I looked at the clock, 7:23 AM. It was early enough. It was late enough. I hadn’t rested much, heart rate still somewhat elevated I felt better in motion than trying to lay there. This day would start off a little dry, water-wise. The last stop I made for water was far enough back down the road that I drank about half my stash. After making dinner and trying to re-hydrate I didn’t have a lot to ride with to the next water stop. It definitely meant I couldn’t make coffee or oatmeal. I reversed my lunch and breakfast meal plan, which mean’t I could cook oatmeal for lunch.
About 8:20 AM I was back on the road following the undulations of FR309. I would experience some of the highest points of my ride on that ridgeline, riding spans of road over 10,000 feet. I descended quickly to the road junction, the intersection that would become a road back to Heber through Lake Creek or the other direction that would take me further out. This was FR054. Once on this road I quickly found West Fork’s headwaters.
This was the spot where I would have liked to have been camped. There was running water. Either way, I hadn’t made it that far the night before. So I enjoyed a coffee and water break there. It was my personal creekside cafe; I had some snacks and hit the road again.
My break was possibly too enjoyable. I had a long way to go. From the ridge top I’d ridden moments before I could see the major peaks of the Uintah mountains that congregated around the Mirror Lake highway. They seemed so far away and I was trying to get within 10 miles of them that day. As I broke my rest and started back up 054 and on to 091 I could see a better view. I tried taking pictures but it was so far away. I couldn’t capture the grandeur of what I was trying to do that day.
Up onto Lightning Ridge I rode and finally enjoyed some quiet from the backcountry traffic that had pestered my route. The views were spectacular and I was in the highest country around. The pines had set in all around me and the scent of old pine sap and oxidizing pine needles filled my nostrils with nostalgic rumination of all the places I’d known with that lovely smell. The dirt road had become less traveled and less maintained. My bike was content. I was content. The experience was peaceful.
The bike I’d chosen for this trip was a Rocky Mountain Blizzard -30 fat bike. I’m not a believer that their sole use should be for winter. I ride it all the time in the summer. In fact, this is my only bike. I have a RockShox Bluto on there. And it’s pretty sweet. For this bike packing thing, it was perfect for carrying the load while maintaining some kind of smooth ride. The tires could deal with the rocks and ruts below while comfortably suspending my body and gear above the bike.
Needless to say, there were plenty of comments from the backcountry peanut gallery. The “backcountry”, as it were, was loaded with bow hunters and folks in side-by-sides, RV’s, campers, trucks, four-wheelers, etc. I was never quite alone. There were sections of my ride that I experienced highway level traffic, but not trucks and cars; atv’s of all sorts were buzzing like they had business to do. There were villages of campers, the RV type, not the tent type, everywhere.
I buzzed quietly by, the sound of my DT Swiss ratchet-drive the only signal of my passing through. The whir of my huge tires didn’t manifest since the road had become so dusty. My only emissions for the day would be some expelled gas from my gut. I was really the only small polluter out there.
Riding along the ridge I pitched down toward Wolf Creek Pass and Campground. This was where I had planned to make a water stop. Well, I made a stop, started cooking my lunch and nearly out of water headed for the spigot. Dry.