Fourth summer happened somewhere in there

It took me several days to thaw out after my week in the desert. There's just something about spending several too-cold nights living outside that will chill a body to the bone. Even wrapped under a down blanket with underfloor heating radiating through the carpet, I still felt uncomfortably cool. Still, my home state made the transition back to normal as easy as possible. As I was driving home from Utah on November 30, the temperature in Golden was 63 degrees.

"Ah, it's always summer in Denver," I thought. "Except when it's not."

The temperature climbed into the 50s and 60s for much of the first week of December. I enjoyed several afternoon runs wearing a T-shirt and actually needing to carry a water bottle. I suppose in this selfie I am technically not wearing a T-shirt. But I was still in the midst of my post-Utah thaw. It was 59 degrees. 

Thanks to the low light of December, a surprising amount of snow that fell a week earlier stuck around. It had mostly melted out in the open, but forested roads and trails held onto a thick layer of sugary powder. I took my fat bike out one evening and spent more than three hours plodding through a route that normally takes two in the summer. My reward was this lovely view, and also seeing absolutely nobody else out. Even a short section of paved road was devoid of traffic. It's always surprising to me, the way crowds just fade away in the winter. Even when the weather is nice. Where do they go? 

Ah, there they are! One of my favorite aspects of this time of year is when the elk return to the neighborhood. They're more elusive than I'd expect, given there seem to be many dozens in the herd, but every so often I catch them milling around familiar places. It's always fun to stop what I'm doing and gawk. This particular burn where the elk are grazing is an interesting case study of the impacts of modern wildfire damage. This area burned in 2000 — 20 years ago — and it has yet to recover any new trees. I've done a bit of reading on this, and found that researchers believe many of Colorado's lower altitude forests will convert to grasslands as fires become larger and more widespread. Honestly, every time I ride by this section of Walker Ranch, it breaks my heart just a little to realize what the future might hold for this place where I live now, this place that I love. But on this day, I could instead dreamily watch elk grazing on an abundance of grass. At least, that is, until my core temperature plummeted because I left the house dressed for 48 degrees and returned to evening temperatures dipping into the 20s. 

December 5 was "Global Fat Bike Day." I'm somewhat of a scrooge when it comes to hashtag holidays, but the social media buzz did get me thinking about places to ride my fat bike on Saturday. Around the Front Range, as far as I've found, there are almost no snowmobile trails or forest roads that see regular winter use. Most of what winter cyclists ride around here are hiking trails packed by people on foot and skis. These trails can be fun, but I do miss the long-distance trails of Alaska and other regions where snowmobilers or dog mushers travel deep into the wilderness. I decided to check out Rollins Pass Road, knowing that people sometimes drive their jeeps up the road. I wasn't expecting much — every other time I've tried this road in past years, I've had to turn around after three or four miles. But Saturday held surprisingly rideable conditions. It wasn't perfect — temperatures had been warm, so the track was often loose and sugary. I only encountered three vehicles, and all were in some state of spinning out, even though I always pulled off the track to let them pass. I suppose that's why this road isn't traveled all winter long; the deepening drifts will probably deter most traffic soon. 

I was stoked to climb all the way to Yankee Doodle Lake, although the day had by now become so warm that even the more solid sections of track were deteriorating to mashed potatoes. Grind, grind, grind. The vehicle tracks ended at the lake, but one track continued through the drifted snow. It was a hiker's track — one set of boot prints and the runners of a sled the person was dragging. The track had the distinct pattern of a Paris expedition sled. I know it so well — following faint sled tracks for miles and days until one becomes fixated on every detail is a hallmark of walking the Iditarod Trail. I was surprised to find the sled had consolidated enough snow to leave the track marginally rideable. It was punchy, for sure, but a fun practice in "think light, be light." 

After a couple of miles, the Paris sled hiker was punching knee-deep into drifts, and so was I. I hoped to make it as far as Needle Eye Tunnel, which I view as the terminus of any winter trek here — the trail beyond crosses a dangerous avalanche path, and would never be packed enough to ride even in safe conditions. But the drifts started to become ridiculous, and I was four hours into this climb and still 1.5 miles away from the tunnel. I called it good. I still logged a 36-mile fat bike ride on Global Fat Bike Day, which I consider a dedicated celebration. 

The following day, Sunday, Beat and I hiked to one of our favorite winter haunts, Niwot Ridge. It was already 33 degrees when we left the trailhead and felt downright hot in the high-altitude sunshine. But once you hit that air funnel of a ridge, even a gentle breeze will become a 20- to 25-mph wind, and then you regret every layer you've sweated out. 

