By amazing coincidence, all the above also apply to mountain biking. Thus was Mire & Anthony’s annual pilgrimage to Pyramid Peak born. And thus, too, was conceived the Curse of the Pyramid.

When we first tried in 2004 to scale the epic mountain, arguably the highest point of legal mountain biking in the state (we’ve gone over this ground before, but the other contenders are Angel’s Staircase and Tiffany Mountain, both near Winthrop), our hardy band was turned back by a fierce snowstorm. Only the Mad Russian, Ikore, forged on, plowing through 2-foot drifts and eventually winding up with, if memory serves, a mild case of frostbite. We could only marvel at his fortitude and promise next year for sure.

Next year for others, yes. For me, unbeknownst, Pyramid Peak already had initiated its loathsome and heartless bane. I was riding elsewhere in 2005 and 2006 and missed the Pyramid retreats, which were sunny and pleasant and all things MTB. The freeride bug had bit and you just don’t haul 35-lb. honkers up to 8k feet, no matter what the ride back down.

But 2007 witnessed my return to XC, and I vowed to revisit the scene of so much past pain. I’d bagged all the 360s in the state I know of except Pyramid. It was time to put the wrap on that particular challenge.

Circumstances bode well early on. Mire posted the ride weeks ahead on the BBTC list and I signed up right away. Soon a host of familiar names were on the list, including Art, Paul Smith, Chris Alef, Gonzz and my Team Mojo compadre, Jim Lyon. The weather that side of the Cascades was dynamite in approaching weeks, mid-80s with a cooling breeze at elevation. Surely this was the year to be!

But that’s the thing about a Curse. It’s always laying enticing traps along the way, tricking you into thinking things are way far better than they will turn out to be. In this way it is decidedly not a jinx. Jinxes are for games or sports or individual hexes. They’re trivial. They’re for Cubs fans. They’re not life-endangering or injurious to body or soul.

A pleasant enough start.

Curses… well, a true curse conjures the worst of human agony and pain. Up against a true curse, a mere mortal is lucky simply to survive.

By ride week, the news already was turning grim. Weather reports consistently lowered the snow level to 6k, then 5k, then a truly disturbing 4k. The nights were turning morbidly cold. Mire had said from the outset, “Snow Cancels!” It was just a matter of speculation on whether the Puget Sound moisture was making it over the North Cascade range to the valleys of the Entiat. What to do?

Here is where, had I realized the power and unavoidability of the Curse, I would have opted out no questions asked. Organizing a group ride in balmy weather with long days and short nights is no trivial feat. Herding the BBTC cats for a long weekend of uncertain clime is a disaster in the making.

But Mire had a plan.

Instead of riding uptrail to the Pyramid escalade, she put forth Plan B: Do a shuttle from the campground to the top via a horrendously long, nastily steep, but conveniently accessible fire road. The road ended right at a ridge trail that took you directly (well, kind of) to the Pyramid spur. Only 2600 to 2800 feet of gain and you’d be on top of the world. If all went well.

Now longtime readers of my reviews well know my abhorrence to shall we say vehicular-assisted mountain biking. I recognize the singular inconsistency of driving 180 miles to a trailhead and then eschewing a 13 mile fire road, but what can I say? I’m a purist. And besides, isn’t it all about the ride?

In this case, Mire made a persuasive argument for an exception. If we did encounter inclement conditions, at least we could turn back easily enough. And the ridge approach would offer spectacular views not visitable from the singletrack ascent. Plus you had a variety of options down, including some tasty ridge riding after the peak.

Ah well. I compromised. But something was tugging at my subconscious all the while. Something I could not quite identify. I knew it was out there. I could feel it in my bones.

We froze even before the snow started.

The next sign of trouble to come was a patently idiotic decision to drive over in the a.m. A friend had offered a cabin in Leavenworth, and Jim proposed we trek on over there the day before, maybe get in a late day ride, and be fully rested (and only an hour and a half away) for the Friday assault. But something inside told me no, we could just leave early Friday and meet up at the trailhead. How was I to know that I had taken leave of my senses? That the Curse was already working its dark magic?

To get to the Entiat you have to drive I-90 as if headed to Wenatchee. You turn north on 97 at Cle Elum, drive over Blewett Pass, turn east toward Cashmere and then take ALT-97 on the west side of the Columbia River north to the Entiat River Road. This interminable stretch of desolation eventually gives you a couple of fire-road options to trail heads accessing Pyramid.

I picked Jim up around 6:45 a.m. and we tooled out of Seattle at a pretty good pace, rain tapping Sue Bee’s windshield. Mojito and Juju, our carbon fiber Ibis Mojos (hence our team name), seemed content on the rack in back, but maybe we just weren’t paying enough attention. The concept and term of Mojo has its genesis in African witchcraft, and I have little doubt our sleek black steeds were aware of the trepidation we were headed into.

That early in the morning, traffic is slim. We made good time over the pass and decided to call Anthony. It turned out he was about an hour and a half ahead of us. Later we were told he and Mire had gotten up around 3:30 a.m. I knew right then that we were all going to be fresh as daisies, but this is mountain biking, folks. In garbled cellphone communique, I told Anthony we would probably be behind the rest of the gang but would drive to the top. If we didn’t, I said, we would leave a note at the campsite so they wouldn’t have to worry about waiting for us down below before driving back up for the shuttle vehicle.

Yet I could sense, in our broken conversation, a creeping dread already setting in. My distaste for shuttles is only one part joy of the ride. The other part is this. Shuttles remind me of what the great Ohio State football coach, Woody “three yards and a cloud of dust” Hayes, used to say. When you pass a football, three things can happen — and two of them are bad.

Similarly, shuttles can go sideways in a hurry. What if there’s a mechanical? What if a set of keys gets misplaced or lost? What if you miss a connection and someone gets left behind? And what if, on top of everything else, you have a Curse to contend with?

From Entiat River Road you take a right on Road 5900, a beastly, steep, brutally unmaintained dirt ribbon with more switchbacks than a fire escape. At Shady Pass you take a left up Road 113 and continue to the Trail No. 1433 trailhead. Note: This is only if you’re doing a shuttle; see note below for all-trail loop. It was a long drive up to the top, longer that it looked on the map. I’ve done longer shuttles, but the payoff was a lot bigger (in Stanley, Idaho), and the road was better graded. This thing had water bars the size of Waikiki rollers. As we approached the top we came across a couple of yahoos scavenging firewood. They’d pulled a blowdown out for sawing and it was blocking Sue Bee’s path. I waved and yelled at them but it was like some scene out of Deliverance. They didn’t get that the log end was blocking us till Jim got out and offered to help move the thing. Yet another sign that things weren’t quite right on this particular day.

We arrived at the top to find a lone vehicle that I didn’t recognize as Anthony’s or Mire’s: A gray Honda Ridgeline. It had a shuttle rack in the back, so we assumed it was them. But without a note or other indicator, it was a bit of a gamble [memo to self: always leave a note!]. If there’d been a change of plans, we were in a heap o’ trouble if we headed all the way down to find no one below. After some deliberation we decided to take a chance. If we didn’t connect with them by mountain top, we would have to be content with an out-and-back.

We did detect some fresh MTB tracks, but couldn’t tell how many bikes. Only two different sets of patterns were discernable, not particularly reassuring. If only Anthony and Mire were up ahead, the whole shuttle thing was kaput.

It was cold, around 36 degrees, and getting colder, with little sign of sunbreaks, as we started over the ridge. Soon enough Jim pointed to a peak in the distance. “Pyramid!” he said, his voice a near whisper, layered in awe and respect. I figured he was right. The peak looked like a pyramid all right, whereas all the other peaks along the ridge looked like…pyramids. We forged on.

