air.
It’s an odd and curious thing that after being so excited for this ride, thinking about it for months, we were so unmistakably ready for it to be over. It seems that every adventure we’ve been on has this moment, where you’re simply ready to be done, ready to be comfortable. I wonder why that is? Perhaps it’s just the point of reaching one’s limit or maybe it’s just the human condition to desire comfort and familiarity, which is often lacking in the barren desert or the high mountains. As much as we love to find and push the limits of our mental and physical endurance, we also need to be able to go back to our security blanket that is home.
We rolled up to the car, lazily got off our bikes and laid them on the ground, as if they too needed to lay down and rest for a while. We began the process of cleaning the desert and our sweat off of ourselves, while simultaneously shoveling chips into our mouths. After a long ride, there is nothing quite like a chip with a twinge of hand sanitizer on it. Soon we were in our pajamas, laying in the back of the car, away from the cold air that was quickly settling over the mesa. We proceeded to eat snacks, dinner, dessert, and second dinner off and on for the next four hours. We laughed at how tired we were, at how cracked I felt during parts of the ride, or how bad the sand was. When you’re finally in the throws of comfort, only then does discomfort become a source of entertainment.
As the sun began to set and the sky turned from burnt orange and purple to the clearest black I’ve ever seen, we looked out over the valley we had just spent all day in, still baffled at its sheer size and realizing again how small we truly are. We crawled into the tent and soon drifted off to sleep, likely to dream about sand and giants playing chess before our time.
The desert is a strange place. On its surface, to the observer quickly passing through, it’s desolate landscape hides nothing. But to those immersed in it, this is so far from the truth. If there is one thing to learn about the desert, it's that it’s deceitful, full of layers that unfold and disappear before your eyes with each step or mile forward.
But calling the desert deceitful isn’t exactly accurate, because it’s not lying outright. It is simply forcing anyone who finds themselves there to accept that not everything is as it seems and to trust that the desert, while deceptive, isn’t lying, it’s just making you work a little harder than normal to find the truth, the right perspective. It is forcing you to see everything all at once, from every angle. And each angle reveals something entirely new, not previously known.
By hiding it’s truth, the desert allows you to see that you have a choice. You can either accept that what you are seeing and feeling at this moment is what you will see and feel forever, regardless of who you’re with or where you are. Or you can choose to accept that, given enough time, everything will change. The fear you felt about falling in the sand will fade as you spend more time immersed in it. You can choose to believe that accepting help makes you weak or you can decide that the help of someone else can make you stronger. You can get carried away thinking that the road you’re on, the one you hate so much, will never end. Or you can choose to accept that this relentless road that you’ve willingly chosen to be on will eventually begin to climb, taking you away from the valley you didn’t realize you were even in and it will be the very road that takes you home.
“A man on foot, on horseback or on a bicycle will see more, feel more, enjoy more in one mile than the motorized tourists can in a hundred miles.”
― Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire
“I shivered in those
solitudes
when I heard
the voice
of
the salt
in the desert.”
― Pablo Neruda
