Around Moab

Main Street Moab. Now that the storm's passed, it's blue skies again, with a clear forecast for the next few days.

After the quiet backwaters of Fruita, I’d expected Moab to be fairly commercial in feel, and teeming with legions of bikers (like me). So I was pleasantly surprised at how laid back it was. Sure, arriving at the very tail end of the season probably helped. But still, it had a vibe I really liked, and it’s up there in my Favourite Places Along This Ride. Probably much of this is to do with the people I fell in with, thanks to Cullen, he of the lamb chop sideburns and warm smile, who I met at the somewhat ominously titled Poison Spider bike shop.

Outside Poison Spider. I'm an arachnophobe but a sucker for murals.

There’s a really strong community feel here. Yoga, recycling, low impact living and the coolest thrift store I’ve seen – it’s packed with outdoor goodies. Everyone’s striving to live the lifestyle they aspire to (biking/climbing/rafting), balancing the life that brings them happiness with the nuts and bolts of making ends meet. Inevitably, much of the population migrates in the winter months to places like Colorado, or even Costa Rica. Some work in forestry, or in the bookstore, or the camping stores, or as guides.

At a party I went to, I met one guy who tracks tortoises in the Mojave Desert. Apparently shell aside, tortoises have the highest level of testosterone of any animal, pound for pound! And despite their placid manners, they’re tenacious little fighters when it comes to winning over the ladies. The males battle it out like sumo wrestlers, trying to tip each other over. If they do,  there’s a technique to righting themselves again. The tortoise begins to arc one its wrinkly little arms in every greater circles, finally twisting his body like a wrester and hurling his arm like a hammer thrower, with one final dynamic movement that spins himself over. How cool is that! Made me think of the wise old Master Oogway from Kung Fu Panda.

Recycling tyres at the Moab Cyclery.

Anywhere else in the world, a vending machine like this would be packed with crisps, Mars and Snickers. Only in Moab is it full of bike bits.

Endurance racer Cullen works as a mountain biking guide and as a bike mechanic. His mate Nick works in forestry fire management in the summer, and as a ski patroller in the in the winter. Great people to hang out with.

Cullen's girlfriend Joi is an incredible rock climber, and was drawn to the area to spend time in Indian Creek, considered the best sandstone climbing in the world. Here they are with her cute little dog, a husky/labrador cross.

Cullen really sorted me out, ensuring I had all the food I needed for the next leg, and helping make my bike desert-ready, by filling the inner tubes with sealant.

Then he drilled out the rims so they could take Schraeder (car-style) valves in Mexico. We fitted an extra bottle cage to the downtube too, as I'll need to carry 10 litres of water for the desert.

Winter is getting close. Time to move on...

Cullen's housemate Jim had told me about a backway out of Moab, on a rough track that skirted round Canyonlands and Needles National Parks. After waiting for the trails to dry out, it wasn't until late afternoon, when the rocks were saturated in sunset light, that I left Moab. Nick and Cullen joined me, pointing me towards a quiet camping spot in the desert. Then we celebrated our meeting with a round of muffins, before they made their way home by torchlight, leaving me under the silence of the stars, and in the shadows of Moab's magnificent sandstone chimneys. Thanks guys!

The Kokopelli Trail

I’ve long yearned to ride the Kokopelli Trail, a challenging 142 mile dirt track linking Fruita, in Colorado, to Moab in Utah. Here’s how it went.

The trail starts a few miles out of Fruita, in Loma. Kokopelli, the cheeky flute-playing, rasta-looking character, is actually a Native American fertility deity.

The first dozen miles - following Mary's Loop - are pretty full on and technical, so I stripped back the bike to really enjoy it. Kindly Skip had offered to shuttle my kit to an arranged point (a collection of rocks 22 miles into the ride), and Timoni and Max from Over The Edge had offered to join me for this first section. We didn't leave until 2.30pm, so the race was on to get to my tent before dark!

The trail unravelled high above the Colorado River. Fast and flowy singletrack, mined with rock gardens and awkward steps, wrapped around sheer sandstone ledges. This was superb riding.

Here's Timoni enjoying the trail. There wasn't much time to hang around and chit chat, as I needed to make it to the rest of my kit before sundown...

Which I didn't manage to do... Luckily, after some scrabbling around in the dark, I found the rocks Skip had stashed them behind. Phew!

The next morning, I loaded up the bike, keen to take to the trail while the weather was good.

Off I go, powered by neon rocket juice. Riding a fully loaded bike down big steps added to the fun...

Especially when they teetered round drop-offs like this. What a view! This was fast turning out to be one of the best trails I'd ever ridden.

What's more, it was really well signposted. Being so late in the season, I didn't see another soul.

At times the path was clear cut, undulating across the desert.

At others, it was broad and sandy, doing its best to gulp down tyres or throw me off the bike.

Some stretches were fast and hardpacked.

I'd sent a bunch of kit ahead to Moab, like my netbook and battery chargers. Which made slaby terrain like this much more do-able.

And hike and bikes like this a bit more bearable...

Finally, after a long day in the saddle, I made it to Dewy Bridge, just over half way to Moab.

The weather was turning, leaves were falling, and a storm was due in. Uh oh.

The Kokopelli Trail is all but parched dry, so Simon from Western Adventures had left me a stash of water and an isotonic drink to tide me over the night.

There was just time to find a camping spot behind some rocks and hunker down in the tent before the light dropped.

Beard progress. It's been cut back, so is looking a little subdued and trim at the moment.

Long distance touring, like everything in life, is made up of a series of repeated events. Like a bookend to the day, I like the ritual of priming the stove in preparation for the evening feast.

The night passed smoothly enough, but by morning, the winds were kicking up.

And the skies weren't looking too promising either...

Then it started to rain, hard. So knowing the trail ascended to 8500ft in elevation, and with a forecast of snow added into the mix, I made the difficult decision to bail, heading to Moab by road.

As I neared the town, a red sandstone wall rose sheer and dramatically above me.

To make up for the disappointment of cutting short the Kokopelli Trail, I headed straight off to ride the famous Slickrock Trail. To any mountain biker worth his salt, it would be sacrilege not to ride it.