There are two or three pretty significant drops on the way to the Pyramid cutoff, and they add up. By the time we reached the spur, staying on Trail 1433 for about 6 miles in, we’d climbed well over 2,500 feet. But there was good news. No tire tracks after the spur! That meant our party, if indeed it was they, were still on the mountain, either climbing or coming back down. In either case, we were assured of meeting up with them.

Signing the log book, a year later.

It would make sense, when ascending to 8300 feet on a narrow trail, that one would go only up. But the Pyramid spur soon dived, then dived again, and a third time, into quite lovely meadows, before finally heading up talus fields. There was just one problem: It was really getting cold. We were well below freezing by this time, around 2 in the afternoon, and snowflakes were flitting at us like ash from a forest burn. Our only consolation was that we had to be gaining ground on whoever was up ahead, since despite their lead time we hadn’t encountered them coming back down yet.

We were beginning to wonder if the bone-rattling cold and altitude had robbed us of our senses when there they were, like descending angels of mercy, Anthony and Mire… no wait! It was Mike Brown and Dexter Closterman, tripping down the mountainside like a walk in the park. Are you BBTC? we asked. The answer, yes, was like a Coast Guard cutter coming for shipwrecked sailors. They told us they figured Anthony and Mire were about 15 minutes behind, so we decided to wait. At that moment I knew Pyramid Peak once more was going to elude us. But I was so cold, it was getting later in the day, and it would be so foolhardy to split up again, I managed to shrug off the disappointment. Even if we got to the top, it would be so utterly miserable that all we’d be able to do would be to take a quick look around — with visibility of, say, 15 feet — and head back down.

But the Curse wasn’t done. We waited and waited, suffice to say far longer than 15 minutes. After nearly an hour, Mire showed up, followed by Anthony, and then the conversation got complicated. By the time we figured out, in our synapse-numbed state, all the variables involved in that long horrific shuttle, Team Mojo was heading back to the TH with Mike and Dexter, while Anthony and Mire, having handed her keys over, decided to drop down into camp. In warmer weather, with a longer day, there’s no question we would have done Pugh Ridge, which we could see stretched out right in front of us, and which looked, as Jim put it, “like a real hoot.” But given the conditions, Pugh was out of the question. It was so damn cold I felt like 80 percent of my bodily functions were in the process of shutting down unless I got moving asap. And it would probably be better to be pedaling than coasting.

Long story short, or at least less long, we rode back to the cars and drove back down the fire road in descending darkness. But not before the Curse struck one more time. On a rocky drop, Mike dumped his bike and whanged his rear rotor (breaking my cardinal rule of mountain biking, always keep your body between your bike and the ground — broken skin and bones heal, but a broken frame is forever). I’ve seen a lot of whangs, but this thing was curled like a taco. Each revolution stopped Mike’s bike in its tracks. He eventually disabled the caliper by flipping it over and re-screwing it onto the mount, but I knew this was just one more way of Pyramid Mountain winking and giving us the sly smile.

We eventually climbed back out another 2600 to 2800 feet, putting us well over 5k for the day with not much to show for it. Still, now we know our options. Now we can plan for the future. And now we know the full fury, the insidious machinations, the brute force, of the Pyramid Curse. Like a Cubs fan, we can console ourselves with “There’s always next year.” With one exception: Team Mojo won’t be waiting till Baseball Playoffs time when we reprise the magic, the glory, the mystery and the accursed Curse of Pyramid Peak.

Note: The third time on Pyramid Peak was the charm. The following year, on September 21, 2008, Team Mojo finally scrambled to the top, signed the log book and scampered back down. We did the ride without shuttling, instead driving Road 5606 to the Trail 1437 trailhead and then riding 1437 to 1439, then turning onto 1433 for the ugliest, most vicious hike-a-bike in the state, up 1,000 feet in 1.2 miles, to the Pyramid spur. The weather was quite pleasant, in the mid-80s with a mild breeze, and the ride back down a real hoot. Pyramid Peak itself offers sweeping 360-degree views but is otherwise rocky and desolate, and the switchbacks down from the peak aren’t much fun. Then you have to go back down the pitted-out 1433. After that, though, it’s a real ripper back to the lower trailhead. You can also come down via Pugh Ridge but that would involve quite a bit more climbing, and the whole out-and-back we did took us more than 9 hours as it was. The Curse having been lifted off our backs, we have yet to return to Pyramid.

If you want a compact, four-hour Teanaway experience, Esmeralda Peaks has it all.

The ride had been on Team Mojo’s list for some time, but you know how it is. Something always got in the way, usually over on the Entiat. On Saturday we had a day-long window, grabbed it by the short hairs and made sure we didn’t let go till Esmeralda was bagged.

Up on top, a view to lunch over.

The trail, No. 1394, starts a bit steep but soon mellows out to a rideable meadowy climb. At one point we missed a re-route, putting us on the old, unmaintained trail notable for boggy sections and lots of blowdown. Ah well, we weren’t in any hurry.

Trail No. 1226: An old friend greets us.

Eventually 1394 spilled us out onto a sweeping view of several peaks, including Ingalls Peak and Hawkins Mountain and, in the distance, Glacier. This is the classic lunch spot.

Normally you’d assume the climbing was pretty much over at near 6,000 feet elevation. In this case, you don’t want to overeat. After scoping out the trail’s continuation — it wraps around the ridge and, although there are a couple of cairns, is not easily traced — we started the dive down toward a fairly brutal dirt-rock road (Fortune Creek jeep road) which, it turned out, connects Salmon La Sac with North Fork Teanaway.

The downhill is technical, sketchy and steep, with too many switchbacks to make it much fun. This is our least favorite way to lose elevation — ride 60 to 100 feet, turn, repeat till thoroughly cooked and serve. In this case we dropped 900 feet of loose, narrow, rotor-searing elevation. Adding injury to insult, we immediately faced climbing back up 600 feet of loose, rocky dirt road to get to our reward — the long downhill back to De Roux campground.

Gimme shelter by the rolling bones.

Climbing the steep, inhospitable road we spied a makeshift cabin, probably a hunter’s hut. It had no door — you had to climb up the side to get in — and a wood stove inside. Jim speculated it had begun life as a miner’s cabin, but the current iteration looked pretty fresh.

You eventually crest at Gallagher Head Lake, where we found some 4-wheel ATVers. On a hotter day earlier in the season the lake would be a perfect cooling-off spot, but it’s looking pretty anemic this time of year. You can continue down the road at this point by vehicle (the ATVers did), but just past the lake the trail (No. 1392) cuts off and follows De Roux Creek down to the campground.

Here the fun begins.

The beginning of the trail is a real ripper, flowing along with long, smooth sections of soft singletrack. Then you hit the woods, things get steeper and much trickier. There’s lots to challenge even a technically adept rider — not the wood ladders or manicured berms of a mountain bike park but Nature’s own features, in this case big root or rock stepdowns, loose shale on the switchbacks, tractionless creek crossings and screaming ledge launches. It’s a huge hoot, albeit all primitive. At one point Jim yelled to bear right, but I went left. We both thought I was over the bars, but somehow I bronco–bucked the big drop and emerged laughing and bouncing down the trail. It’s all good, so long as you keep the tread underneath you.

The best part comes last.

When it’s all over, you cover less than 12 miles on the entire loop. That may seem a head-scratcher for a 4-to-5 hour ride, even if it involves nearly 4,000 feet of climbing. By comparison, Issaquah’s Grand Ridge is a 20-mile out-and-back with 2k of climbing that takes just 2 to 3 hours. But there in a nutshell is the difference between riding a mountain bike and mountain biking.

