As we studied the map at camp this morning over bagels, cream cheese, and peach slices, we concluded that the day's ride looked easy enough.
"It's going to be mostly downhill once we get over the pass," Brock observed.
We had detoured from our route to experience the delights of Crested Butte and the 30 mile long Kebler Pass which lay west of town. I'd found a glowing description of Kebler Pass as I languidly flipped through an outdoor adventure magazine at the coffeeshop in Grand Lake---under the heading "10 undiscovered/secret must-go destinations" or somesuch. At any rate, the article convinced me.
While Kebler Pass has clearly been discovered and is no secret to many Colorado residents, I thrilled at the chance to digress from the 2 lane highways we've been frequenting. Our campsite last night, on top of being free, entertained us with one of the most glorious mountain views of the trip thus far.
Fortified with bagelly carbohydrates, we clicked into low gear and cranked our way up through the mountains on the wide gravel road. To liken us to slow lumbering oxen would not be amiss. Vehicles passed us every few minutes, but cautiously, as the road was fairly rough and windy. I found that I could look around and take in the scenery more easily than when we're on busier throughways.
After a few miles we reached the top of the pass---at about 9,000 ft., it was thankfully lacking in stature compared to others we've climbed. To our surprise, we found a small cemetery at the summit which housed the remains of at least 50 inhabitants of the nearby ghost town of Irwin. The grandest tombstone marked the grave of a young woman who had died 130 years ago on this very day of the year, July 31. Good set-up for a horror movie.
The descent was long, much longer than I'd anticipated. For most of our journey, we've used Adventure Cycling's maps which douse you with information: elevation profiles, detailed mileage, etc. Now we consult a Colorado State road map which, while sufficient, leaves out many of the details I've become accustomed to.
Maybe ignorance is bliss. I've become less obsessed with elevation profiles and I take the ups and downs as they materialize.
At any rate, we descended a solid 4,000 ft. and 20 miles through Kebler Pass. On a paved road this is lulling bliss, but on gravel, even the firm gravel that we rolled over, you can't sit back, feather the breaks once in awhile, and relax. By the time we reached the bottom, I had an arm-aching case of shaken biker syndrome.
The tranquil road, luminous aspen groves, and closeness of the peaks trumped my physical discomforts, however. I'd do it again.
The heat intensified as we entered a valley dotted with coal mines. A merciful post-lunch splash into the north fork of the Gunnison River temporarily washed away our sticky coatings of sweat.
By the time we reached Paonia, we were hot and weary. Dazed by the heat, I grabbed the first thing that looked good in the frozen section of Dan's Market: a big box of orange sherbert. As Brock and I sat on a bench outside mechanically spooning out the icy treat, passersby glanced at us curiously. Too tired to invite conversation, I avoided eye contact.
Reluctant to hit the road, we waited out the heat under the shade of a few large trees in a tiny park on Main Street.
An elderly man approached us as we walked into the shade. "I want to say something to the young lady here, " he said. I braced myself, waiting for some sort of accusation. "I saw you stop at the 4 way stop sign back there," the man continued. "I've never seen anyone do that. Thank you for setting an example for the rest us."
I knew that Brock was truly exhausted when he turned down some locals' offer of beer and opted to sprawl, eyes closed, on the green grass.
After about a half hour, large sheets of cloud shrouded the sun and we felt rested enough to move on.
I'm glad that I didn't see the elevation profile for the homestretch 12 miles of the day, or else I may have been tempted to admit defeat. Unaware that the road only went up, I held out hope as I crested each hill that that one would be the last.
It never was; we ascended steadily past pastureland, fields, and a few vineyards until we came to Crawford State Park and our home for the night.
I'm excited for tomorrow's destination: the Black Canyon of the Gunnison, Say that with a "yargh" and a pirate sneer and see what happens.
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