The climb to the ridge had loosely consolidated sugar snow, similar to the conditions I encountered on Rollins Pass. The ridge itself was wind-scoured to the bony tundra — with just enough pockets of snow to make navigating a route tricky. Beat is good at this sort of stuff — he just floats over the tussocks and snow pillows. I seem to find every patch of collapsible crust hiding a tangle of brush thick enough to pull my boots nearly off my feet before I manage to free myself. It seems every hike I do with Beat these days brings similar musings — "Walking is hard. I should just stick with bikes from now on." 

There are lovely views from the farther ends of the ridge. Here we climbed to 12,300 feet and I thought, "You don't often see these altitudes in December." But the next day, my friend Betsy embarked on an adventure that left me feeling even more ambitious. 

Wednesday proved to be my best window for such an adventure. The forecast for Denver again called for temperatures in the 60s, but the approaching Thursday storm and subsequent days of cold might well close this window for a while, if not for good. I loaded my mountain bike in my car and set out at a not-so-early hour — although late December sunrises make it seem early — and enjoyed another short visit with the elk on my way out. 

My destination — Mount Evans, elevation 14,265. I've already been up this road five or six times this year, but honestly, it does not get old. There's a particular novelty to a winter ascent, which I always suspected might be possible given the wind-scouring that happens at these altitudes, but have never been bold enough to try. Betsy and a few of her friends made a pioneering attempt at Evans on Monday, and she made it all the way to the top. After she described the conditions, it seemed like I might be able to get away with a lighter bike than my fat bike, which would be such a grind to pedal up 7,000 feet of a continuous climb. See, I was determined to start in Idaho Springs, 13 miles and 3,500 feet below the winter gate — mostly because I'm a weirdo, but I am set in my ways and have to do Mount Evans my way. Still, I realized that even a best-case scenario probably meant a 7- or 8-hour ride as opposed to 5 or 6 in the summer. 

Given the summer-like weather we'd enjoyed and the forecast for the day, I was surprised that the morning temperature in Idaho Springs was 21 degrees. I'd showed up only marginally prepared for consistent temperatures this low, especially deep in a canyon in December without direct sunlight for most of the first 13 miles. The plowed section of the road was coated in black ice, and I quietly hoped that it would melt by afternoon, or I might just have to walk more of the descent than I'd planned. Even climbing was quite slippy, and my fingers were half-frozen in my single set of mittens. 

Once I passed the winter gate, conditions actually improved. The next three miles are below treeline and protected by forest. About a foot of snow covered the road. But it had been nearly two weeks since the area received snowfall, and in that time hikers had trammeled a solid bootpack. It was as boney as a rocky summer trail, but it was perfectly rideable for my 29er. Beyond that were 11 miles of drifts and wind-scoured pavement. The drifts were often possible to ride around, although not always simple — some required threading along a rocky shoulder beside precarious dropoffs. A couple of times I tried riding up onto the drifts, but they always collapsed underneath my wheel. I believe the same would happen with a fat bike. Colorado snow is just too dry and airy to form that white slickrock so prevalent in windy and wetter parts of Alaska. I think even a few good freeze-thaws wouldn't make enough of a difference. 

I don't believe temperatures ever rose above freezing, based on the ice that was continuously forming in my hydration hose. A Camelbak wasn't the best choice for this ride, but I admit I packed somewhat mindlessly with the ingrained habits of summer rides. I had to ward off a frozen hose by blowing the water back into the bladder every time I took a drink. This proved more difficult as I gained altitude, leaving me sucking wind for several minutes every time. By 13,000 feet, I felt like I might just pass out. Dehydration or hypoxia? It's a difficult choice to make. 

I suppose my summer altitude acclimation is long gone. As I neared 14,000 feet, even where the pavement was dry, I felt like I was plowing through a foot of snow. I did enjoy seeing all of the animals along the road — the bighorn rams that have rejoined the ewes, and the mountain goats now sporting their shaggy winter coats. 

Another fun aspect of riding Mount Evans in December was the clarity of the views. Most of my summer trips happened amid the haze of smoke season. On this day I could see all the way to Denver — some 9,000 feet lower — and beyond. 

Mootsy the mountain bike on top of Mount Evans. Between Beat and me, we've taken many of the bikes we own up here — one road bike, two gravel bikes, a fat bike, and two mountain bikes. 

Even though five hours had passed and I was feeling tapped out, I still hiked to the proper summit, because it would not be the same — or a proper 14er summit — without this ritual. The one other person I'd seen on the mountain was Betsy's husband, Josh, who also got the idea from her to get it while the getting was good. Based on the erratic tracks along the snowy trail, I could see that he tried to ride and then hiked his fat bike all the way to the top, which I found amusing and a little bit enviable. A brisk wind left me shivering as I choked down my peanut butter sandwich, knowing the hard part of this ride was still ahead. I wondered how much the cold wind and icy road was going to hurt.

"It's always summer in Denver — except at 14,000 feet."