And the difference between the Teanaway and most other regions. Miller Peak, Mt. Jolly, West Fork Teanaway, Kachess Ridge, Esmeralda Peaks — there’s just a look and feel here that puts you in a whole other zone. The Teanaway isn’t built for comfort or for speed. It’s built for real mountain biking, in real mountains.

Here’s our GPS track for the day. Distance: 11.2 miles. Elevation gain: 2,967 feet.

The loop is also clearly shown on Green Trails Map No. 209 (Mount Stuart).

So by the time we finished 6 consecutive days in the saddle, our bodies were whimpering. We were not used to this kind of punishm… er, rapture. Not without a break, anyway. Over breakfast Team Mojo looked deep into our souls. We were trashed, whipped, fried. We could barely lift fork or spoon to our mouth. What to do? After all, even the Almighty rested on the seventh day. Shouldn’t we take a breather?

Good Lord, no. I mean, are you crazy?

Here we were in God’s country, trails surrounding us on all sides, with no email to answer, voice mail to leave or snail mail to recycle. Tomorrow reality might set in and various ineluctable duties call. Today we had a blank slate and miles of singletrack to cover.

Taking note of our depleted condition, our hosts Squeek and Zelda (not their real names, ho ho) said they knew a local mtber who could give us a light day to help break up the monotony of utter exhaustion. Check in with ——, they said (not his real name). He’ll show you the lighter side of the panhandle. You know, kind of a recovery day ride. A leg-stretcher.

To our undying regret, we believed them.

We met OMG!! (Omigod! It’s Our Mysterious Guide!) in the rugged little burg of Priest River. Our destination: Priest Lake, ribboned with trails, where we would ride around Upper Priest Lake hard by the Upper Priest Lake Scenic Area. Any upper upper and you’re in Canada. Priest Lake is where vacationing Washingtonians go to kick back among various Hollywood celebrities and rich types. No one really knows who lives or has vacation places out here because they come in by limo or helicopter and besides, in Idaho you don’t snoop around like that. Or you might get shot.

So when OMG! said he preferred to remain anonymous in our chronicles, we did not ask why. Even though we wondered.

Jim had ridden previously with OMG!, but it was my first time. Jim’s wild Jack London-ish stories had only partially prepared me for the real deal. OMG! arrived in the biggest pickup I’d ever seen, an x-cab F250 whose tires got in the way of my eyeballs and whose engine sounded like takeoff time at Canaveral. Out leaps a totally bald, completely ripped, larger-than-life fireball looking like a grizzly about to dine on a couple of salmon. The man had arms like ham hocks and elbows that looked like they could crush brick. He tossed our Mojos into the yawning bed of his pickup, which made them look like totcycles, we climbed into the cab and were ready to roll.

If you figured OMG! for a typical backwater redneck, you’d soon find yourself surprised. Bush was a disaster. The “Rethuglicans” — his word — were wrecking the country and didn’t give a damn about America. Universal health care and Social Security were sacrosanct. The banks were evil. When I suggested the Democrats needed to kick some Republican ass (trying to adopt the local vernacular, ho ho), OMG! was equally unpredictable. No, he said, that’s not the way to move the country forward. They just need to be clearer and more articulate about the good they’re doing.

In the heart of the heart of old growth.

We roared up to Priest Lake with OMG! describing the roly-poly little trails we’d be doing — recovery day and all — and the truly abominable ones we wouldn’t. Not this time anyway.

We parked the rig, which is what all big honking trucks are called in northern Idaho, and deservedly so since you only see trucks and not these monsters in the big city, at the Beaver Creek Recreation Site. Soon enough we were were off on Navigation Trail No. 291 toward Upper Priest Lake. The morning was foggy, misty and damp, leaving the trail for the most part tacky rather than sloshy. OMG! tore off like one of those winged monkeys in the Wizard of Oz, leaving us with the sinking realization that we’d been snookered.

In addition to being fearsomely constructed and bellowingly energetic, OMG! is ruggedly old school, riding a titanium hard tail with — get this — flat bars, a 120mm stem and caliper brakes. For some reason I felt a shudder of mortal trepidation — that ancient technology in this case not only was no barrier but would be used to dish out even greater punishment than with sissy stuff like disc brakes and full suspension.

Recovery day indeed! Like any typical trail near freshwater, whether it be a lake, river or creek, the Priest Lake network climbs and drops over and over, leaving your legs just enough time to come up for air before another riser smacks you in the bottom bracket. It’s like getting knocked down by a prize fighter, crawling to your feet, wobbling around a few moments and then getting knocked down again. There were rocky sections, and rooty sections, some of them staired and some not. They were climbable if you felt like retching. It was a marvel to watch OMG! dig his way up embankments, spitting rocks and dirt from his knobbies, as we tried merely to stay upright.

At the first crossroads OMG! pulled up and with characteristic shit-eating grin and booming enunciation roared, “What do you think?” Not waiting for a gasping response, he answered for us: “Isn’t this the greatest?!”

It went on like that mile after mile, as we ventured around Upper Priest Lake, spilling out onto a fire road (USFS Road 655), cruising it for a bit, then diving down Trail 302 into verdant, moist, truly spectacular if not gloriously spooky old growth forest on the way to a lunch spot right on the lake. There are huge hemlock, cedar and Doug fir back here, and everything is a different shade of bright green. The old-growth trails were fast, swoopy and buff, punctuated by occasional bridges and creek crossings. One bridge I hit too fast and tried to pull up, only to find my Mojo skating like a bobsled. I laid off the brakes and recovered just in time to avoid being swallowed by the swampy green bottomless pit below.

At one point, hoping to sucker OMG! into taking it easy, I switched bikes to give him a taste of State of the Art. My Mojo weighs under 25 pounds, has Magura Marta stoppers, a 90mm stem, Easton risers, etc. etc. I actually liked OMG!’s setup, which brought back fond memories of riding in the mid-’90s, when men were men and bikes were … erm, unevolved. But my little gamesmanship wasn’t going anywhere. OMG! rode maybe a quarter of a mile and then opted out with a pained expression and some mumbled syllables about what a different ride suspension made. We got the distinct impression he wouldn’t be upgrading any time soon.

I will say this. The Priest Lake trails scored well on the Demi Thigh Index. On Day 1 of our Idaho adventure, Jim had discussed the variegated surface quality of trails we were about to tackle in the context — naturally — of a local celebrity. Before their notorious breakup, Bruce Willis and Demi Moore were the toast of Sun Valley, the biggest icons of an icon–infested retreat for the rich, famous, beautiful and shallow. In his rapturous description of the flat, smooth valley trails, Jim invoked Demi Moore’s thigh as a basis of comparison. Thereafter all trails were rated on the Demi Thigh Index. We hope you younger readers who consider Demi Moore an historical has-been will understand.

As we rocked and rolled around Priest Lake, Jim kept rattling off numbers, 9, 8, 10, 11. Like the amp dial in “This Is Spinal Tap,” the Thigh Index went beyond 10 for the really good stuff. Finally we broke out into a deserted picnic area relatively bereft of flies, at least momentarily, and took lunch. If it’d been hot out I would’ve jumped into the lake in a flash. But the day, for all its other joys, was still damp and overcast.

We could have ridden on and on and on — there was literally no limit to OMG!’s ambitions — but it had been 15 miles so far and our only alternative would be circumnavigating the entire 25-mile-long lake or doubling back. We chose the latter. With the former, we would have to trust OMG!’s better judgment, which we’d long ago begun to question. At least doubling back we knew what we were in for the rest of the way. I’ve never held the common prejudice against out-and-back anyway. They’re completely different views, and if you liked it one way chances are you’ll appreciate it even more in reverse.

If you’ve got enough left in the tank, that is. One thing about a roller trail — it isn’t any flatter going back than it was coming out. By the finish line I was gassed — funny how 30 miles of lowland constant pedaling can beat you up more than a mountain epic where you have a long climb but can cruise the down slopes.

