Any outdoor enthusiast has that one special place. Whether it’s that certain mountain or special trail or specific piece of road, it becomes the favorite. We may have other spots that we run or hike or bike more, but this one is the ONE. We’ve been on it enough to know all its subtleties. There’s that big ponderosa at mile one that I can’t walk by without stopping and pressing my face to its bark, inhaling its spicy vanilla scent. There’s that bush just beyond the last corner that tells me I’m almost to the top. The rock on the left just fell a few years ago after a heavy rainstorm. You know that place. It starts to feel like an old friend.
That place for me on my bike is the double pass ride from Sula to North Fork and back. I summit Lost Trail pass two times. I love climbing. Put me on a high mountain pass and my heart soars. Every spring, I wait anxiously for the roads to clear of snow and the road crews to go through and sweep the shoulders. This past weekend was finally the time. I was ready. My pass was calling.
As I was thinking about my route, I decided to do something a little different this time. Normally I just ride the straight shot up and over from Sula to North Fork, then turn around and come back. This time, I thought, why not add a third summit. Rather than going up and over, I would go up, hang a left and keep going up to the top of Chief Joseph Pass, down the other side around ten miles or so, turn around and summit again, then ride down towards North Fork but only go as far as Gibbonsville, then turn around and come back up for summit number three, before descending to Sula and my truck. This new route would give me the same amount of miles as the old route, but with a third summit. I was excited.
Triple Summit morning dawned clear and cold. I knew the Sula basin acts as a cold sink and the temperature would hover near freezing when I started. The forecast showed a high of 70 degrees, so layering would be a challenge. I prepared to be hot on the climbs and cold on the descents. I got dressed, loaded my bike and all my fuel I would need for the multi hour ride, and drove to Sula.
As I parked and unloaded my bike and snacks, I started thinking about the ride ahead. I knew the first five miles to the base of the pass were tough. It's a five mile false flat. The road looks flat but is gaining altitude at about a 3% grade. It can be a maddening mind game as you start berating your legs for betraying you, for not going faster, for complaining when the ride has only just begun. As I clipped in and shoved off, I knew I was on a false flat and the temperature was indeed hovering at freezing. My legs felt stiff and heavy, as I knew they would. I knew trying to hammer into it would be defeating, so I shifted into an easier gear and spun, allowing my legs to warm and loosen, forcing myself to avoid looking at my speed. I instead focused on the scenery. The green meadow to my left always harbored a few deer among the cattle, and this morning was no different. I watched my breath puff out in steam as the five mile false flat passed by slowly.
Before long, I was at the base of the pass. I shifted again into an easier gear, knowing that the real climbing was about to begin. My legs still felt cold and heavy, but I knew a few miles up the pass the air temperature would rise and my muscles would warm. As I approached the first mile marker on the climb, mile marker seven, I fell into my routine of standing for fifty pedal strokes to give my body a change of position. I knew that at mile marker six the grade would steepen for two miles before incrementally easing.
As I approached the first switchback, I thought about the day a few years back when I watched a guy on a motorcycle go flying past me, approaching the 90 degree curve in the road at a speed too high to navigate the corner. I was sure I was about to witness a terrible accident and possible death. At the last moment, the guy braked hard and somehow managed to keep the bike upright around the curve. I lost sight of him after he rounded the corner, but I could hear by the sound of his engine that he had curbed his speed considerably.
As I continued to climb, I felt my muscles begin warm and my legs lighten. Spinning felt good on the climb, and I continued my routine of standing every mile for fifty pedal strokes. I knew at the first and third switchbacks there would be a ripping head wind coming down the side canyons, but once I got around the corner that same wind would be at my back. As I passed mile marker two, I knew I would see the summit soon, and the blue sign marking the rest area and the summit at one mile to go.