Luckily, the unrideable snow drifts came at convenient intervals where I could run with my bike and pump blood back into my extremities. The black ice scenario at lower altitudes had improved as well. I even finished up before dark, although it was my slowest Evans at 7.5 hours. I guess I've made six ascents this year. The first, which I also titled "Snowy Mount Evans" was on June 20. That ride involved hiking most of the final three miles through several inches of fresh snow. The mountain was ironically snowier on the cusp of summer than the cusp of winter. 

It was an incredible treat, to make it to the top of Mount Evans in December. But I suppose it was also somewhat of a waste of the final day of fourth summer, as I spent most of the day battling a creeping chill. Then the following day, the storm arrived. On Friday I convinced Beat we should go for an evening ride up the Homestead Trail. 

There were only a few inches of new snow, but this ride was amazingly hard work. Beat buried himself trying to clean the entire climb and sweated out his layers when temperatures were in the teens. I threw them in the laundry later that night, and he might as well have tossed them in a lake for how wet they were. Luckily he anticipated this and brought an entire change of clothing for the descent. 

It was such a lovely evening, though. After the fog began to clear, frost clung to every needle and twig. This climb is a go-to workout, so I visit this place frequently. But it feels like a different world in the winter. So quiet, so soft, so menacing and inviting all at once. And, as an added bonus, nobody else is around. Where do they go? 

We saw a few more folks during our Sunday run around Walker Ranch, which had also converted to a winter wonderland. I didn't get outside on Saturday because I was trying out our new toy — Zwift! I've long resisted indoor trainers, but a conversation with a friend convinced me that the competitive and virtual reality aspects of Zwift make it more of a game than a chore. Our recent smoky summer also pushed me over the edge in this regard — there were a lot of summer days when I would have liked to have the option of exercising indoors rather than risk my health and ravage my lungs when the AQI is 200. But I had so much fun that I can see myself sacrificing a few quality winter days to the trainer as well. 

I'll probably write more about Zwift next week, as I'm just getting started and discovering what it's all about. But it's exciting, and seems like it will be a fun social diversion from all of the solo slogs I like to do. Let's just say that my recent Strava post about grinding out 3.5 arduous hours on my fat bike elicited seven comments about Zwift, and none about the actual outdoor ride. I look forward to riding with some of you out there in the virtual world! 

Chasing the moon

Once upon a time, this place was a near-weekly staple in my life. It was the early aughts, while I was living with nine roommates in an old house near downtown Salt Lake City. Most of us had already finished college and were living the in-between lives of subadults dabbling in grad school or working odd jobs. I was trying to launch my career as a journalist, recently hired as the community news editor at a bi-weekly in Tooele, Utah. The job demanded 50 or 60 hours a week, and my commute around the Great Salt Lake ate up 90 minutes on the best days. I was 21 years old and working all of the time, it seemed.

Between work and the frequent weeknight house parties, I was always wrecked by the time Friday night rolled around, ready to crash. But there was always somebody in the house actively packing to "drive to the desert." Before long most of us were throwing our sleeping bags and tents in an assortment of vehicles. Our destination was the San Rafael Swell, where we had a handful of secluded spots where no one else went. Even if it was February and there was a thick layer of crusty snow over sand, we'd plow through a rough jeep road in a woefully underpowered '89 Honda Civic and find a pullout to occupy for the weekend. It was usually midnight or later by the time we arrived. The air was so still and cold that it felt almost liquid; the night was so clear that moonless starlight cast a silver hue on the juniper and sage. 

This is how I best remember the desert of my youth. Come Saturday we'd hike a slot canyon or climb a pinnacle, and by Sunday everyone would be buzzing to get home. It's interesting, but my memory holds fewer of those daytime adventures and more of the Friday night arrivals. The cold and the stars, the startling expanses, the blue junipers and black mesas, and the seemingly eternal silence after a week of relentless noise. It's as though all of those busy and athletic things we did with our days didn't make a difference. Being there ... that was enough. 

Danni and I said goodbye and headed out on Sunday morning, both driving north on Highway 24 — she back to home and work and family in Montana, and me, well ... I hadn't quite decided. As I drove through Hanksville, I gazed longingly at Duke's Slickrock Grill and imagined all of the hot coffee and pancakes I would consume if only I could go inside (If they were open. It was Sunday morning in Utah, so who knows.) That felt like all I wanted on this morning — hot food and drinks, a warm place to be, and the lovely heater cranking full blast in my car. If I kept driving, I could be home by dinner, in my warm bed by 7 p.m. bedtime. And yet ... I wasn't quite ready to go back. I'd managed to spend five days disconnected — no morning news, Twitter doomscrolling, or daily COVID updates. All of the relentless noise of 2020 was finally beginning to settle into a vast and tranquil silence. Even if I was sure to freeze during another night out here, it was what I wanted — one more night.