When we got back I tossed my pack into the back of the cab, dislodging OMG!’s brief case. It fell onto the pavement and popped open. OMG! Out bounced a shiny hand gun, skittering over the cement.

“Is the safety on?” I asked uncertainly.

OMG! grinned at me. “It’s a little late to be asking that kind of question.”

Which is just one more reason why, even as I write this far away in the security of my office and the Big City, I refuse to identify him as anything other than Our Mysterious Guide.

Two years ago Team Mojo rode Long Canyon in the underrated and sweeping Selkirk range of northern Idaho and finished in such a state of stark delirium that we vowed to return as soon as possible. The interim had left me wondering if the ride indeed was as good as I’d remembered it. Could euphoria strike twice in the same place — without the use of pharmaceuticals?

First, a confession. We at BikeIntelligencer generally avoid the bestial practice of motorized assistance on an epic loop — in the parlance of our time, shuttling. For the adventure at hand, shuttling is a necessity. Forgoing vehicular transport would require riding 14 miles, 9 of it up a viciously steep (18 percent grade) fire road climbing more than 3,000 feet, just to get to the beginning of the ride. Then you’d have another 1,300 feet of climbing before starting the downhill run, and another 3,000 feet of cumulative elevation gain along ridge rollers before returning to your starting point. If your head hurts already from the math, think of what riding it would do. Locals also have been known to ride up Long Canyon Trail to Parker Peak and then ride Parker Ridge back down, but that’s a whole other world of hurt.

Far better to find a passenger with a second car to accompany you to the top, then drive your car back to the end point (generally referred to as the spousal or girlfriend option). Fortunately Kendra and Autumn were game. As we ascended on a golden morning to our starting point, we flushed a moose out onto the road ahead. What fun to see the King of the Forest canter along like a bandy-legged school girl. Mooses look like the first rough draft of an elk or deer, where Nature got everything — the spherical form, spindly legs, clumpy hooves and homely face — just slightly wrong. For all that, you don’t want to mess with moose. If they don’t like you — and they never do — they can wreak all kinds of havoc.

To start the ride requires two vehicles, leaving one at the terminus, a grassy lot off Copeland Road (45). Then you drive back up Westside Road (417) to Trout Creek Road (634) and take it to the top, where the trail head starts at around 5,400 feet.

All of this takes a couple of hours from Bonners Ferry (go north on 95 and turn left on Highway 1 toward Porthill/Creston, after about 1 mile turn left on Copeland Road, cross the river again and turn left at the T onto Westside Road), so you’ll want to start your day fairly early.

From there you begin a rocky ascent that includes numerous unrideable sections. Keep in mind it’s only temporary, about an hour, before you start a glorious downhill. You do come to one intersection — Big Fisher and Trout Lakes trails — where you’ll bear left and keep climbing.

From Webster's Dictionary, photo under the word 'unrideable'.

There’s a natural lunch spot at the top, if you don’t mind being lunch for a few bugs, with a view of Pyramid Peak. You can also scramble up to the peak, but that’s a bit of a chore and time on this ride is of essence, especially if the days are getting shorter.

The ride begins with a steep, switchbacky, challenging but fast set of rippers as you begin to drop back down the ridge. The trail this time was in even better shape than previously. It doesn’t get much use in the first place, and the late spring had left it dustless and tacky.

Pyramid Peak: Eat and get eaten

Back and forth and forth and back you go in a zippered configuration. The long, straight, well-sighted sections enable plenty of speed, even if the switchbacks themselves test your nose-wheelying skills. By the time you drop into the drainage of Long Canyon Creek you’ve done a typical day’s ride and more.

But hold on — this escapade is just beginning.

The name Long Canyon makes up in literalness what it lacks in poesy. The all-downhill-all-the-time part of the ride officially ends in a T at Long Canyon Creek, where we noted our first marked disparity from two years earlier. The water was a lot higher.

Each of the gaping water crossings on Long Canyon requires scoping out passages. Sometimes there are logs across the waterway. More often it’s a matter of figuring out where the current is shallowest and/or (it’s usually not both) slackest. There was no question of riding them. The water was too deep and strong, and the boulders slickered with moss. It was hard enough walking without slipping.

First and foremost, protect the bike!

If water depth allows (you don’t want your hubs and drive train in the rushing current), you can use the bike as a wheeled walking stick. But you have to make sure it’s secure. You don’t want to lose your grasp in the rapids.

Remember: The primary responsibility of a true mountain biker is to sacrifice the body before the bike. When you crash, be sure to cushion the frame with your flesh. When you go in the river, remember: You can swim, but your bike cannot.

The first serious crossing had a long log walk about 10 feet above the rapids that would have been doable if it had been drier. As it was, the penalty for a slip seemed too high, and we walked the creek bed. The water was up to our knees and the going dicey, but we made it. On a typical ride, it would represent the worst the trail had to offer. In the case of Long Canyon, the crossings get progressively wider, deeper and harder.

Fortunately, they’re widely spaced. As with any river trail, Long Canyon goes up and down along the ridge. The difference here was that it was mostly down. You ride a short riser, then cruise down a long sinewy section. Then another short uphill and long downhill. It’s a wonderful way to lose elevation — gradual, leisurely and … well, l-o-n-g.

It goes on and on and on and on...

As remote as the trail is, it’s well-maintained. While the creek crossings themselves lack man-made bridges, there are numerous bridged sections over boggy or unstable ground. At one point we encountered a series of wood bridges on a long downhill run with one-to-two foot drops. You have enough speed to really air it out.

Through all this you’re in serious old-growth forest, including sections of huge hemlock and cedar somehow missed by loggers of a century or more ago. Long Canyon is on the list for wilderness consideration, which we’d be all for if it weren’t for the phrase banning “mechanized” vehicles in the Wilderness Act — meaning no mountain bikes. At some point, we hope to live to see it, all wilderness advocates will realize that mountain bikes, no matter how popular, pose no threat to the preservation of wild lands.

Eventually we came to a campground with a fire ring and makeshift lean-to. You sit there basking in the shafts of sunlight filtering through majestic tall trees and you think of all the rides you’ve done and it hits you that this is like none of them and yet all of them. If you took your Top 10 favorite trail rides and stitched them together, you’d probably have something approximating Long Canyon. It has that much challenge, variety, distinctiveness and distance, all in the course of one day’s outing.

Hikers call it home. We call it photo op.

At one point we ran across — or more accurately avoided running across — one of the more auspicious piles of bear scat we’d ever seen. Grizzly, Jim speculated. They were out here. We later were told they bring the “problem bears” from Yellowstone and environs for dropping off in the region. After all, what harm could grizzlies do in the wilds of the Idaho panhandle? To two delicious mountain bikers from the big city? I’ve ridden alongside and otherwise seen black bears up close without feeling threatened. I was figuring I’d like to see a grizzly some time too. But Jim assured me it’s not the same thing and, for this ride, had attached a bear bell to his saddle. The damn thing gets on your nerves for sure, but one thing I’ve learned from years on Team Mojo is, you don’t question the Lyon King’s better judgment. (As my wife tells me, If I didn’t have bad judgment, I’d have no judgment at all.)

Our final river crossing was the most harrowing. A natural dam composed of a jumble of snags and deadwood blocked half the river bed, forcing the already strong current into a narrower, deeper channel. The water was waist high and rushing with the power of a locomotive. There was no way of telling what was under foot. We teetered across, lifting and propping the bikes, slipping time and again precariously, narrowly keeping our balance. To keep the bikes from being swept away required lifting them over our heads and passing them to one another. The problem was literally nothing to grab on to. A simple piece of rope stretched across the river would do wonders for navigability.