Just like that, I reached the summit. As always I was surprised at how quickly the climb had passed. I remembered the first time I was the first in my cycling group to summit, finally climbing faster than all the guys who used to be faster than me. As I pulled into the rest area to refill my water and have a snack, I thought about the day I pulled in and there were two older women sitting at a table giving away home made lemonade. They thought it sounded like a fun thing to do on a sunny Saturday morning. There was the time I reached the summit just behind two big burly men on Harleys. As I was standing outside the bathroom eating my snack, they approached me. They were both large, bald, bearded, and tattooed, clad in black leather and dark sunglasses. I watched them as they approached me, unsure of what was about to transpire. One of them took off his sunglasses, smiled broadly, and in a nasally voice heavy with North Dakota accent, said “That was quite the climb, yah? You did real good there.” “Yah, you betcha. Real good,. You made real good time, yah,” the other biker guy chimed in. I laughed, and we conversed for a few moments before I clipped in and rode on. They passed me on the descent down to North Fork, and they both slowed down, smiled, and gave me big waves and thumbs up as they passed.
It was time to head out on my new segment. I crossed the highway and headed up Chief Joseph Pass, then down the other side. The air at high altitude was still chilly and I shivered slightly on the descent. I knew this descent was shorter than dropping down to Gibbonsville which is exactly why I chose to do this descent first. Three miles down and the road leveled out, still losing elevation but at river grade. I enjoyed the new sights and sounds. The high mountain meadows on either side of the road were vibrant spring green, dotted with an array of wildflowers in all the colors of the rainbow. A creek flowed through the meadow to the south, and I kept my eyes peeled for critters big and small. With a bit of a tailwind, ten miles flew by, and it was time to turn around for summit number two.
Climbing is always different than descending, even if you turn around and climb the same road you just came down. The slower pace allows for more time to fully immerse in the sights. On the descent, I had smelled the musky scent of some large animal but never did see what it was. Now that I was climbing, I noticed three mule deer off the side of the road, grazing on the fresh spring forage. They raised their heads as I spun past them, watched curiously, then returned to grazing. I pedaled on, knowing that at mile three I would start the serious climbing back up to the top of Chief Joseph Pass for summit number two. Before I knew it, I was there. I shifted into an easy gear and spun steadily, feeling my legs sting a bit at the second hard effort of the day. Just like that, I was at the top and headed down one mile to the rest area to refill my water and have another snack.
Two summits down, one to go. First I had to descend down to Gibbonsville, 12 miles down into Idaho on the south side of Lost Trail Pass. Back on my familiar route, I knew this descent would be cold for the first few miles. I put on all my layers I had shed for summit number two, ate my snack, and shoved off.
The cold bit at my face, penetrated my layers as I ripped through the switchbacks. I knew these corners were wide open so I took them at speed, taking the full lane and glancing behind me often to check for vehicles. Those first few miles off the summit are an exercise in muscle control, willing my body not to shiver despite its instinctual effort to do so in an attempt to generate heat. Knowing that once I got down a few miles the air would warm slightly, I gritted my teeth and tensed my body in an effort to keep it still. Shivering makes the bike quiver, and at 35 mph, a quivering bike is not a good thing.
First switchback, second switchback, third switchback, and I could feel the air starting to warm. I softened my jaw, relaxed my shoulders and arms, feeling the sun on my face as I continued my fast descent down down down. My favorite grassy meadow appeared on my left. I did my scan for critters as I sped by, always expecting to see a herd of grazing elk or a family of moose even though I have never seen either there. I did see two sandhill cranes near the pond at the south end of the meadow. "Hi Cranes!" I called as I flew by.
As I pedaled lower and lower down from the summit, I felt the wind start to change. It shifted gently into my face as I knew it always did around that time of morning. I knew and expected that I would have a tailwind climbing back up the pass which would make the climb warmer without a cool breeze in my face. Just like that, I reached Gibbonsville. It was time for summit number three.
I shed my extra layers, had another small snack, and away I went. The contour of the pass on this side went from an easier to harder, getting steepest the last three miles from the summit. I knew this and was prepared for it. I enjoyed the tail wind on the lower section of the pass, finding my climbing rhythm yet again. I passed the sections of hillsides with all the wildflowers blooming, smiled at their vibrant colors in the warm spring sunshine. Up I went, shifting and pedaling, standing and drinking. My favorite meadow appeared again, and as I pedaled slowly by, I greeted the cranes once more. They were far enough away that they didn't look, busy with their crane business.
