Last weekend was spent in the wonderful town of Prescott. Jack and I headed out of the Valley around 8 a.m. and didn't stop until the smog was replaced with the fresh cold air of the high country. Prescott and the land surrounding it offers so much in the way of hiking, climbing, biking, and everything outdoors that I don't think that I could ever explore all of it, but I'm trying. We met Pierre and Evelyn at the Alto Pit Off Road Vehicle Area, which is the site of an upcoming MBAA race and home to some incredible trails fit for everything from mountain bikes to dirt bikes to quads. We started on a 5 mile loop that was supposed to be the main loop for the race, and had an incredible time. The trails were a bit loose with sand, but Fish was loving his new Continental Vertical tire, and we were flyin'. Unfortunately, he's getting spoiled now, and is demanding a new front tire as well. In hopes of protecting my right knee and keeping upright, I think I'm going to oblige. Though Pierre and Eveyln aren't seasoned mountain bikers, they are pretty hardcore triathletes and are in incredible shape. We went back and forth on the trails, depending on the technicality or steepness of the hills. I might have been better at the technical stuff, but they definitely made me realize that I have a long ways to go before I'm fit for triathalons. We also switched back and forth with Jack, who was using the ride as an introduction to clipless pedals. He had limited success at first as he spent many of the hills falling over when he couldn't unclip, but was relieved when Pierre noted that he had the clips at the hardest setting. Once he adjusts the clips he should be fine. We did two more loops after the first one and found some pretty sweet trails weaving throughout the area, including some pretty amazing steep drops in addition to the gritty inclines. After a good tough ride at altitude, which is great training for the Whiskey 50 Off Road race that I have coming up, we headed back to town for some post-ride grub at the Prescott Brewing Company. Pierre and Jack got along great, and we spent most of lunch talking about upcoming races and motorcycles. After lunch, Jack headed home and Pierre, Evelyn, and I found our way over to Copper Basin Road, which will be part of the course for the Whiskey Marathon in a few weeks. Pierre and Evelyn were thinking about running it, so we got the bikes out and decided to see what the course was like. I rode four miles with them, and all of them were straight up the ridgeline. If I had previously had any premonitions about running it, they were crushed in much the same manner as my lungs in the high altitude lack of oxygen. It was getting late in the day, and none of us were exactly sure how much higher the road was going to go, so I decided to turn around and try to find a camp before it got dark. The four miles up took around 30 minutes... and the return coast down the steep hills took 10. I didn't pedal during the majority of it either. Crazy fast.
After I got back to the Jeep I stowed the bike and drove up to Senator Highway to find some camping in the National Forest. I parked at the 307 Trailhead and headed up into what I thought was familiar territory. I followed the trail for a quarter mile or so, enjoying the tall pines that sheltered newly leafing shrubs and delicate wildflowers. Then it all came to an abrupt halt at a strip of pink tape that girdled a large tree; the words on the tape clearly indicating what I was about to enter: Timber Harvest Boundary. What I saw in front of me looked more indicative of something that Indiana Land Company might try to pull off than something that the U.S. Forest Service would allow, much less authorize. The so-called "thinning project" wasn't exactly clear cutting, but the largest of the pines had been harvested, leaving a litter of branches and stumps in their wake. Deep ruts scarred the landscape, reminding me of the gashes in my own knee and hurting just as bad. The trail was lost in the hillside that is sure to become an eroded mess in the summer rains that prevail in the high country. I was shocked at the destruction of my once pristine forest, and continued numbly up through the maze of fallen limbs, unsure of where to go. After a mile or so, I came upon a rid
geline that was too pocked with boulders and scrub oak to warrant a chainsaw, and I was once again aquainted with the forest that I knew and loved. As I stood on a small outcropping of granite, I watched two white tails scamper through the thicket. Happy that I was back in land where the deer (and maybe antelope) roamed and with the sun sinking ever closer to the western hills, I set down my pack and scouted out a good place to camp. I found what I was looking for at the top of the granite slab. A patch of dried grass lay underneath a large scrub oak, with a few small pines fallen into the tree to create a sort of shelter on the ridge. After picking out a few dead branches, it created the perfect place for a sleeping bag: protected from the wind and dew, but still allowing me a clear view of the valley below and the sky above. I laid down the footprint to my tent, pulled on a fleece, and broke out the JetBoil for a fine dinner of Mountain House Mac n Cheese. I read for a little bit after dinner, and then spent the last remaining twilight hours watching the stars come out and listening to the bugs and crickets and owls. It was the most relaxed night that I had experienced in a long time, and I fell asleep smiling. I woke the next morning before the sun arched its way over the eastern ridgeline, and watched the stars disappear one by one, thankful that I got a 35 degree sleeping bag even if I do live in Arizona. The temperature was well below 40, but I was snug and happy as I watched the first rays of morning light paint the tips of the snow capped mountains around me with a bright yellow tint. Life doesn't get much better or more simple than that. After a few hours of watching the sun fill the ridge and valleys below with its warm rays, I packed up camp and headed back to the Jeep. Not yet willing to go back to civilization, I went bouldering for a bit on the large granite rocks along the trail and then stopped by Goldwater Lake before I drove into town for some lunch. I ate on a park bench on the courthouse lawn, surrounded by dandilions and blooming crabapple trees. I lazed away the rest of the afternoon in this manner, reading and relaxing. Alas, I couldn't stay in the wonderful town forever, and as the sun started waning once more, I headed back to the Valley of the Sun for another week in the life.