Sometimes ya eats the bear...

From the last crossing we scampered along the canyon for miles and miles, up and down, an endless roller coaster of wooded, then exposed, ridge line. Finally we turned northwest and lollygagged through a cool forested section. Then it was time for the final blitz down a series of switchbacks to the parking area where Kendra and Autumn had left the CRV.

You would not imagine, after seven-plus hours on the bike, that you would be ready for more. On most epics, you’re too trashed to even think about the next ride. But for all its challenges, Long Canyon leaves you longing to do it again, right away. Partly because you start the downhill fresh. Partly because you’re shielded from things like heat and bugs. But mainly because the ride is so intense, every millimeter of the way. There’s nothing to distract — not the scenery of Boundary Creek or the bugs of Greenhorn Gulch or the rock gardens of Cow Creek or the horse-puckey ponds of Little Boulder. We saw no other riders, no other people, not even any wildlife. The focus is on whatever piece of singletrack is in front of you, mile after infinite magical transcendant mile.

Long Canyon, Idaho: It’s all about the trail.

Distance: 18.5 miles. Cumulative elevation drop: 6,225 feet.

[Next: Ripping the trails around Priest Lake with OMH — Our Mysterious Host.]

After our all-day adventure ride we headed north on 75 cum 93 (the two merge south of Challis) to the next meaningful dot on the map, the town of Salmon. Our intention was to camp out but we were so fried that, yes, we caved. We decided to look for actual accommodations. As it happened, we also had over the course of the 11 or so hours since breakfast developed a modicum of appetite. So at the first sign of a decent eatery, in this case the Junkyard Bistro on the main drag, conveniently called Main Street, we repaired to the outdoor seating area and mulled over the culinary possibilities. Now when you’ve expended 3,000 to 4,000 calories, you’re not really that picky, even if the name of the place implies a menu steeped with goat food. But the cheerily competent waitress steered us toward a couple of Thai noodle dishes that were sumptuous and filling. We so trusted her instincts that we asked for her recommendation on where to stay. The Stagecoach Inn was a good ‘un, she said.

It was just down around the bend a piece, which is really how they still talk in Salmon. We got checked in, took excellent showers and, after flat-lining on TV for the first time in more than a week, collapsed into slumber.

The next day we were off bright and early after doing breakfast at the waitress’ other recommendation, Betram’s Brewery. The dining fare was about what you’d expect at 8 a.m. in a pub, but what really made breakfast was overhearing the post-hangover confessions of our smoky-voiced waitress. That’s what life is like in Salmon, where the lead local story in the newspaper was an ex-sheriff being arrested for DUI, on the same page where advertisements appeared for candidates running for sheriff. Helpful!

Then it was time to hit the road and make serious tracks. We buzzed on up 93, marveling at the lava rock formations and ancient abandoned log cabins and farmhouses. In Hamilton we stopped for gas. Before leaving Ketchum we’d filled up for $3.89 a gallon. Here, 174 miles north, we were paying $2.83. Now you tell me how gas prices in America aren’t anything but entirely discretionary, no matter what the oil companies say. By the way, does BP really think we believe those schmaltzy ads about saving the Gulf?

Anyway…

By early afternoon we’d made such good time we decided it was — now don’t be shocked! — time for a mountain bike ride! Jim knew of a cherry little trail outside Sand Point called Gold Hill. We pulled into a deserted trail head and were soon off and running.

The 4-mile out-and-back started out climbing pretty aggressively, with some wickedly steep switchbacks, but soon leveled off to a pleasant grind. It was pretty much all buff singletrack, too. We crested at one viewpoint with killer lookouts over Lake Pend Oreille, then headed on up another mile or so to the top, which T’s at a fire road that isn’t worth taking to the summit.

Gold Hill trail above Lake Pend Oreille

We headed back downhill, and it was just what the doctor ordered. The doctor that on weekends likes to get out ‘n ride, that is. This was a truly ballistic downhill, with straight sections between switchbacks, some short, most of them long, that really stoked the adrenaline. Ah, what pure unadulterated speed can do for the soul! There are some ledge jumps as well to keep the fun needle pinned.

By the time we dumped out at the trailhead we were considering a repeat. But we were aiming for a 5 p.m. arrival at Bonners Ferry and had some errands to run, so it was put the bikes back on the rack and belt up for another hour or so north.

So to paint the picture for you: We had arrived at the trailhead, chatted a few moments about whether to ride back up, put the bikes on the rack. Jim likes to velcro-strap the bikes just as a safety measure, too. Then it was time to string the cable through the frames and lock the bikes up.

Yow! The Lazy Rotor Ranch's cattle brand.

Eeeeyowww! As he was reaching through his bike’s frameset, Jim let out a yelp and jumped back, holding his forearm. There was a bright red welt forming on the soft under-flesh south of his elbow.

He had accidentally laid his forearm against his front-wheel rotor. Which, despite the elongated interlude after the ride finished, was still brand-iron hot. That’s what a 4-mile rocket downhill in 95-degree heat will do. For the rest of the trip Jim kept showing the brand as it changed shape and hues. It was a marvelous conversation starter. He had turned into a walking advertisement for Magura Marta rotors.

We pulled into Bonners Ferry, which is just 30 miles south of the Canadian border and bills itself as Idaho’s friendliest, erm, city, and cruised into the local Safeway to replenish supplies. The parking lot was jammed, and when I say that I mean we found the very last remaining open slot.

“Sheesh,” I said. “You’d think Safeway was the only place to buy food in Bonners Ferry.”

“Well…” Jim said. “As a matter of fact…”

Distance: 8 miles. Elevation gain: 2,334 feet.

[Next up: Team Mojo reprises an epic ride you've never read about before. A BikeIntelligencer exclusive!]

After Boundary Creek got done wringing us out, we headed to the bucolic little burg of Stanley, hard by the Salmon River. First on the agenda was finding a camp site. There are plenty of campgrounds off Highway 75 just beyond Stanley and we had little trouble getting one within 200 feet of the river. We jumped in to cool down; the water was unexpectedly warm even though the river seemed a bit high and the current was strong.

What Stanley lacks in quantity it makes up for in quality. Our fave place for dinner is the Bridge Street Grill, which has a deck right out over the river where there’s some kind of steel bridge — no guard rails — that looks for all the world like a girder laid sideways over the gap. Motorbikes, scooters, small children … they all crossed the bridge, the latter even playing a game of tossing flowers into the river, then running to the other side of the bridge to see them pass beneath in the current. Ah the simple joys of youth — if you don’t fall in, that is. We seemed a lot more worried about the prospect than they did.

I’ve gotten to the point where I avoid eating meat if I can, but that can be a bit of a stretch in a place like Stanley, Idaho. The only veggie thing on the menu was a mushroom burger. I’ve liked most mushroom burgers I’ve eaten, but once in the similarly carnivorous small town of Winthrop WA I ordered a mushroom burger that subsequently arrived containing a huge steak patty with a portobello mushroom on top. So I figured on asking our Stanley waiter what kind of mushrooms the burger came with. I’m thinking maybe portobello, maybe shiitake. Perhaps the morels were already in. Button, crimini and porcini I would probably take a pass on.

“So,” says I, “what kind of mushrooms are in the mushroom burger?”

The waiter, who later turned out to be an actual bull rider called in when the regular help was sick, thought for a moment and said, “Um … non-hallucinogenic?”

You can see why we love this place.

I went with the BBQ chicken sandwich, which was quite tasty. And we left our cowpoke friend, clearly out of his element but endearingly solicitous of our every request, a big tip.

At dinner we asked around for a place to get breakfast, and everyone agreed that would be the bakery.

“What’s it called?” we asked.