 Temple Mountain was one of the places I remembered from my youth — just a few miles off the highway with easy access to tons of free camping. I drove along the series of pullouts beside South Temple Wash and found a spot I swear looked familiar, although truthfully most camp spots in the Swell look the same — mounds of red sand and a few juniper trees with sheer sandstone walls closing in on both sides. Of course, when you camp in a narrow canyon in late November, you are guaranteed to not receive even a wedge of direct sunlight. That was okay; I didn't intend to just hang around Cold Temple Camp by myself. I still had a bike I could ride. 

Behind the Reef is an OHV trail snaking behind the geological uplift that forms the San Rafael Reef. It wends in and out of drainages above the slot canyons that they become, climbing steep sandstone shelves and descending sandy washes. There are a few narrow dropoffs that earn it a black diamond rating for ATVs, but it's not terribly difficult on a mountain bike ... even with somewhat tired legs and a foggy head from not sleeping well for several nights. Still, the punchy climbs take their toll. After 17 miles and 2,600 feet of climbing, I'd already pedaled away three hours of the day. It was my turn-around time limit. A few miles back, I'd passed the entrance to Ding and Dang canyons, which I remembered hiking way back when. The day was still warm and inviting, and I was eager to do some exploring. 

I hid the bike, set a GPS waypoint, and started down Ding Canyon. Hiking down a slot canyon can be a dangerous endeavor. It's all too easy to descend a pour-over or boulder jam that won't be as simple to climb, and then I'd be stranded on the wrong side of my bike. I resolved not to climb down anything that I wasn't sure I could reverse. I hit that point less than a mile into the hike, where the canyon floor deteriorated into steep potholes and the walls narrowed to sheer sandstone. After I turned around, I made a surprising number of wrong maneuvers, cliffing myself out high on a wall above the canyon floor, then shimmying under an overhang beside a sheer drop-off. I did not recall negotiating any of this on my climb down that was only twenty minutes earlier. Strange, how disorienting such a narrow canyon can be. I was just a little bit frightened at times. Maybe I did descend an irreversible drop-off? I didn't remember it that way, but how much can one trust their memory? I don't remember Ding Canyon being overly difficult from those long-ago excursions. But as I finally emerged in the open, safe part of the wash, I encountered a young couple who asked me if I was aware of a 5.7-rated climbing maneuver and wondered whether a fixed piece of webbing was still in place. When I replied that I didn't make it that far, they clarified that the move was above us.

"No, I came from the top of the canyon," I said. "It's all easy hiking from here."

I got the sense that they didn't quite understand that I hadn't climbed from the bottom like they did. They seemed unsure as I continued up-canyon, telling me that they were going to turn around here. Either way, the encounter left me feeling uneasy for the remainder of the trek. Was there a sheer wall that I jumped down and somehow failed to notice? Given how much I'd confused myself in a single mile, I couldn't discount the notion entirely. I sure was relieved to finally return to my bike. A canyoneer I am not. 

It was soothing to return to the motion of pedaling around ruts and rocks. Still, I'd spent a fair amount of adrenaline in Ding Canyon, and started to feel sleepy as the shadows grew long.

Typical terrain on Behind the Reef Trail. It does require some concentration. 

The ride out was quiet. I didn't see a soul after the young couple in Ding Canyon, or even a vehicle parked at trailheads off of the graded part of the road. At first, it felt pleasantly lonely. But as evening approached, the solitude became more unsettling. Night was coming. The cold was coming. My thoughts were disconnected and dreamlike, reflections of sleep deprivation and the steep comedown after adrenaline spikes. I stopped in more or less the middle of the road to sit in the dirt and eat a handful of crackers. What was this surreal place? Did time and space have any meaning here? From this vantage it could have been 2002 or 2020. Did it matter? Memories from 18 years ago burned sharply; moments 18 minutes ago faded into the shadows. I rose and mounted my bike, and for a few seconds formed a serious expectation that I was pedaling toward friends and their desert camp with orange firelight flickering on canyon walls and the aroma of sage smoke wafting through the air. Strange, how layers of the past can be unearthed as clearly as sedimentary strata stretched along the San Rafael Reef.

I returned to the canyon where I was camped just before dusk. At the intersection of Temple Mountain Road, I looked left to long climb toward a mesa and realized that I might be able to climb up there in time to catch the sunset. All that awaited me at camp was another long and frigid night. At least cycling kept me warm; it was an easy decision. With renewed purpose, I put as much power into the pedals as I could muster, not wanting to miss the moment. The road was rough and rocky, grades topped 10 percent, and a sandstone shelf to the south blocked any views I might catch of the setting sun. The light began to fade. Just when I was about to turn around in disappointment, I looked to the northeast and gasped. 