It didn't disappoint. In fact, I'd never seen anything like it. These eroded sea beds looked more like a bizarre, polished Marscape.

It's hard to convey how unique this trail is in pictures, as they make it look decidedly tame. White markers painted on the rock tell you, literally, where to ride, guiding you up and down unfeasible steep gradients, along worrying sheer cambers. Despite the name, the traction on its sandpaper-like surface was phenomenal. I ran out of bottle way before I ran out of grip...

Don't forget to follow those white dotted lines, or 1/ you'll get lost, and 2/ you're liable to drop right off the map into the chasms below...

I was surprised to be see jeeps crawling their way up and down the rock too, ever so slowly. In fact, the original loop was first laid out for four wheelers back in the late sixties, and they've long rubbed shoulders with bikers.

Back in Moab, I was invited in by the local bike community. Kindly endurance biker Cullen, who won the Great Divide Race this year, offered to let me sleep on his porch. It poured and poured that night. As sorry as I was not to complete the Kokopelli Trail, I was kind of glad not to be camped out in the high mountains. Definitely one I'll be back for...

Fruita and the high desert

Although it’s Utah’s Moab that tends to swallow the limelight in mountain biking circles, just down the road in neighbouring Colorado lies Fruita, a wonderfully laid back little hangout that’s every bit as beguiling. So named for all the apples and pears planted there in the late 19th Century, Fruita’s home to a spidery network of high desert trails untangling above the Colorado River. And the town itself is just as entrancing, with little more than a collection of wood-fronted buildings along its old fashioned main street, a few cafes promising wifi and a dozen varieties of coffee and smoothies, and that vital last ingredient – two great bike shops.

Just north of Fruita, towards the Book Cliffs and beyond acres of large, flag-flying farms, lie the fabled network of singletrack trails known as 18 Road. To there, follow these Harry Potter-esque directions: ride down 17 1/2 Road, hang a right on N 3/10 Road, and left onto 18 Road until pavement disintegrates into gravel...

Over The Edge Cycles, where a passion for two wheels has even spilled out onto the sidewalk. It seems all you need to do is stand outside this shop to meet the most wonderful people.

Enjoying the evening light on the ride up to the Book Cliffs.

Up at the trailhead, there's a collection of simple camping spots tucked in amongst the rocks, dirt and juniper bushes.

For the most part, the riding here is mellow, laid back and flowy. Ribbons of trail unravel out into the stillness of the desert.

Teeter your way along Joe's Ridge, one of my favourites.

Silent desert shapes.

Home sweet home. It's nice to be back in my little cocoon.

Good singletrack doesn't have to be that complicated.

Skip Hamilton, sage of the desert, and his sweet dog Zoe. I was lucky enough to meet Skip outside Over The Edge Cycles. He practically insisted on helping me out, by kindly bringing me out water to my campsite, and offering to drop off my kit 20 miles into the Kokopelli Trail the next day, just so I'd be able to enjoy the singletrack the way it's supposed to be ridden, unimcumbered by panniers. At the time, I had only intuited a fraction of what a legend Skip is in these parts. As well as being involved in trail advocacy, he's won the gruelling Leadville 100 Ultramarathon four times, and he even features in Wikipedia! Out in the desert, we had some wonderful conversations on the subject of the commonality of man; it was a real honour to meet him.

Retro Post: The Denali Highway, AK

The Denali Highway. If you're lucky enough to have clear skies, expect big views of Mt McKinley, the highest peak in North America.

This was the Alaska I'd come for. Wilderness, emptiness...

...and long summer days with barely a few hours of nightfall.

And with only a handful of vehicles each day, it felt good to have it to ourselves.

While I rest up my hand (which I fractured back in Montana), I’ve had a dig through some posts I never got round to finishing, including this one, from the Denali Highway in Alaska – way back in July.

So here it is.

Most folks ride their bikes from Fairbanks to Tok following the ALCAN – the Alaska Canada Highway. We diverted south to pick up the Denali Highway, which, until the paved Parks Highway was opened, was the only way to reach the Denali National Park. With a tarmac alternative to shuttle up the tour group crowds from Anchorage, nowadays it’s often overlooked. In fact, the word highway is something of a misnomer; it’s little more than a remote gravel road cutting through the mountains.

To get to there, we followed the Parks Highway south from Fairbanks. The forest fires raging around the state cast an unearthly morning light and threw the mountains into haze.

One the one hand, Alaska teems with all but untouched, natural beauty. On the other, it's an overgrown, junk wasteland...

...where strange Frankenstein machinery lie dormant in the summer months, waiting to be kicked back into life come the depths of winter.

Many move to the state for its non-intervenionist government; they prefer to be left to their own devices, as seen by the proliferation of Keep Out/Private signs in the unlikeliest of places.

This seemed to be a popular junction with boy racers, though the freshly cut flowers by the signpost lent a more sombre feel to the scene.

I love the spontaneity of travel. As chance would have it, our ride coincided with the Anderson Bluegrass Festival, where we camped for the night. Despite Alaska's vast size, its communities are close knit, and we bumped into many of the people we'd met on our travels, hundreds of miles away. Like the 'Man with the Handlebar Moustache and Short Shorts', from Deadhorse. And Dinky Dave, who's driving round the world in his Mini.

Alaska's bible belt.

As time was short, we didn't head into Denali National Park itself, though even the scenery from the main road was magnificent.

There's a real backwater feel to much of Alaska; little gems like this timewarped grocery store are waiting to be unearthed.

Riding at the tail end of the season meant the roads were quieter, now that the RV brigade had migrated south.

Camping opportunities were good. This spot was recommended to us by fellow tourers Nick and Leil, who had paused in their bicycle travels to work in a roadside restaurant, trading their tent for a makeshift trailer with spectacular views.

At Cantwell, we turned off the Parks Highway, and were greeted by a clear band of snowy white peaks - the McKinley Range. Numbers-wise, 6194m Mount McKinley, or Denali as it's known to native Alaskans, may be small fry compared to the high peaks of the Himalayas. But the fact that the surrounding land lies at just 600m means its actual rise is considerably higher than Everest

After a few hundred kilometres of tarmac slogging, it was good to be back on gravel again.