“The Bakery,” they said.

“Just … the Bakery?”

“That’s right.”

“It’s the only place I ever eat breakfast,” our waiter chimed in.

“There isn’t any other place to eat breakfast,” a couple at the next table noted. [A complete list of Stanley dineries here.]

Later we spoke with the owner of the Grill, who acknowledged he’d tried serving breakfast for a while but “it didn’t work out.” Customers were not the problem — it was getting help.

“People come and go,” he said. “You never know if someone’s going to report for work or not.”

We asked him the population of Stanley. He thought for a bit.

“It must be up around 70,” he said. “A Mormon family moved in with 8 kids.”

After sleeping soundly with the whispering river providing soothing white noise, we rose and hustled over to The Bakery. It was packed with cyclists, largely because of a big road ride in town. But we got seated fairly expeditiously and enjoyed a huge bowl of steaming oatmeal with berries. They also had signature hearty fare, including flapjacks the size of frisbees. We finished up and were soon on our way. Which was good, because we had a long ride ahead of us.

A few years back we’d spent time in Stanley planning to do Big Boulder/Little Boulder, an epic backcountry loop that requires an hour-plus drive from Stanley just to the starting point on East Fork Salmon River Road, 18 miles in from Highway 75. We’d gotten too late of a start to do the loop, though, which meant an out-and-back, or up-and-down, ride on Big Boulder. That was a screaming downhill, one of the best we’ve ever had. But it left us craving the entire ride.

Because the Big Boulder downhill is so spectacular — 6.5 miles of non-stop ripping over buff singletrack with G-force straightaways — you’re forced to make a decision at the start. Do you go up Little Boulder and down Big, or the other way around? Since we’d already done the down Big thing, we decided to go up Big and down Little. The ride profile showed that to be a lot longer downhill, even if our local tipster (Don Wiseman) had warned us of lots of rocky sections.

The primary thing to remember, no matter which direction you take, is to park at the dirt-road turnoff from East Fork Salmon River Road. You do NOT want to ride the dirt road to or from the trailhead at the END of the loop, no matter which way you do it.

We parked and geared up. It was approaching 80 degrees and I was thinking, another hot one.

“Should I take along my rain jacket?” I asked Jim.

“What do you think?” he said.

Jim always answers what he considers boneheaded questions with a Zen koan or something, which is only fair because by now he knows my chief problem is that I don’t think.

“There’s not a cloud in the sky. It’s pushing 80 degrees out. What’s the point?” I asked him back. He just smiled and rolled his eyes.

Doing the dirt road up to the trail head at the start of the ride isn’t a bad thing. You get to stretch your legs a bit and, dusty and uninspiring though it be, you’re fresh and looking forward to a day of spectacular riding. We were kind of hoping one of the hikers or good ol’ boys who passed us on the way would give us a ride, but no luck. Yeah it would’ve been cheating, but an honest kind of cheating.

The climb up Big Boulder is gentle, beautiful, scenic and altogether pleasant. About half way up, the sky began to darken. Then it got darker. In a few minutes it was all but black. Lightning crackled to the northwest, thunder rattled the ridge and fat splotches of sloppy rain began pelting down on us.

Even though we were riding carbon bikes, Jim cautioned we could get struck by lightning or otherwise imperiled if lightning chose a tree close by. We crawled down off the trail and took refuge in a small stand of pine.

“You don’t want to be near the tall trees,” Jim said. They’re likeliest to get hit.

Jim got out his rain gear and was soon covered up. When I pulled out my yellow Patagonia jacket, he did a double-take.

“Glad I followed your advice,” I said.

The rain was coming down hard but Jim, who once was a rock climber and professional mountain guide, scanned the horizon and said, “It’ll be over in 15 minutes or so.” For the time being, all we could do was sit and wait.

When the rain did stop, the skies opened back up and we resumed riding, Jim said, “I think that’s the last of it for today.” That he was right was a good thing, because we still had five or six hours ahead of us.

Apres le deluge, climbing Big Boulder Creek trail.

Eventually we crested on Big Boulder, providing gobsmacking 360s of stunning mountain ranges, lakes and meadows below. It was time to start heading down.

Near the top, views all around.

There are indeed rocky sections of trail on the ride down Little Boulder, but our Mojos were sucking up everything like cotton candy and we were maintaining whooping velocity on the route to Frog Lakes. Then I heard some scraping from my brakes. I stopped and gave the wheels a spin. The front rotor had serious rub.

I ride Magura Martas on the Mojo and love ‘em. But when the pads go, there’s no forgiveness. I looked into the caliper and saw telltale shiny filings from metal on metal. We were miles from our destination, with around 4,000 feet of elevation to drop.

Fortunately, in packing for the trip Jim and I had both included spare pads in our packs. I pulled out my set and Jim slapped them in while I held the fork aloft. Good as new, we were ready to roll in 5 minutes. Nevertheless, it was a good reminder of Rule No. 1 for epic riding in the back country: Bring all the spare parts you can reasonably pack. For me that means a dropout and brake pads as well as a tube and patch kit. I know guys who include rotors, rear derailleurs and even chains in the mix, but I’ve always found workarounds for those catastrophes. And a few inches of duct tape, a collection of zip ties, a first aid kit and of course wrenches and tools accompany me wherever I ride.

But you knew all this, right?

The long descent on Little Boulder is a wonderful ride, but not — on this occasion at least — without its drawbacks. The late spring had left the trail a complete bog in numerous places, worsened by post holes and generous deposits of effluent from horses. The only saving grace was that we could often (not always) ride around the mess, and that we were going down instead of up. Momentum was our friend.

Dropping back down toward Frog Lakes.

Finally we dropped onto a rollicking desert trail that took us back to the East Fork road, which we rode back up to the car.

Our Mojos were in pretty sad shape from the “horsepuckey crossings,” but it had been a fine ride. Would we do it again? Probably not the whole loop. For this specific loop we think up-and-back on Big Boulder is the best choice, giving you the better payoff for your pain.

But we have in mind another variation in this drainage that has us itching to get back asap. There’s always another ride to report, and we can dream of the day we return to Big Boulder Creek.

Distance: 27 miles plus. Elevation gain: 5020 feet.

[Tomorrow: We head to the panhandle!]

Older. Wiser. Better?

Sun Valley’s most famous mountain bike ride is the Fisher Creek loop, which in five trips there I’ve never actually done per se. You climb up Fisher Creek road, then circle back and absolutely rip one of the world’s great cross-country downhills, Williams Creek. The reason I’ve never done Fisher is because I typically combine it with a wider adventure, including one of my all-time favorite XC rides, Boundary Creek.

We’ve rhapsodized before about Boundary, running a 2004 version as one of our “Classics” during this most recent trip even as we rode it again real-time. It’s a true epic: 6 to 7 hours long, 27-plus hard miles, with just about every type of terrain you’ll encounter riding cross-country, from powdery singletrack to rocky descents. In 2005 it even added a forest burn with the epic Fisher-Williams fire. The good news is that stuff is already coming back, even though the trail remains post-burn limp and sandy.

Green is returning to 2005's Fisher Creek burn.

There’s even a big-chainring road ride at the beginning. The way we do it is to take Highway 75 to the Williams Creek trailhead, then ride road around 6 miles to Boundary Creek’s trailhead. You climb Boundary all the way to Casino Lakes, take Marten Creek down to Warm Springs, cross a vast ethereal meadow and then dive through the Fisher burn to Williams and back to the trailhead.

You have a number of options in this region just outside of the bustling little burg of Stanley. You could do Ants Basin, a giant shuttle. You could go up Fisher Creek and take Warm Springs down to Robinson Bar, another big shuttle (you’d get to see Carole King’s for-sale estate this way). You could take Boundary up to the Casino Lakes intersection and take one of the Casino trails down.