The full moon, rising over Temple Mountain. Even though I'd languished long nights under the silver light of a waxing moon, I didn't connect that on this night the cycle would reach its pinnacle and rise in tandem with the setting sun. It was all serendipity that I caught the moon at this precise moment. It was one of those rare moments when one wonders if perhaps the universe will bend to the desires of an individual — tiny, insignificant me, traveling through time and painting the sky. 

I got back on my bike and sprinted, gasping for breath as the mesa opened up around me. I turned onto a side road and found a 360-degree vista. The sun had already disappeared below the horizon, but its long-angled light remained on a startling expanse of rock and sand. 

The San Rafael Reef, with the delineation of sedimentary layers clearly visible. 

The moon continued rising over Temple Mountain. Like the Super Blue Moon I chased on Halloween, this moon had special designations — a Beaver Moon about to undergo a penumbral lunar eclipse, which means before the night was over it would pass into the Earth's shadow. Later that night, I would become convinced I witnessed this, as the moon's bright light illuminated the canyon and then faded. As I stumbled out of my sleeping bag, I assumed the moon had slipped behind canyon walls, but it was still there — just grayer than before, muted. 

I reached into my pack and pulled out the thermos of coffee that I'd heated in the morning while Danni and I were still lazing around camp on the Fremont River. Amazingly it was still reasonably hot. This was an incredible discovery, given this morning felt like it happened years earlier or perhaps years in the future ... I couldn't decide. Even in real time, the coffee was eight hours old. I sat on a boulder and swiveled to catch all of the views at once, sipping my coffee out of the side of my mouth so I never had to look away. 

Last light of the sun to the southwest.

My final photo of the moonrise over Temple Mountain. I sat there until it was fully dark and I was shivering in all of the layers I had with me. I still had to make that painful 800-foot descent to camp, and somehow survive another night in the cold, cold desert. I realize I could get in my car, crank up the heater, and drive away. I considered this. But I wanted to catch the sunrise/moonset. That became an all-encompassing goal. 

The night was, well ... it wasn't as bad as it could have been. I shivered and didn't sleep well. The temperature dropped to 14 degrees, according to my watch that didn't quite become cold enough to die. I read a lot of Katherine Keith's memoir about how she came to adopt long-distance dog mushing as a lifestyle. It was the fourth book I started this week alone. I watched the moon make its arc around the canyon, become ashen, and continue descending toward the mesa where I watched it rise. Finally, at 6:20 a.m., the timing was right and I got up for good. 

It was refreshingly gratifying to catch to moon in its final descent. It had slipped away from the shadow of the Earth and held renewed brightness as it disappeared behind Flat Top Mountain. 

The light of sunrise beginning to illuminate the valley. Those cliffs beyond are Canyonlands, quite possibly a segment of the White Rim. 

The light of sunrise on Temple Mountain. 

Flat Top, so bright in the morning light. Someday I will return and ride a longer loop through the Swell, perhaps connecting all of the remote corners that felt like the edge of the world when I was young. 

I was lazy in the morning and drove my car to the high point rather than ride my bike. It made a nice subject. I will be sending these photos to Subaru for their next ad campaign. 

The temperature had risen to a balmy 20 degrees by the time I headed out at 8:30 a.m. I stopped at the mouth of the canyon to view a panel of pictographs. You can see where a layer of sandstone flaked away, taking pieces of the image with it. 

The erosion left this little figure all by itself. I thought about the passage of time — what remains, what fades, what's worth holding, what I should let go. All of these thoughts came in waves, fading as quickly as they arrived in a whisper of wind. I shivered and felt a crush of exhaustion settle over my body. As I turned to walk back toward my car, I heard a deafening clamor above my head. I imagined rocks coming down on me and ducked, but no rocks arrived as the crashing noises continued. Finally, I caught a glimpse of movement high on a cliff on the other side of the canyon, and realized the noise was two bighorn rams sparring on a precipitous ledge. They were too far away and hidden in shadows to photograph with my point-and-shoot camera, and I was too mesmerized to look away from the action. I was certain one of them would fall. But they continued clashing horns, pushing one another toward the edge, until with a final gallop they both disappeared behind an outcropping. It was a gorgeous dance, and I again felt lucky to land in the right place at the right time. It's as though the universe is showing me I belong here. Life goes in all directions, and every so often I'm lucky enough to find a path back to the beginning. 

The cold, cold desert

Waking up to shivering is unnerving. Well, unnerving is an understatement. It's downright terrifying to be ripped from the depths of REM sleep because one's core temperature has dropped low enough to trip an instinctive alarm. I was having that anxiety dream again — the one where I'm running through SeaTac airport and the terminal is so crowded that I have to shoulder-check people and no one is wearing a mask — and then suddenly my eyes blinked open to the drooping canopy of my tent. My shoulders erupted into convulsions; my hands felt like ice. 