The road is 135 miles long, and takes 2-3 day to ride, so we loaded up on supplies at a motley gas station. There, an old timer had surveyed our bikes and was clearly underwhelmed. 'When I was eight, we'd ride 50 or 60 miles and camp. We didn't have none of them fancy machines, just a Schwinn with a basket. That was seventy years ago!' He glowered at us, then smiled, and tore off on his quad.

Lunchtime. Life is good...

Another day, another bullet riddled signpost.

Pitching the Megamid in the woods.

Crossing the Susitna River. Parked up on its banks, we met a French family in a Land Rover who were travelling round the world. They invited us to coffee and biscuits and their son, who was training to be a circus juggler, gave us an impromptu show.

There are no grocery stores along the Denali Highway, but there's a gas station and the characterful Sluice Bar. Wallpapered with dollar notes, each bill is marked with the contributor's journey details. If you're visiting, mine is on the right hand wall near the top...

With fires raging all over Alaska, views were a little hazy at times.

A porcupine! Perhaps the sweetest, yet ugliest creature I have set my eyes on.

Corrugation, animal tracks and quad tracks...

By the time we made it to the Tangle Lakes near Paxton, our smoky skies had given way to stormy clouds, bringing with them a deluge of rain that seemed to tail us for the next week.

That day, we made it, cold and drenched, to Meir's Lake. There wasn't much more than a few husks of rusting cars, and an old fashioned diner and a dilapidated campsite that had just been bought by a German lady. She served us up a nice, cheap bowl of Chili con Carne, and warmth coursed once more through our veins.

By now, we were close to Canada. From Gakona Junction, there was just a couple of hundred more miles to go...

We didn't stay here. But (no offence to Dan) it would have been a wonderful place if I'd been in romantic company. It's a beautifully converted Russian log cabin from the early 1900s, at Read Eagle Lodge in Chistochina. We camped there, availing ourselves of the immaculate, piping hot shower block, and were treated to marshmellows on the fire that night. In the morning, we tucked into an all-you-can-eat $5 breakfast - freshly made muffins, delicious hash browns, fruit, yoghurt, toast, cereal. We ate and ate and ate. I'm not sure if cyclists are good business...

A moose! What a bizarre looking creature it was too. Along this stretch of road we also saw a beaver building its dam.

A couple of days later, we emerged at Tok, back on the Alaska Canada Highway... Following the road less travelled had proved to be excellent advice.

Vernal, UT, to Fruita, CO

In theory, you should now be able to click on an image to open up a bigger file. For some reason, the colour profiles of the small ones are coming out lighter and less warm than the big ones.

Vernal. Once home to cuddly dinosaurs. Now home to mormons and singletrack.

Loaded up with a breakfast of sugary-coated cereal, then resting my backside gingerly on the newly-welded Brooks saddle, I bade farewell to my sunglass-toting hosts, Jim and Barbara in Manila. It was a long climb out of Flaming Gorge; hot and interminably rolling. A climb that forever seemed to lose as much altitude as it gained, it did finally breach the 8500 foot pass forty miles later. My original plans involved a dirt road detour beyond the top but in light of my damaged perch, I dove straight back down on pavement, finishing the day with a ten mile, ten switchback descent that unravelled almost into the backstreets of Vernal.

Ten blissful miles of descent.

The bike shop where I hoped to invest in a new seat was shut by the time I tracked it down on the fringes of town, so in a moment of wild abandon, I booked myself into a discounted room at the Sage Motel. Such indulgent luxury! As it happened, it was just the kind of independent motel I like. Cheap and quirky round the edges, it was run by a friendly Indonesian family, and when the back door opened, I caught a waft of Nasi Goreng.

Just a few miles from the main drag in Vernal, a web of trails criss-crossed the desert.

To be honest, I wasn’t expecting much from Vernal. But as it happened, it had just hit the big time in mountain biking circles, thanks to a magazine feature on its brand new network of trails within easy reach of town. I liked its desert heat and oddball feel; the enormous, surreal and almost cuddly dinosaurs poking their heads high into the clear blue sky, and the faded, classic Americana shop facades in the older part of town.

Blue skies in Utah. Thanks Troy at Altitude Cycles for donating me a saddle to keep me rolling.

Two other mountain bikers had booked into the same motel, brothers Jim and Tim from Salt Lake City; Jim a keen mountain bike racer and Tim an extreme distance runner, before fatherhood took over a chunk of their lives. Over at Altitude Cycles, owner Troy’s unremitting enthusiam for the trails he’d been working on inspired me to strip down the bike and spend a ‘day off’ riding lovely, dusty singletrack out in the desert with the two brothers.

Jim throwing some moves in the desert.

Brothers Jim and Tim. They invited me to join them for a day's mountain biking, then kindly treated me first to lunch, then to a gargantuan Mexican dinner. I slept on their motel room floor the second night - thanks guys!

So as often the case when travelling, a turn of bad luck was far outweighed by the experiences that came from it. Breaking my saddle rails resulted in a night at Jim and Barbara’s, and an impromptu stop in Vernal. Which in turn introduced me to Jim and Tim, whose company both on and off the trails I really enjoyed. ‘It’s a good earth’, said Jim. And I agreed.

In the morning, we rode McCoy Flats and in the afternoon, we squeezed in a ride around the Red Fleet Trails.

Then it was time to load up once more and head south, via the dirt roads of Baxter Pass, which would lead me me over the mountain range into Colorado.

As I rode south to the wonderfully named but sinfully ugly Bonanza, the desert took on a surreal, wind sculpted, biblical quality.

I would have had the valley to myself but for the profusion of hunters stalking the mountains for deer and elk, garbed in full camo gear, somewhat incongruous with their day-glo orange waistcoasts and baseball caps.