Of them all, Boundary is the most challenging, epic and rider-specific. No shuttle is required.

We were gearing up when who should pull up but a pickup jammed with bikes … from Seattle! It was a group ride of fellow Evergreen Mountain Bike Alliance bros. Unbeknownst to us, a gang had come over and was renting a house near Ketchum for the week. We found this out just by striking up a conversation, which we always try to do at trailheads. You never know what connections you have in this small, small world.

In this case, our old riding buddy David James was the link. When someone mentioned he was part of the group, Dave popped his head around and we got to say hello. Some of the gang was doing classic Fisher, others were crossing the meadow to Warm Springs and down to Robinson Bar. It was going to be a memorable day for all. You can check out their adventures via Erik Alston’s posts on GotSingletrack.com.

Erik Alston's Seattle group at Fisher-Williams.

The road ride at the beginning of Boundary isn’t much fun. The road lacks shoulder space, but vehicles tend to give you wide berth in Idaho. It helped that a big road bike event was going on in Stanley; there were plenty of compatriots out flashing colors strung out along 75.

We registered at the Boundary Creek trailhead and began the long climb up. Around 9 miles up, the climb is a gradual ascent punctuated by a few wicked switchbacks. Most of it is rideable, and when I say that I usually mean by someone other than me. Especially on this long, long ride, you don’t want to burn out your jets early on.

On the way Jim reminded me of a pushing technique he had been introduced to by a riding buddy we would eventually hook up with in northern Idaho. Instead of the usual technique of pushing a bike alongside, left hand on bars, right hand on saddle (or whatever), with this maneuver you reverse the bike and push it backwards up the hill, both hands on the bars.

A new way of pushing up the steeps.

It feels funny at first and looks even funnier. But there’s an innate efficiency to the process that immediately clicks. Despite Jim’s snickers and ridicule, I found myself adapting to it quickly. Steering is at first a bit awkward, but soon enough I was negotiating rocks, step-ups and switchbacks with little trouble. Because it requires reversing the bike, it’s only practical for extended pushes. But try it sometime — you may like it.

As we continued to climb, the scenery got more and more stunning. Your backdrop is Idaho’s majestic Sawtooth range. Snow still strewed the peaks, and the morning sun gave an iridescent glow to the bluish massif. We don’t have mountains like this on the West Coast. Jim’s a Colorado native and says the Sawtooths are the closest he knows comparable to the commanding sweep of the Rockies.

The higher you climb Boundary Creek, the further your jaw drops.

About two-thirds of the way up a group of riders, led by a powerful pro (we guessed from his colors), came rolling by. They were strung out along the hillside, but to their credit all were riding all the way to the top. Several — the tall ones — had 29ers. A couple were out of Tucson, one woman was Australian, and the rest were locals. We’d see them again at the top but for now they were way off the front.

There’s a false summit on Boundary where you think whew, the climbing’s over at least. Far from it. You’ve got another thousand feet or so of really steep stuff before you crest for the best lunch spot.

Atop Boundary, you look down on the Sawtooths.

We encountered the group eating and laughing on slickrock boulders — perched on a ridge that made it seem like you were looking down on the Sawtooths. One guy in particular caught our interest. Dressed in a buttoned and collared short-sleeve shirt and natty creased shorts, he looked like he’d just stepped out of a Herb Allen conference seminar. It turned out he was Mike Herlinger, the founder of Club Ride Apparel, a clothing line represented in the Northwest by none other than former distance champion John Stamstad. We took Mike’s photo (he’s on the right) and made a mental note to follow up once we got back home.

“You don’t even look like you broke a sweat,” we commented.

“It’s all in the attire,” he said with a smile.

Club Ride: Dressing well is the best revenge.

That reminded us of a previous ride we’d done in the area with a dapper Boeing engineer named Steve Van Patten. Throughout a day-long epic in blistering heat, Steve wore a long-sleeved pinstripe dress shirt. We had to admit, for all the eccentricity of dress, he brought a touch of class to the proceedings.

The gang — whom we later learned comprised in part Team Niner-Ergon — soon departed after donning helmet cams (one had a GoPro Hero mounted on his handlebars; see video here). They were headed down Casino Lakes, the opposite way from us but an alternative we plan to do the next time. For now we were looking forward to a monster downhill.

If there’s such a thing as a challenging descent, Boundary Creek is it. Rock gardens abound, and the late spring had left creek crossings dicey. It’s fun, but you don’t want to hurt yourself or even get a mechanical this far from anywhere, and you don’t really get a lot of flow. I was heartened by Jim’s recollection of several crashes I’d had last time. This time out I stayed upright. Older, yes. Wiser, yes. Better? It must have been the Mojo.

Sometimes ya eats the rocks, sometimes the rocks eat you.

One interlude I always take advantage of is an alpine lake fairly early on, where you can take a cool dip that brings down the core temp fast and relaxes you for the rest of the ride. I had jumped in and was floating on my back when Jim, scanning out across the lake, said bemusedly, “Hmmm, there’s a water snake out there.”

A snake! Where there’s one, there’s got to be more! After I’d finished splashing to shore, cracking up Jim to no end, he explained that we probably weren’t talking water moccasins here. In any case, I was ready to roll on in no time at all.

A snake you say? Yeeeoooowwwww!

We rode down, down, down … through the ghostly burn, where underbrush is coming back to life … through creek crossings that were higher than normal … through the vast upper meadow bowl … up riser after riser on Fisher. The latter, coming late in the ride and the day, was leaving me pretty gassed, wondering if the intersection with Williams is ever going to show up.

But then you’re there.

It admittedly would be nice to do Williams a bit fresher. It’s one ride that invites speed so tantalizing you simply cannot resist the perfectly timed berms and roller-coaster straightaways. For the most part Williams has terrific sight lines and plenty of clearance. And you can go as fast as reflexes and fear factor permit.

You finally break out into a meadow at the bottom, then have a little 200-foot climb before the final rip to the trailhead. As much as I love this ride, it had pummeled me into submission by the end. I guess that’s one thing that keeps bringing me back. Maybe one of these days I’ll get the better of it rather than the other way around. Either way, it’s an incomparable mountain biking experience.

Warm Springs meadow, in the eye of God.

Back at the trailhead we’re packing up when we hear a voice … “Jim? Jim Lyon? Paul? Is that you?”

We turned around to see none other than Mr. Sartorial Splendor himself, Steve Van Patten.

After much exclaiming, hooting and greeting, we learned he was with the Seattle clan, having just been dropped back off at his camper after doing the Robinson Bar option. He had a different bike than in 2004, sans rack, but the camper was the same and Steve still was living large.

We told him the story of Club Ride Apparel.

“Was the material cotton?” he asked.

We weren’t positive but thought it a blend.

Steve shook his head. “Has to be cotton,” he said. “Cotton all the way.”

So there you have it. The last mountain biker in America to wear cotton on day-long rides. Boundary Creek truly has it all.

Elevation gain: Around 5300 feet. Miles: 27 plus change.

[Next up: Big Boulder/Little Boulder ... and medium boulders, er, road apples, too!]

Because of our late spring and/or non-existent summer, however you want to characterize it, in Year 2010 of the Great Northwest, we were even more out of shape than usual for late July. Jim was playing it cautious, keeping our entry rides in the medium-range level of distance and altitude. The nice thing about Sun Valley is that you can do a loop and then, if you’re feeling like more, add another, different loop of greater or lesser challenge right in the same basin. It’s really remarkable for that. There really is that much riding around.

We had been scheduled to tackle the forbidding Bowery Creek Loop up the road past Galena Pass. But it rained heavily during the night and kept spigot-showering through the early morning hours. There was no telling when the rain would let up, and in any case we had no idea what conditions were like up on Galena, so we lowered our sights to closer to town.

