Riding the Kokopelli Trail -- Part One

Kokopelli.  The mention of it doesn't elicit much response from most of us.  Kokopelli is a mystical, flute-playing Hopi Native American fertility spirit, a desert-mountain jester, alternately provoking carnal behavior, providing rain for crops or intoning a healing melody -- all by tooting his magical flute.

In certain circles, though, the term "Kokopelli" means the promise of wild jeep roads and single track, winding along valley and high desert ridge along the Colorado River from just outside Fruita, Colorado all the way to Moab, Utah.  A magnet for all vehicles off-road, most sections are challenging on their own; completing the entire trail carries a "Bucket List" allure for knobby-tired motorcyclists, monster 4-wheelers...and mountain bikers.  It's one hundred forty-two miles of rugged, unforgiving, breathtakingly beautiful vistas.  Part lunar surface and part Martian red stone, and at times, every bit as inviting. 

John Wayne country.  And a mountain bikers' paradise.

So it was the eponymous trail that was my focus last week.  It started, as these things often do, with a casual suggestion in a Facebook post.  One thing led to another, schedules were cleared, logistics support procured, airline tickets purchased, and before you can say, well, "John Wayne," we had a Serious Mountain Biking Adventure Plan put together.

For me, it was an opportunity to reconnect with Joe, a dear friend and colleague from my time in Nashville, now living in Pagosa Springs, Colorado.  The bonus was that he, in turn, assembled a number of his friends with whom he had some history from his many career assignments:  the Durango Connection -- Gerald, or "G" who Joe also met in Nashville (but whom I'd never met); and Chris, a young paddler and mountain biking virtuoso.  Add in Joe's next-door neighbor and thoughtful entrepreneur, Steve, and you have a recipe for the Ride of a Lifetime.

Full disclosure time:  as we discussed this over the planning stages, I expressed my, um, concern that with my 10- to 20-year seniority over everyone else in our group, along with my residence a good 9,000 feet below the rare air towns in southern Colorado, wouldn't I just be kind of a wet blanket for the overall festivities?  Joe's answer reassured me -- a little:  "It's not a race; we're just out to have an awesome time."

Mountain bikers can be a Jekyll-and-Hyde group; there are those whose sole purpose in life is the shred every trail they encounter, to take single track by the throat and pummel it into submission.  Then there are those who follow this mantra:  “Go ahead and ride as fast as you can.  There will always be riders behind you, and they’re having a much better time.”  While there is a little of Robert Louis Stevenson’s famous schizo in every mountain biker, our group definitely leaned toward the Jekyll side.  Our tour group, alas, also included another half-dozen riders who were Hyde all the way.

Arriving in Grand Junction, I still was unsure about my ability to complete this ride.  I was just recovering from the flu.  My training had revealed that I required much more recovery time than I did at, say, age fifty.  One hundred forty-two miles, logistics support only (meaning that Joe and Steve did all the critical meal planning, gear planning, pace planning, group management planning); the tour company essentially hauled our camping gear and food from one pre-determined campsite to the next.  It was up to us to pitch camp, cook, clean up and repack everything before riding the next day.  A minor diversion, but still requiring some additional energy.

Bright and early on Thursday morning, the Hermosa Tours van dropped us at the Loma trailhead and we were off.  Nice single track at first, then some challenging climbs...and then we hit the Rough Stuff.  Boulder-strewn, jutted-rock single rack and jeep trails, only navigable by the most elite mountain bikers.  And a lot of the trail was simply, as we say, "hike-a-bike."  Carrying bike and pack up grades either too steep or too rocky (or both) to ride.  Easily the most difficult terrain I’d ever encountered, it was taxing beyond comprehension.  A true wake-up call for what the Kokopelli was all about.  But our group hung together.  Early on, Joe's friends became my friends.  They offered quiet encouragement.  Took long breaks with me.  We ate two lunches of smoked salmon wraps, fig bars, chips and fruit.  It became clear early on that it really wasn't a race.  Thirty-five miles, 8 hours and, according to my heart rate monitor, a whopping 6,000 calories later, we rolled into camp at Bitter Creek Mesa.

Despite the gracious support from my new friends, I was toast.  And honestly, close to throwing in the towel.  I'd never ridden so long, so far or so hard on a mountain bike; was I ready to repeat this for three additional days?  I wondered how my recovery time would ever be enough to prep me for Day Two.  My training experience suggested that fatigue leads to dumb mistakes – could I afford such a risk on such a treacherous trail?  But over a dinner of pesto pasta with chicken or salmon, Joe, Steve, G and Chris talked about all that we’d seen that day.  The variety of scenery.  The valley basins stretching for miles.  The omnipresent peaks of the La Sal Mountains.  Was it possible that I was not seeing these things because I had my head up my bike shorts?  What was it that they were doing that, in my preparation, I’d missed?  I never mentioned my apprehension, vowing to see what the next morning would bring.  I decided that if I had any doubts before we rolled out Friday morning, I'd opt to ride in the van.

As I lay in my tent that night, with the full moon beaming high over the still-distant La Sal mountains (our ultimate summit), I considered my options.  I hadn’t come all this way to ride in the stinking van.  On the other hand, I didn’t want to risk genuine injury, either.  But I remembered My Bride’s parting comment to me as I left for the airport:  “Be in the moment.  You might not ever pass this way again.”

To be continued…