"Argh, it's so cold," I murmured as I flipped over and wrestled out of my sleeping bag. Usually, for these November trips to Utah, I bring a 0-degree bag. But for this trip, I decided to try out Beat's Thermarest Hyperion sleeping bag, which he purchased for summer camping — "because I sleep colder than you." It only weighs a few more ounces than my Sea to Summit Spark bag, and it had a temperature rating of 20 degrees. I knew I'd be pushing the bag's limit a bit with this desert trip, but it seemed good practice should I ever make it to the Silk Road Mountain Race. That route has frequent 9,000-foot climbs and hike-a-bikes that will demand I keep everything about my bike as light as possible. 

Anyway, I had puffy pants, a puffy coat, and I wore these things to bed. Why was I so cold? I pulled on mittens and shook the insulated water bottle I kept in the tent. The water inside rattled with chunks of ice, but it hadn't frozen solid. The temperature, I would have guessed, was in the mid-20s. I stumbled outside the tent to empty my bladder, something my body always makes me do multiple times during the night whenever it's cold, no matter how early I resolve to stop drinking any sort of liquid. The nearly full moon was so bright that the features of our camp were rendered with daytime definition, but cast in the moody purple and charcoal hues of night. I did some jumping jacks and crawled back into the bag. I briefly turned on my headlamp to see whether the sleeping bag had a cinch for the neckline, and in doing so saw the truth stamped on the interior:

"Comfort range: 32 degrees. Transition range: 20 degrees."

Transition range? What does that even mean? Isn't comfort range what matters? Soon I was asleep again, only to wake up twenty minutes later, shivering, again. While thrashing around in frustration, I felt a whoosh of air near my backside and discovered the double-zipper had opened and there was a plate-sized opening in the bag near my waist. Well, that explains some things. What a useless feature — double zippers. Why would anyone want that but not a cinch for the neck? Still, I hoped the zipper snafu would solve any sleeping issues that might crop up the following night. 

For our second Utah overnight, Danni and I planned to ride the Cathedral Valley loop through a remote corner of Capitol Reef National Park. The loop runs about 76 miles after one tacks on a few out-and-back spurs to scenic overlooks and interesting geological features. Most of the route follows rugged and sandy roads with a mandatory river ford, so 4WD vehicles with confident drivers are a necessity. For that reason, it's not crowded. But it's comparatively mellow on a bicycle, with only about 4,600 feet of climbing. The most difficult obstacles are the sandpits and the river crossing. Much of the roadbed is comprised of bentonite clay, so it is definitely to be avoided when wet. Still, it sounded ideal for an overnight bikepack. Betsy rode it with a friend a few days prior, so we got some good beta from her. I proposed taking a layover day and riding Saturday-Sunday, but when Danni and I realized we didn't actually have anything better to do on Friday, we made an effort to get going in the morning (alas, not all that early for me) and drive up and around the vast wildernesses of Canyonlands to reach our starting point. We hit the trail by 11:30 a.m., which beat my "we should start no later than noon" goal by at least a little.

We parked near the shore of the Fremont River to get the crossing out of the way first. Betsy made it sound like this part was no big deal, so I was a little disheartened to roll up to the crossing and find a swift-flowing, milky river with large chunks of ice clinging to both shores. The two sides of the road didn't connect, so any vehicle making the crossing had to drive downstream for about 50 meters. Danni and I hacked through the brush to find an easier entry, but as the bank became steeper, I changed my mind and went back to the road. Betsy promised the river bed was smooth sand, so I took off my shoes and socks — normally when I make any crossing, I keep my shoes on because my water phobia makes me feel extremely nervous on top of being naturally clumsy, and wet shoes are better than wet everything because I've tripped and fallen. 

Barefoot and lifting my bike slightly off the ground, I stepped into the bone-chilling current. Danni made the better choice to take a direct line from the brush and crossed quickly. I wandered into a knee-deep channel next to a hip-high river bank. The swift current yanked my bike's wheels and nearly pulled it out of my hands. I lifted the frame and teetered in place, frozen with fear — with its six liters of water and food and camping gear, the bike was too heavy to hoist over my shoulders or up the bank. I think normally I could, but I felt weakened — maybe by cold water, or maybe because I completely abandoned my home weight-lifting routine back in May. Either way, all I could do was shamble awkwardly downstream, balancing the bike with a painful bicep curl while Danni raced along the bank, wanting to help. I made it out of the water without incident, although I couldn't feel my lower legs for the next two hours. 

The Fremont River crossing was harrowing. "Nothing else about this trip is going to be so hard," I thought. 
 

Indeed, the landscape beyond the river was endlessly soothing — the visual comforts of wide-open spaces, the perfect balm for fear of becoming trapped in a river current and swept to an icy death. We climbed through the Bentonite Hills, which looked as though they'd been purposefully painted with festive stripes. 