All the creeks had dried up, so I flagged down pickups and asked for water. Everyone quizzed me on where I’d ridden from, and what I was doing out in the middle of the mountains alone. When I told them, they forced out whistling sounds from their mouths and shook their heads. Just to temper their perception of my madness, I often added that there was a couple on a tandem homeschooling their kid, and two brothers on a similar journey, one of whom was towing his dog in a trailer. ‘Well, I sure as hell don’t blame him for that,’ said one of the hunters, to unanimous nodding from his camo-clad friends, as if leaving a dog behind would have been far more of a surprise than the journey itself.

One couple asked me simply, ‘So what are you going to do when you get there?’ It was a question no one had put to me before. ‘Er, fly home, I guess,’ I answered, seeing in a moment of clarity how so many people must view this journey.

 

Happy to be camping out in the mountains. Do I look a bit like a stickman? Maybe I need to eat more.

A biking trail! After a few ambiguous turns and some compass squinting, it was good to see this sign and know I was on the right track.

The border with Colorado was cattle ranching territory. I stopped in at a hunting outfitters, and was warmly welcomed in by Bruce - see cowboy hat below - where I was offered a giant platter of elk meat cooked up by his wife.

A group of hunters had gathered in the barn, where huge carcasses were hanging like pendulums from the rafters; one man was busy severing an elk's head from its 700lb body. For someone who's not been brought up in this kind of world, it was pretty gruesome watching him working away at the animal with his knife. But I figure that if I'm prepared to eat meat, perhaps this is a more natural way of experiencing how it gets onto my plate, rather than neatly embalmed in a styrofoam packet, purchased from the disconnected convenience of a supermarket.

Rick was one of the guides, and we talked about the ethics of hunting. He argued that that many people are happy to eat meat pumped with chemicals from McDonald's, but balk at the idea of the 'blood and guts' of hunting. To him, living off the land and understanding where your food is coming from form the essence of hunting - the size and majesty of the antlers comes second. To me though, I still find the 'trophy sport' aspect of it - hunting for the thrill of the kill - hard to deal with.

With a belly full of elk meat and a generous slab of carrot cake to top it off, I left the outfitters. From there, the track deteriorated as it began to switchback up the pass.

With the approach of winter, the aspens were turning, a blaze of colour burning across the hillside. When the wind blew, bright leaves fluttered to the ground like snowfall.

At last, the top of the pass, at 8650 feet. From here, I'd been promised a white-knuckled, pedal-free descent.

Which it was for the first 10 miles... Then a howling wind stirred into life, threatening to blow me back up the hill. And the rock-strewn and washed out trail swelled out into a body jarring, filling-loosening washboard road. Both of which I were taking their toll on my spirits and energy supply. You can't see the two evils of bike touring in this picture, but they were there, believe you me.

I'm now largely beyond bear country. Here, critters take a different form. Being an arachnophobe, I wasn't impressed to hear there are small but lethally poisonous spiders the size of a penny scuttling across the desert floor. Further down the pass, I nearly ran over this camouflaged snake. I'm not sure if it was dangerous, but it certainly had the attitude to be. It did the iconic snake dance - raising itself up on the ground and bobbing its head from side to side...

As I closed in on the highway came the incongruous sight of gas and oil stations, sprouting out of the otherwise empty desert like sets from a post-apocalyptic movie.

Reaching sun-kissed Fruita has suddenly injected a little holiday-like spirit into the journey. There's two great shops in town, Single-Tracks and Over The Edge, where a steady stream of visiting riders check in before hitting the trails.

Pedalling into such a formidable headwind, I didn’t make it into town until dark, and luckily ended up sharing a campspot in the overpriced State Park ($20 for a tent!) with Craig, Bonnie and Dean from Canada, who’d been mountain biking in twin meccas of Fruita and Moab.

All in all, it had been a great segment of the journey. One that had been incredibly varied: from snow to mud to dust to desert to highway, with some wonderful encounters in between. Next up is the Kokopelli Trail to Moab…

Jackson WY, to Flaming Gorge, UT

I’ve now deviated off the Great Divide Route in search of a night’s camping that’s not on/under snow, on the way to Fruita, Colorado.

Dashing south out of Jackson, finally. It's not always easy to reset the mind to travel again. Photo David Gonzales.

Leaving Jackson was hard. It’s often that way when you slip in with a group of kind people, pamper yourself with some home comforts (a cooking hob and a shower) and begin to put down some roots (read: mess). So when I did finally return to the road on a somewhat bleak and overcast day, I put The Band on the ipod and tried some harmony singing to lift my pensive mood.

I sought advice for the road ahead here, with the Owner of the Boot. When I went in, a man was trying to swap a gun with him for a horse. Alpine was cowboy central and thick, silver caterpillar moustaches were the fashion.

Initially, a cyclepath cosseted me out of town, linking up with the suitably serpentine Snake River, working its way down along a broad valley. Once in Alpine, I stopped to glean conditions along the Grey’s River Road, the dirt track that would lead me via the Wyoming Mountains into the desert. By all accounts, it would be a hard ride, so I treated myself to an overpriced, $4 brownie infused with swirls of cheese, which I pecked at and savoured for 3 days.

Please, build it for the children...

Back on dirt track - the Grey's River Road. It started it off broad and relatively smooth, wending its way beside Grey's River.

With clear water and flat pastures, wild camping opportunities abounded.

Ode to Love.

Lots of mountain action too. I had a fine view of this range from my campspot on the first day, 20 miles into the trail.

But that night, it rained. And rained. Turning my fine dirt road to leg-sapping mush by the morning.

More gloopy mush. Then came the hail, and the snow... Oh dear.

Towards the top of the pass, I came across a trapper, wading in amongst the reeds to bury evil-looking, spring-activated traps for beavers. He'd retrieved this unfortunate Pine Marten earlier that day. The trapper offered me a can of soda, and when I shook his hand, I felt a stump of a finger against my palm.

As I closed in on the pass top, at some 8650ft, mud turned to snow, and slush to ice, taking turns to slow me down. Pushing a laden bike in these conditions is no easy task. The front wheel kept sliding across the road into a foot of powder snow to the side, infuriating me. Bad wheel, bad!