After I got back to the Jeep I stowed the bike and drove up to Senator Highway to find some camping in the National Forest. I parked at the 307 Trailhead and headed up into what I thought was familiar territory. I followed the trail for a quarter mile or so, enjoying the tall pines that sheltered newly leafing shrubs and delicate wildflowers. Then it all came to an abrupt halt at a strip of pink tape that girdled a large tree; the words on the tape clearly indicating what I was about to enter: Timber Harvest Boundary. What I saw in front of me looked more indicative of something that Indiana Land Company might try to pull off than something that the U.S. Forest Service would allow, much less authorize. The so-called "thinning project" wasn't exactly clear cutting, but the largest of the pines had been harvested, leaving a litter of branches and stumps in their wake. Deep ruts scarred the landscape, reminding me of the gashes in my own knee and hurting just as bad. The trail was lost in the hillside that is sure to become an eroded mess in the summer rains that prevail in the high country. I was shocked at the destruction of my once pristine forest, and continued numbly up through the maze of fallen limbs, unsure of where to go. After a mile or so, I came upon a rid
geline that was too pocked with boulders and scrub oak to warrant a chainsaw, and I was once again aquainted with the forest that I knew and loved. As I stood on a small outcropping of granite, I watched two white tails scamper through the thicket. Happy that I was back in land where the deer (and maybe antelope) roamed and with the sun sinking ever closer to the western hills, I set down my pack and scouted out a good place to camp. I found what I was looking for at the top of the granite slab. A patch of dried grass lay underneath a large scrub oak, with a few small pines fallen into the tree to create a sort of shelter on the ridge. After picking out a few dead branches, it created the perfect place for a sleeping bag: protected from the wind and dew, but still allowing me a clear view of the valley below and the sky above. I laid down the footprint to my tent, pulled on a fleece, and broke out the JetBoil for a fine dinner of Mountain House Mac n Cheese. I read for a little bit after dinner, and then spent the last remaining twilight hours watching the stars come out and listening to the bugs and crickets and owls. It was the most relaxed night that I had experienced in a long time, and I fell asleep smiling. I woke the next morning before the sun arched its way over the eastern ridgeline, and watched the stars disappear one by one, thankful that I got a 35 degree sleeping bag even if I do live in Arizona. The temperature was well below 40, but I was snug and happy as I watched the first rays of morning light paint the tips of the snow capped mountains around me with a bright yellow tint. Life doesn't get much better or more simple than that. After a few hours of watching the sun fill the ridge and valleys below with its warm rays, I packed up camp and headed back to the Jeep. Not yet willing to go back to civilization, I went bouldering for a bit on the large granite rocks along the trail and then stopped by Goldwater Lake before I drove into town for some lunch. I ate on a park bench on the courthouse lawn, surrounded by dandilions and blooming crabapple trees. I lazed away the rest of the afternoon in this manner, reading and relaxing. Alas, I couldn't stay in the wonderful town forever, and as the sun started waning once more, I headed back to the Valley of the Sun for another week in the life.
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