We took the first spur to the Lower South Desert Overlook, where we ate a quick lunch. I wanted to hike down to the end of the trail, but knowing we were running a tight timeline, I resisted. 

I also dragged Danni to the Upper South Desert Overlook, where, as you can see, daylight was quickly fading. But what a view! From here I could see most of the valley that runs parallel to the Waterpocket Fold, and the Henry Mountains in the distance. 

After pedaling up a gradual incline for most of the day, we reached camp right at dusk. Since we were inside the national park, we were required to camp in the free campground near the edge of the mesa. It was located above 7,000 feet, which is ... quite high for central Utah in late November. But it had a picnic table and a pristine outhouse, so I wasn't about to complain. The snow-capped Polk Creek Ridge loomed above us, practically glowing in the moonlight as darkness settled. We set up our tents, made our bagged dinners, held a conversation as long as either of us could stand, and then settled into bed around 7 p.m. 

It had already dipped to 25 degrees by 7 p.m., so I threw my fuel canister and insulated water bottle into the foot of the sleeping bag. I figured I could leave my three-liter bladder outside the bag, but I wanted enough unfrozen water to be able to cook oatmeal and coffee in the morning. I settled in to read Kindle books on my phone, but my body would not warm up the bag. Maybe it was a combination of the low temperature, leaving on my sweaty base layer, and the cold objects at my feet, but brrrr. I cinched up the top of the bag as tight as possible and burrowing in more deeply. The moon blazed overhead; I could see its light seeping in through the small opening at my head; no doubt cold air was getting in as well. But that was as tight as I could close the bag.

I dozed off somewhere in there and woke up shivering not long after 10 p.m. I stepped outside the tent to stumble off to the outhouse and then literally sprinted back to my bag. So cold! I checked the watch I'd left in an inside pocket of the tent. It has a temperature sensor, but usually it just reads the temperature on my arm, which I don't find all that helpful. Free of body heat, it read 14 degrees. At 10 p.m. Hmmm.

I did manage to doze off again, and again woke up shivering. It was only 11:14 p.m. The watch read 11 degrees. That was the last reading I'd see before the battery shut itself off. Well, crap. It was going to be a long night. 

I tried different strategies. I did pushups inside my bag and kicked my legs as though propelling a paddleboard while reading Kindle books to distract myself from the growing unease. I chose to read a biography about the Amundsen and Scott expeditions to the South Pole, because why not? At least I could take comfort that those men definitely had it worse than me. Still, the gory details as Scott and his men slowly froze to death did not help ease my anxiety. I managed to doze off, only to wake up shivering and feeling like I was on the verge of an anxiety attack. My phone, which I'd left in the same tent pocket as my watch, had also died. So I didn't even know the time. Did it matter? Clearly, this expansive moonlit night would stretch into eternity. 

Now, obviously I've winter camped before. Early on there were nights when I wasn't fully prepared, and the horror of waking up to mild hypothermia frightened me into erring on the side of overprepared. Earlier this year, as I was making my way into McGrath, I spent six hours napping as temperatures dipped to 45 below zero. I was cozy in my expedition sleeping bag, and when I got up to start walking again, my body was warm enough that I could pack up and hit the trail without drama — even though I was exhausted at the time, and even though I didn't eat before going to sleep, and even though it was 45 below zero. What mattered is that my gear worked. 

At Cold Cathedral Camp in Capitol Reef, I again learned that hard lesson about what it means to be underprepared for winter. After what was probably only midnight or so, I gave up on sleep. I'd "take breaks" to walk around camp, making an effort to generate body heat without inviting sweat, then crawl into my bag and read about Antarctica until that hard-earned heat faded again. At some point, I realized the three liters of water in my hydration bladder were rapidly becoming solid, and pulled the ice baby into my bag to cuddle with that as well. It was just endlessly unpleasant, and I had no way out. If I were winter racing, I'd get up and get going. But recreational camping meant twelve hours of trying to survive on the far edge of my means. Sometimes when I was padding around camp, I'd look up at the moonlit snowy mountain and imagine that I'd continue hiking higher until the sun came up. That was my hail mary, my last-ditch means to make it through the night if this particular walk didn't heat my bag this time. I'd just keep walking until dawn. 

Before it died, my watch told me sunrise would come at 7:19 a.m. Sometime around 6:45 (I'd gotten my phone to work again by keeping it in a pocket), I crawled out of the tent for the last time. I stuffed my ice baby down my jacket, holding it in the precise spot one would if they were pretending to be seven months pregnant. Then I hiked toward the edge of the mesa, where I knew I could catch the sun rising over the Cathedral Valley. 

When I reached the ledge with nowhere further to walk, I stood in place and did jumping jacks to push blood into my toes. My body would have liked to keep walking, but as I caught the stream of golden light creeping down the sandstone monoliths, I couldn't look away. It was striking, like a grand crescendo at the end of a long and melancholic symphony. The location, the circumstance ... that sunrise was one of the more life-affirming moments I've experienced.