With elk hunting season about to open in Wyoming, others were having their own issues. I'd met Dan further down the valley, and he'd been stranded with his horses for the last few hours.

i

Nearly there. In all, I pushed and huffed and puffed for some 6 miles. Two hunters offered me rides - one even drove a couple of miles in my direction to bail me out,wondering what I was up to. He seemed a little incredulous when I thanked him for his offer, but turned him away.

The bike felt heavy enough, without great clumps of ice around the hubs and jamming the brakes.

Once I crested the pass, I could ride/surf my way down in the snow. This group of old timer hunters were camped on the other side, by La Barge Creek. With the season about to start, they recommended I wear orange. 'Or you'll get shot' they laughed, with just a little hint of menace, I thought. Mind you, the orange jackets they wore really did stand out - like AA roadside mechanics with guns.

That night it snowed anew...

Dappling the autumnal trees.

Luckily, conditions rapidly improved as I dropped down in altitude. Relatively speaking. I was still completely splattered in mud, as were all the bags and panniers.

Luckily, the Rohloff is built for this kind of terrain. And I'm very pleased with the setup at the moment. I'm using one of Epic Designs' handlebar bags to stash my lightweight sleeping bag and mat up front, freeing up space for food in the panniers. I now keep my heavy camera in a front pannier, using an Old Man Mountain Rack on the suspension fork. With this new setup, the bike handles great - very stable on fast, potholed descents.

Down on the valley floor, passed the cattle ranches, it seems gas and oil are big business. Pipes protruded out of the earth like giant worms and steel cylinders glinted in the sun.

In fact, on the other side of the pass, it was a completely different topography. Dry, arid, with mineral-streaked rocks. And blue sky!

A different world indeed. Desert, as far as the eye could see. A band of white capped peaks dwindled down in size to the east.

After a brief stint on the highway, I was back on a dirt track shortcut to Fontanelle.

There, I stopped at the gas station/bare-bones-store to guzzle down a muffin and an isotonic drink.

As I was leaving, the kooky lady serving me told me to watch out for coyotes, wolves, mountain lions and bears. 'Bears?' I questioned, surprised they were still to be found this far into the desert. 'Well, I've seen one in three years', she clarified. Then: 'Of course, what you really have to watch out for is Man,' said the guy buying a 6 pack, as his pickup idled in the scratch of land outside. 'Yes,' she agreed, warming to the topic, 'Man can do some very bad things'. There was a pause as we all dwelled on our own dark thoughts. And on that note, I set off alone on the highway, thinking about how, for a country that takes so much pride in its freedom, I'd never received so many warnings to Stay Safe. Although they're all uttered with the best intentions, the negative vibe they leave in their wake inevitably niggles at my confidence, which is a shame. Anything can happen to you, anywhere in the world. Which doesn't mean you should just stay indoors.

The road was all but empty. Which, with those unsettling words still lingering in my head, I couldn't decide to interpret as a good or a bad thing. I rode on, and with some more miles under my belt, found myself a nice campspot on a bluff above the highway.

As the sun set, coating the landscape in a pink glow, I watched the cars and trucks pass by. It wasn't even that cold! I settled in to catch a movie on the netbook. Ah, this is the life...

More dirt. The Lima Cutoff avoided a stretch on the Interstate. I had it to myself.

Cacti! A sign of things to come...

Profile shot of the beard. I can now feel it rustle in the wind - I think.

Not much out here but shrub and sky...

All the creeks were dry. So I filtered water from the Black Fork River. Tasted weird.

Edging back towards the mountains, I rode south on 191 towards Utah. As I often do, I was questioning this itinerant lifestyle when I caught myself riding pace with a herd of antelope in the sagebrush. A moment later, a gleaming chrome truck whistled past, blotting out my elongated, late afternoon shadow for an instant. Two brief moments that brought me back to the present. And it all made sense again.

I don't normally take pictures of roadkill, but was struck by the similarity of this skunk's white stripe and the road markings. It would be ironic if a paint truck was the one that had run it down.

It was strange to think that just the day before, I'd been struggling through the snow in the high mountains. Now, here I was in open desert. A good reminder that things do change; it's important to remember this when you're in the midst of hardship.

And then, snap! My saddle had broken, with the rails shearing clean off. I was gutted, as this was the comfiest perch I've owned. I had to ride standing up for the last 10 miles to the tiny settlement of Manila, across the state border, where I was able to get it welded. I should be able to get a new one under warranty.

One mile into Utah, I stopped to ask Jim and Barbara if they knew of any old bikes with a saddle I could salvage. Jim hobbled into action, and within a few minutes, we were driving down the road to see Ira, the local welder. Half an hour later, the saddle was back on the bike. Ira wasn't convinced the weld would hold; hopefully it would get me the 65 miles up and over a 8450ft pass to Vernal, where a bike shop was to be found. Jim and Barbara invited me to stay the night, and we dined on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. A Mormon family, they included my saddle and its repair in their prayers before eating, which I thought was rather touching.

The incredible colours and ridged landscape of Utah's Flaming Gorge Recreation Area, where dinosaurs did once roam...

A new plan

It’s something of a relief to have figured out a plan amist all the options, which have been clouding my mind of late. And a fine one it is too, I think.

Although I’ve actually (strangely enough) revelled in everything the recent snows have brought with them, I’ve decided, in light of the onset of an early winter, to veer off the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route, and make my own way south. It was a tough decision, as I’ve loved almost every mile of this epic route so far; the quiet solitude, the complete remoteness, the oddball towns. In a way, this whole trip hinged around a desire to ride this route; it’s hard to accept change and let go of things sometimes.

I do enjoy getting my nose stuck into a good map; anticipation is the beginning of the journey. Thanks Evan, and Keith at Teton Mountaineering, for the route planning advice.

But at least riding these gravel roads the last month has opened up a whole new world of backwater America to me, and it’s one I want to keep exploring. A conversation with David’s neighbour Evan rekindled my ideas of heading to Moab, by reminding me of the Kokopelli Trail. Then, the kind folks at Teton Mountaineering poured over map after map with me, and together we wove together a network of gravel and backroads which will deposit me right down at Fruita, on the edge of Colorado – a renowned mountain biking locale. Places along the way include Alpine Junction, La Barge, the Flaming Gorge, Jensen, Dinosaur and Loma, via Baxter Pass, if it’s doable.