As I approached the last house on the pass before the real climbing begins, I thought about the nice old man that lived there and wondered how he was doing. Several years before, through a series of unfortunate events and bad timing, I found myself climbing the pass in 95 degree bright hot sunshine. As I climbed higher and higher, I could feel my body struggling. This was not an ordinary hard effort struggle. This was something more, something worse. I was in the midst of heat exhaustion. Thankfully I had the brain power to realize I needed to do something before I took myself into heat stroke, so on a last ditch hope, I pulled into the last house on the pass. I walked up to the front door and knocked. A kind older man answered the door and I explained my predicament, saying that if he could just give me a ride to the top of the pass I could pedal down the other side to my truck with no problem. The kind man enthusiastically agreed, offering me cold water and snacks. We walked over to his brand new, spotlessly clean, big Chevy Silverado extended cab truck. I put my bike in the back and climbed into the cab, sweating, stinking, filthy dirty and afraid to touch anything as to not put my grime all over his shiny new truck. The older man, for his part, sat in the drivers seat and chatted away, inviting my husband and me to come back in the winter to go cross country skiing and stay in one of his guest cabins. He told me about his kids and grandkids, where he grew up, how he came to live in the last cabin on the pass. We reached the summit quickly, me still sweating and stinking, the older man still smiling and chatting away. He offered to drive me to my truck but I declined, thanked him profusely for his kindness, and climbed out of the truck. He helped me get my bike out of the back. I thanked him again, he wished me good luck, and we waved as we went our separate ways. I never did go back to see that old man. As I pedaled by his house, I hoped he was doing well, my heart swelling with gratitude for the kindness he showed me that day.
As I came within four miles from the summit, I prepared myself mentally for the view I was about to have. At four miles to go, the canyon opens up and the summit is briefly visible in the distance before the road enters another switchback. Seeing the summit, I knew I still had four miles to go, and I knew the road only gets steeper as I get closer. I smiled to myself, laughing inwardly at the mind games I play on these long hard rides.
Two miles to go and the summit was now in clear view. My instinct is always to push harder on this top section, seeing the summit there in the distance. My legs had other ideas today and complained loudly when I asked them for more effort. We settled into an uneasy agreement, my legs agreeing to push a little bit and my brain agreeing to demand a little bit less. So it went for the final two miles. As I rounded the last switchback, I said out loud to my legs, "This is it, legs. The last switch back. Just a straight shot from here. One mile and it's an easy downhill run to the truck." My legs ignored me and kept complaining. Then we were there. Summit number three in the books. I stopped at the rest area one more time to have a snack and get a bit more water.
It was nearing noon as I started my final descent, and the air at the summit was warm. I was sweaty from the climb but knew the descent would lower my body temperature. I loved this descent. Big sweeping wide open corners, clear roads, minimal traffic, and warm temperatures all spelled delight. Down I went, flying through the switch backs, through the open sections, down the seven miles of steep and onto the five mile false flat leading back to my truck. I could feel the wind in my face, always a head wind for the final five miles this time of day. As I pedaled into the wind, I remembered with a smile the one and only time I had a tailwind on this section of road. Not only was it a tailwind, it was a massive tailwind, pushing me down the road like a log in a flooding river. I maxed out my gears, spinning effortlessly at 32 mph. It was the most fun five miles I think I've ever ridden, and the only time I have ever experienced that perfect combination of heavy tailwind and loss in altitude. Alas, that was not the case today, but I kept smiling anyway, the memory distracting me as I pushed into the headwind, hot and sweaty and tired and ready to be done.
The last five miles felt like they took forever. Finally, I rounded the corner and there was my truck. Ahhhhh. I pedaled up, unclipped, and stood tall for a few moments. I relished in the fatigue I felt in my legs, the sense of accomplishment, the perfect day that Mother Nature had shown me. Just like that, it was over.
A few days later, I stopped by the bike shop. As I was making my purchases, the owner asked about my rides lately. I told him about the triple summit, and he decided we needed a better name for it. The mechanic behind the counter chimed in, "Tres Sommet!" He pronounced it tray soo-may. "I love it!" I exclaimed, and we all laughed. Tres Sommet it became, an update of my favorite double pass ride. I am already excited to do it again.
Comments
Post a Comment