Danni was heating water at the picnic table by the time I returned. I felt sheepish and was fairly tight-lipped about my hard night because I was more than a little ashamed. I am supposed to be better at winter camping than this by now. Most of her water had frozen, and her fuel canister wasn't working well either. Based on when my watch died and temperatures we'd see at much lower altitudes the following night, I have no doubt the temperature dropped to 0 degrees or even a bit below. 

I was eager to begin pedaling again, as I couldn't wait to feel warm, although I was still slow to pack up. My entire body felt sluggish, like an old car sputtering to start on a subzero morning. Finally, around 9 a.m., we were bundled up for the initial thousand-foot descent. I had nothing more to wear, but any motion felt better than no motion, and soon I felt marginally more human. I enjoyed descending into the valley where I'd watched the sunrise and then wending through the sandstone monoliths. 

The route spent the next 25 miles gradually descending the valley. Where the road was hardpacked, pedaling was next to no work at all. At times I tried to pedal harder to generate heat, but I also felt loathe to miss any of the scenery. So mostly I coasted and looked around in awe. Eventually we both took off our puffy jackets, but I can't say I was warm for the rest of the day. Even with my wind shell jacket and pants, and temperatures that were probably in the upper 40s — my core temperature never quite climbed back to normal.

For me, the bottomless sand pits made for the most fun riding on day two. The trick was to try to get through them without throwing a foot down. It was a fine line to balance – hitting the sand at speed but not too much — just enough to maintain momentum without losing control and flying off the bike, then gently feathering the handlebars while mashing the cranks as hard as possible. I did fail three or four times, but I made it through a large majority of the pits. Danni listened to a few of my tips — "it's just like snow biking" — and started having more success herself. 

We continued veering off on the different spurs, lingering a little longer now that we weren't racing daylight. 

Sandpits and scenery — is there anything better on a bike? Especially when it's sunny and at least a little bit warm in the cold, cold desert. 

The sandstone monoliths were a fun diversion. With names such as "Temple of the Sun" and "Temple of the Moon," they reminded me of the drooping mud castles I used to build in my backyard as a child. 

This is Glass Mountain. Danni and I had a debate about whether it was actual glass or rock. It's gypsum, a "plug" deposited by groundwater and left behind after the surrounding sandstone eroded away. 

I love exploring the more unique geological features of Southern Utah. The truly majestic ones, like the monoliths, can remind me of a child's mud castle, while these more diminutive and secretive ones strike me as singular works of art. 

We meandered onward, riding side by side and chatting when the road was in reasonable shape to do so. It was enjoyable to spend so much time with Danni again. In recent years our meetings have been more in passing, after races like the White Mountains 100 or the Fat Pursuit. For me, she's the perfect bikepacking partner — an extrovert with a similar temperament and a seemingly endless supply of good and funny stories, her company is enjoyable for my introverted self who would rather listen than talk. When it's just the two of us, I'm accused of being too quiet, which is fair. I still think we'll work well together in the Silk Road Mountain Race, should we ever make it there. 

Toward the end of the loop, I did end up riding ahead, as the road dipped steeply in and out of arroyos in the North Cainville Reef. Mostly I was exhausted and I just wanted to feel warm for a few minutes as I cranked up a hill. 

We closed the loop on Highway 24. We got a kick out of this sign, which is sort of meaningless when there are scenic views for hundreds of miles in this region. 

We camped that night near the shore of the Fremont River, under a canopy of desiccated orange leaves clinging to the branches of an enormous cottonwood tree. As we cooked dinner I again alluded to my terrible cold night, and Danni offered to let me borrow her sleeping bag. I refused at first, but then I came to understand that she had two — a 0-degree bag that she brought on the bikepacking trip, and a -40 bag for car camping. Why didn't I bring extra things for car camping? That was dumb. But I gratefully accepted her offer and stuffed my bag inside of hers, snuggling in a mountain of fluff and feeling completely satisfied, as though I would never again need anything else in the world. She planned to head home toward Montana in the morning, but I was still undecided about spending one more day in Utah. When dawn came, we spent a final 90 minutes waiting for the sun to hit camp and enjoying hot coffee on a morning that felt considerably warmer than the previous. But when I turned on my car to ensure it would still start, I saw it was still 7 degrees outside. Um, brrrr.

Yes, I made mistakes. I paid for them with a rough night — probably my roughest winter camping experience yet. But I wouldn't trade away the discomfort that allowed me to experience that life-affirming sunrise, or the depth of appreciation for the simple pleasures in life: leftover-pandemic-panic-purchased gluten-free mac n' cheese, a wet wipe bath, and two sleeping bags. No gourmet meal or five-star hotel could possibly be more satisfying than that.