From there, I’ll pick up the Kokopelli Trail, a challenging off road route I’ve long hankered to ride, which will link me to another mtb mecca: Moab, in Utah. Then, (somehow) I’ll weave my way back down to New Mexico, again on backroads where I can, and pick up the Great Divide Route once more to the border.

I’m sure to miss the phenomenally detailed route maps I’ve become used to. Many of these forest tracks I’ll now be following south should be just as remote, so, taking a leaf from the Adventure Cycling Association, I’ve spent the morning at Staples compiling detailed topographical state maps from DeLorme, and highlighting where I’m going. I’d thought of laminating them for that final professional touch, but a zip lock bag will have to do.

An alternative to the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route? Cass' Gravelly Ride South.

Jackson seems mellower and less austentacious than I imagined, though I guess ski season – and the money that comes with it – has yet to kick in. The main square has a resort feel to it, and many of the stores are clad in the veneer of the log cabin or frontier town look. The fruit at the local supermarket seems perhaps a little more buffed and shiny than normal, and there’s a rather grand fireplace there too. But apart from that, Jackson seems to have kept to its roots as a beguiling, laid back mountain town, its roads populated by Subarus and pickup trucks loaded with the mountain person’s paraphernalia of skis/kayaks/bikes. The backstreets are quiet, with simple and elegant contemporary houses interspersed with old, wonky wooden buildings.

I like the vibe.

Lima, MT to Jackson, WY

With all this snow billowing in across the region, I’m now having to patch together a modified plan, borrowing bits that are still rideable from the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route, with (boring) stretches of roads that are more likely to be open. As an overview, the route heads from Montana briefly into Idaho, before crossing into Wyoming, and then Colorado. Which means more and more mountains, and higher and higher elevations. At this point, the question is: should I head south towards the warmer climes of Utah and hit the mountain bike meccas of Fruita and Moab. Or should I persevere into Colorado and risk more snow…

Here’s some pictures I took while crossing Idaho to Jackson, Wyoming, where I’m based at the moment.

Outside Lima's one motel was this immaculate 1958 Plymouth Fury 3 for sale.

It didn't look that furious...

I'd paid to camp in the backyard, but ended up sleeping in the laundromat instead. Much warmer! I did have a moment when I thought: is this really me, age 35, sleeping on the floor of a laundromat, alone, counting my every last dollar? But then I decided I'm okay with that. I like living this way for now. It feels invigorating; being outside of my comfort zone reawakens my senses and makes me feel truly alive.

Cooking up a feast of a dinner. I sure know how to treat myself in these cold times.

Three plank-thick blueberry pancakes in the local diner set me up nicely in the morning. Most of the conversations I've been overhearing have been about hunting, often for wolfs, which has just been introduced this year. Like: 'I saw a pretty white one in the hills behind– should make someone a real special prize.'

Diners, like the outside of cheap supermarkets as I’ve come to discover, are good places for weird conversations with unusual people. One of the waitresses in Lima looked a little like a white version of Tina Turner – very cool. Tucking into my pancakes, I was soon approached by a man with claw hand, who’d lost his fingers in an industrial accident. Retired since he was 32, he proceded explain the ins and outs of different mining equipment, and what each truck could haul, pincering his remaining fingers as he spoke. My eyes glazed over – I fear it’s the same reaction when I talk about bikes to people…

When I took to the road at 9am, it was 10F . That's -12C!

I was togged up in all my layers, even my trusty jeans, for the long climb up and over the pass, and didn’t even break into a sweat. My water bottles froze as I rode, as did my beard. Beards sure keep you warm, but can be socially embarrasing when you start to defrost mid conversation.

Unfortunately I've had to detour off the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route for now, as the forest track to Lake View is currently impassable. Luckily the Interstate was almost empty, with a massive shoulder to ride on, a safe cushion from the goliath trucks that thundered past. Sometimes they tooted their horns, low and resonant, in greeting.

Hello Idaho.

Views from Interstate 15.

First impressions? Not a lot of people, but lots of dilapidated, abandoned houses by the roadside.

Luckily I didn’t have to ride the interstate too long, as I tracked down a snow-free gravel road that cut round the mountains out of Spencer, a one strip hamlet famous for its locally mined opals.

I popped into the local gas station/opal store to check directions, and was somewhat embarrassed to find my beard defrosting as I spoke, dripping onto a prestine counter. ‘It’s okay,’ said the lady, ‘happens all the time when my husband has a beard,’ before hurrying off to fetch me a paper towel.

Later, as I was standing outside, cold and uncertain as to where I was heading, I managed to resist two temptations. First I met BK, who offered me a lift in his 4WD to Jackson, where I was headed. Then Connie pulled up, travelling south from Alberta to San Francisco in her VW van, with a Husky that adopted her, as she put it. As we sat and chatted, a biting coldness overwhelmed me. It was the kind of coldness that burrows deep, even deeper than all my layers. When she offered to give me a ride south to warmer climes, there was no doubt in my mind that I’d turn it down. But part of me wished I could have taken her up on it, and that I didn’t need to feel so constrained by my plans.

Instead, I set off once more, my body and my mood warming up on the first hill, music playing in my ears, uplifting my spirits. A little while later, the sheriff passed by and pulled over to see what I was up to, a lone cyclist making his way slowly across an empty backroad, under a porcelain sky.

Indeed, the lanscape was all but bereft of features. Lumps of obsidian, once used by native Indians for arrowheads, protruded out of the earth. Voles scuttled by, their tales pointing straight up into the air like radio antennas.

Blaine Grover, 85. Although he now lives in Dubois, just down the road, he moved into the house behind in 1942. It didn't look like much had changed since then.

Roadside encounters uplifted my mood too. I love how approachable cycling makes me to people I pass by. Like Blaine Grover, a local farmer, who shook his head in wonder at the notion of riding down from Alaska. ‘How old are you?’ he asked. When I told him I was 35, he laughed merrily and said: ‘Aren’t you old enough to know better?!’ Then he asked me how old I thought he was, tottering slightly as he stepped back for me to make a proper appraisal. I was suitably complimentary.

I like the way this place was almost identical to the doghouse. Or maybe it's the other way round...

Rexburg, just down the road, is considered one of America's 'reddest' towns.

Soon, farming land was replaced by an expanse of sage scrub and tall, spindly wooden ranch gateways, cordorning off what seemed like vast tracts of empty land. Abandoned houses, their peeling paint muted over time, dotted the landscape.

Another dilapidated Idahoan farmhouse.

Camping amongst the sagebrush.

I’d heard there were ice caves along the way but didn’t want to end up sharing one with a local mountain lion, so opted for a clearing amongst the sage brush; a peaceful spot is was too.

That night, the temperature plummetted. Nowadays when I go to sleep, I’m pretty much in everything I wear during the day – long johns, jeans, base layer, jersey, fleece, jacket and wooley hat. At least it makes getting going the next day pretty quick…

21st century camping. I while away the cold night watching episodes of Flight of the Conchords...

In St Anthony, a backwater farming town festooned with 50s, neon-signed shops, I asked a lady for directions at a four way junction; she immediately invited me in to stay at her farm down the road. But it was early, and I needed to push on to keep ahead of the storm. To check up on the weather, I stopped in at the visitor centre, which shared its offices with the police station, the medical centre, the town treasury and the library. It smelled of a hospital and there, a lady breathing through an oxygen tank marvelled at my accent, and suggested I check in at the forestry office, 12 miles down the road in Ashton.

The 'burbs of St Anthony.

And downtown.

Novel letterbox.

Roadside scene in Idaho: trucks and horses.

In Ashton, I was told that snow was 40 per cent likely for that night, which might mean several miles of pushing over the pass. But I was keen to get back on the route, and to experience the remoteness of those forest tracks again, so figured that with the odds in my favour, I’d give it a go.

Into Wyoming and the Targhee National Forest. I was only in Idaho for two days and a night. The folks sure were friendly though.

Loon Lake in the late evening.

I camped close to South Boon creek and in amongst some trees, to protect me from the snowfall. That night, I listened to flakes crinkling on the tent, like candy wrappers in a cinema.

I was hoping all the bears would have slunk off to hibernate by now, but apparently there are still plenty around. In fact, they hang around until the end of hunting season, feasting on the entrails that hunters leave behind from the kills they’ve gutted and chopped up. I also heard that this forest is where the ‘bad grizzlies’ are transferred to, if they misbehave in nearby Yellowstone National Park.

It didn't feel so cold that night, but it still managed to freeze the water in my cooking pot.

In the morning, the sun was beaming in all its glory, and the night’s snowfall had compacted down, filling in the body-jarring corrugated track that had rattled loose my fillings the day before.

This marker had increments for 11 feet of snow...

As I rode, two National Park Rangers, Chris and Jason, pulled over in their truck for a chat, surprised to see a cyclist out alone in the forest.  Chris insisted I grab myself a coffee and a beer in the resort down the road, and put it on his tab. Then, a jeep with two distinctly glamorous couples from Idaho pulled over to find out what I was up to. The driver was clearly a cyclist, noting my Brooks saddle and Rohloff hub, so I enthused about this wonderful route, and how fortunate he was in having it in his backyard.

Uh oh. Roadworks. Unlike India, where cyclists can weave there way between road crews and steamrollers with little concern for 'health and safety', in the US, the rules are the rules, and you have to be driven through. Gutted. Great views of the Teton Range though.

For the first time on this trip, I had to take a ride in a pilot truck through 8 miles of roadworks, despite pleading over the radio with the head honcho. I’ve no doubt he gets the same pleas from every other cyclist on their ’special’ journey. The only way round it was to stay until work ended at 7.30pm, when it’s dark. It was a deflating moment, but I tried to see it in a positive light too. Riding every single last mile really just panders to your ego. Having to swallow your pride once in a while is no bad thing.

The skies cleared, and as I rode round Jackson Lake, the Teton range sharpened into view. The highest peak in the range is Grand Teton, at 13 770ft. The peak in the centre of this shot is Mount Moran, at 12 605ft. Inevitably given its beauty, the roads are noticeably more busy now, even this late in the season.

I’d planned to try and reach Jackson, but there was a strong headwind to contend with. When I stopped in at the grocers along the way, I bumped into Sean, Ingrid and Kate, the family from Skye travelling to South America on their tandem. The campsite there was just $5 for hikers and bikers, so that helped seal the deal for an impromptu stop. I was pleased to note that RVs pay $45, the way it should be, to rebalance the coffers. It’s a shame that in in a lot of official campsites in the US and Canada, a cyclist looking for a small patch of land to pitch a tent pays the same as a family-filled RV on their massive pad of gravel.

What a contrast. I'd camped in the sunshine but by the next morning, there was half a foot of snow on the tent.

Sean and Ingrid, heading south to Argentina, home schooling Kate along the way. When I first met them in a campsite near Jasper, Canada, Ingrid was calling desperately out to Kate to 'get back and do your homework.' Family life. Different setting, same scenario...

After last night's storm, the views were perhaps even more imposing. As a blizzard swept in, it felt like I was viewing the world in black and white on the last 30 mile stretch to Jackson.

Thawing out after the storm. Snow had gathered in the folds of my jacket and crystalised along my eyebrows.

More cool addresses. A bit like living in a place called Dog.

The venerable Ford F150. Preferred truck it seems of residents of Wyoming. And Montana. And Alaska.

Apparently Jackson was never a true cowboy town - it's always been shaped and contrived for tourism. Nowadays it's the weekend escape of the billionaire crowd, and I noticed private jets to-ing and fro-ing from the airport. Still, as I rode into town, I could really picture riders galloping across the plains in a scene from the old Wild West.

At first glance, Jackson seems a curious blend of ultra wealthy residents rubbing shoulders with hippyish ski bums – apparently it has some of the best, and easily accessed backcountry skiing and snowboarding in the country. Everyone glows with the healthy sheen of the outdoors. It’s the kind of place where you can leave the keys in your car, and your house unlocked. In fact, as I rode into town, Nick, who’d cycled to Jackson from New Hamphire to work and ski, offered me a place to stay, having seen me way on his way back from work.

Right now, I’m staying with David Gonzales, a film maker/photographer/climber/skier, who kindly offered to put me up at the last moment. David keeps a great photo story blog and makes some very cool films, often revolving around the area and its issues. Today, I drove a neighbour’s truck so he could get a tyre fixed – the first time I’ve driven in a long while. The engine was low pitched and burbly. Despite myself, I did feel strangely powerful… Soon I was feeling confident enough to have my elbow sticking out of the window, and with my scraggly beard, I felt like a proper Mountain Man.

I’d love to spend a winter in a mountain town one day, though of course I’d invest in a Surly Pugsley…

I'm taking a day out to plot my next move. Which means I get to housesit David's lovely dog Peppy, as he's headed out of town for the night. Today, I mooched around town and checked out Teton Mountaineering. Pepy was amazing - following me around without a leash, drawing a crowd of admirers at every store. I want a Pepy!

Storm 2: Polaris to Lima, MT

Here’s a picture story from our second storm. It might seem a little tame compared to Lava Mountain, but it felt pretty full on at the time. Suffice to say that it was enough for Robert and Chris, who have only a couple of weeks of their trip left, to cut their losses and head for the southerly sun in Moab, lured by the notion of mountain biking in T shirts. Very sensible…

The day began with brooding skies, but none of the driving winds or snow we'd been promised.

After a long drag on the pavement, battling cattle trucks that whooshed past a razor width away, or so it seemed, we turned off onto quieter dirt roads once more.

Cue snow, which turned the clay-based surface to a tacky mush that sucked on our wheels - gumball, the locals call it.

Robert wobbles on as the ice forms...

And the winds start to blow...

I was ready for battle though. Shimano boots, wool leg warmers and odd laces. A killer combo: performance and style.

Chris kept toasty in his new wardrobe of ski boots/trousers/mitts. Those derailleur gremlins were still conspiring to do their best to slow him down though.

With horizontal snow stinging our faces, we took refuge in Cross Ranch, whose owner kindly availed us of his heated workshop for a session of bike cleaning and food chomping.

The Travel Master's Rohloff revels in these conditions. Very impressive. I really like my Epic Designs front bag too.

A little warmer, drier, and with full bellies, Robert and I persevered on the gumball trails. Chris opted for tarmac to salvage his gear system, chancing his luck with a ferocious headwind instead.

A good choice, as the track got worse and worse. The mud slowed us down to a 5mph crawl.

Fancy a drink?

Here's Robert and his nearly new Thorn Sterling. Sticky mud comes extra.

Not very motel friendly, me thinks.

Eventually we emerged back onto tarmac, following a frontage road parallel to the highway for the final push to Dell.

It was dark by the time we got to the welcoming warmth of its one and only mercantile, relieved to be out of the cold.

Which brings me up to date with our night in the characterful Amish log cabin. Robert and Chris are now in Moab, so from here on, I’ll be back on my own again. I’m writing this from Jackson WY, trying to plot my next move – one eye on the map, the other on the weather…

Tough days deserve a treat.

Butte to Polaris: the calm before…

I’m now a stone’s through from Jackson, Wyoming. First though, here’s a couple of catch-up blogs from the lux lounge of the Signal Resort while I camp down the road!

So, to recap. After a night in the opulent Super 8 motel (and prolonged all-you-eat breakfast), Robert and I took for the trails once more. Chris still had errands to run in Butte, fettling with his bike and trailer setup, before investing in a whole new wardrobe of toasty clothes to fend off this unexpected onset of chilly weather…

A long but easy going climb took us back to 7000ft, crossing Continental Divide no 5.

Still snowing up here...

A great address.

Then a wonderful dirt road led us down a massive descent where I hit just shy of 40mph. Getting air off the waterbars on a 50kg bike is good fun...

Poor hand, looking a little puffy.

By the way, I think I’ve fractured my hand in a mountain biking incident in Missoula. While riding a lovely ti Co Motion hardtail, I endoed down a concrete flight of stairs. My excuse? The brakes were set up the American, ‘wrong’ way. Several days later, my hand swelled up like a puffer fish, so much so that I had to coax it into my winter gloves. ‘Vitamin I’ helped bring the swelling down, though there’s now a sizeable, hard lump in its place.. My theory? The fractured bone is reforming; bigger, better and stronger! It doesn’t hurt too much when I ride, bar the odd stabbing pain when I touch it or put on my gloves. If anyone with medical knowledge could concur with my theory, that would be great!

After a shimmy under Interstate 15, we were back on quiet roads again. Unfortunately we had to miss out on the infamous singletrack of Fleecer Ridge, which is currently knee deep in snow. Gutted!

Nothing beats a night of camping after a great day's riding. Unless it's below freezing...

All work and no play is no fun at all. I've had this topcap for ten years, and it's moved with me from bike to bike.

Tech Talk. A word of warning to fully loaded Dividers running Rohloff Speedhubs. Quash your ego and fit a 38T sprocket. The climbs are steep...

In the morning, we rode through Divide. As far as I could see, it had one bar and, well, that's about it.

I like the way this old truck was parked up somewhat randomly in a field to a beautiful backdrop, as if it was on a shoot for a 70s brochure.

If you're passing by, the Wise River Club motel rustles up a behemoth plate of pancakes and maple syrup for 4 dollars. One half of the couple who runs it is from Scotland, and speaks with a curious Scotch/Montanan lilt, he used to be a keen cyclist too.

The gentle 30 mile climb up towards the pass was lush, passing one beautiful potential campsite after another, each enticing us to stop with these kinds of views...

These riparian meadows teem with willows, beavers, moose and mallards.

Almost up and over. Ten to eleven thousand feet peaks were all around.

Needing to catch up for lost time, we pushed on over the pass, and after a fast, chilly descent, holed up in Grasshopper Creek. Seems another storm is brewing…

(more on that soon…)