As it turned out, we were glad we did.

Pondering an innovative new route.

The departure point is a large parking lot at the Greenhorn Gulch trail head. You take Highway 75 south from Ketchum for 6 miles to Greenhorn Gulch Road and follow it to the end. You’ll find lots of hikers, mountain bikers and dog-walkers at the trail head, which has an outhouse as well.

Coming from Seattle, you expect after a downpour to find trails slippery and puddled. In Sun Valley we could hardly tell it rained. The trail surface was not only dry but nicely tacked up — no dust! We cruised around the loop in near-record time, pausing only at the upper junction for a very civilized photo at table and chairs. All we needed were a couple of cold ones, and we’d be right out of one of those outdoorsy beer commercials.

A couple of tall cold ones was all we needed.

We couldn’t take it too easy because our pals the bugs were still hot on our trail. Jim was starting to kvetch about the unfairness of it all, how I somehow got passed up for him when I was the fleshier, flabbier, presumably more succulent member of Team Mojo. He had even brought along a little cannister of spray in his pack. No matter how much he lathered on, though, the bugs still lapped him up.

Myself, I was beginning to think of the commercial value of my asset.

“We could bottle up my sweat and sell it,” I told Jim. “Team Mojo mosquito repellant. Paul’s Brow Juice. Or maybe Armpit by Paul.”

Jim thought for a moment, then said: “Eau de Butt Crack.”

Hey, if people will buy car insurance from little green lizards …

The last time we did the ridge section was at the end of a long, really hot day, when I’d run out of water and we made an unfortunate routing error — continuing on the up-and-down-and-up-again ridge instead of dropping down to the lower connector. This time we got it right, but you know what? I’ll remember the first time a lot more. Suffering imprints the gray cells far deeper.

The loopy joys of Greenhorn Gulch.

When we got back this time, we were actually just starting to get our Sun Valley rhythm. So Jim conjured up another loop — Cow Creek. It looked straightforward enough on the map, the only problem being we were following the map, not the recommended route.

We left from the Greenhorn Gulch trailhead but this time took a right at Cow Creek trail and headed up to a butte-like promontory. There was a lot more climbing than it looked at first, and when we came to a Y we were a bit puzzled. But a makeshift sign pointed us in what we thought was the right direction with crude Appalachian lettering: Cow C-R-I-C-K. There was no “Deliverance” theme, but things were about to get dicey.

Short on graphics, maybe, but getting the point across.

As we proceeded, the trail got sketchier and sketchier, till finally it disappeared altogether in a grass burn. We kept checking the map, and indeed we were on Cow Creek Trail. But it obviously wasn’t the mountain bike mecca that the route suggested.

We got off our bikes and beat the brushes for a bit, before Jim discovered the exit path. From there we dropped down a couple of steep switchbacks. Then the fun began.

Yee-haw! The rest of the trail, leading back to the parking lot, was a series of buckin’ bronco — or maybe it was bull-ridin’, given the name — bouldered downhills. You’d get through a patch and think, hey, that was intense! Now it’s time to ride!

Then you’d hit another. And another. Jim kept apologizing — “This isn’t what I figured on” — but I was having a great time. Until that one section. The one where I crashed.

It wasn’t a bad tumble. I was going pretty slow, which was part of the problem. The front wheel caught a doorstop that, with a bit more momentum, I would’ve rolled over easily. Instead the fork dived and I went over the bars.

If I’d been wearing full-finger gloves, I wouldn’t even have scratched my left index finger. As it was, I dug out a bit of skin and it was bleeding pretty bad. I also scraped my left shin and it was bleeding too. But I’ve been in lots worse crashes. I pulled my DIY first-aid kit out of my pack and put Neosporin on the cuts, bandaged my hand, took a shot of Arnica Montana and was ready to roll in no time.

[Please don't tell my wife about the crash, as she never reads this blog.]

There were even more boulder sections, but nothing too insurmountable. We cruised back to the trailhead, and I checked the sign. There it was: Cow Creek Trail, spelled American Textbook.

Jim, still scratching his head, consulted the map again and figured out where we went wrong. The traditional loop is to do Lodgepole Gulch (Mahoney Creek Trail) up and then ride down the part of Cow Creek Trail we rode up. That makes for a screaming downhill — sans the boulder fields.

I liked it this way. We’ll call it the Cow Creek Faceplant Option. Or: The Real Cow Crick.

When we got back to the trailhead we struck up a conversation with a tanned, sinewy couple in a Eurovan who knew their way around the area.

“Would you like a cold one?” she asked. “We’ve got Tecates in the fridge.”

It’d been a long time since I’d cracked open a Tecate, but I recalled back in the day it was a pretty tasty beer. When I took my first sip, I just about sprayed it back out. What happened, did Tecate get bought out by Rolling Rock? As Jim later put it, that’s as close as you can get to rat piss without being rodential.

Dude where's my beer?

Not to diss the hospitality of our new friends, though, because they saved our hides. We were thinking about doing Bowery the next day, but they warned us off. Too much suffering for too little gain; they suggested an out-and-back that sounded pretty good to us.

It would have to wait till the next time we came to town, though. For our third day out, it was time to start pinning the fun meter. Boundary Creek was calling our names, and we were all ears.

Elevation gain: 3340 feet. Miles: 19.2.

[Tomorrow: Boundary Creek revisited, with the unexpected reappearance of old friends.]

It’s a long day’s drive from Seattle to Ketchum, ID, around 680 miles. We packed Jim’s CR-V to the gills and headed out at 6 a.m., arriving nearly 12 hours later. After grabbing some food in Atkinson’s grocery in town (BigWood Bakery granola and cookies highly recommended), we pitched our tents at the Corral Creek campground just outside of town. It’s free, quiet and eminently convenient. Despite coming from sea level to a mile high in elevation, we slept well.

Upper meadow near Baker Lake

While we were getting ready to roll, up drives an SUV with two Boise riders wearing racing colors from Reed Cycle. As they geared up, we couldn’t help but notice that one — a powerfully lean, dark-haired girl — had a big patch of gray duct tape just below her knee. When Jim asked her about it, she laughed and said, somewhat cryptically, “There’s a real bandage underneath.”

All summer long we’ve been reading Stieg Larsson’s posthumously best-selling trilogy about “The Girl.” The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. The Girl Who Played with Fire. The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest.

This was The Girl with the Duct Tape Band-Aid. Friendly enough, but the kind you wouldn’t want to mess with.

We jumped on our Mojos and headed up the road to the turnoff (to the left) of the jeep road beginning Curly’s Loop. We don’t know who Curly is, but we thank him for this little acclimatizer. The road is not really steep nor really long, but both are definitely more pronounced at altitude than they would be back home. We were huffing well beyond what our moderate output merited, but that was the point: Get used to it.

Halfway up the road, who should zoom by but the Girl With the Duct Tape Band-Aid. Make that “Without.” We couldn’t help notice it was missing.

“It fell off!” she exclaimed, moving by us so fast we barely caught a glimpse.

There’s a story there. Maybe not one that will put 23 million books in print, but we were naturally curious nonetheless.

Don't forget to smell the flowers

You can really rip this descent or take it easy — your choice. But its loose surface and sudden corners should not be taken lightly.

The trail eventually dumps you right into someone’s back yard. A couple was out watering when we rode in — they nodded hello, barely reacting to our presence. You pick up a flat access road paralleling the highway, and it takes you back to your car.

The whole thing took less than two hours and left us thinking. While we did not want to overdo things our first day out, this was like giving us bread sticks for our first meal. Fortunately, Jim had an Accessory Plan.

You have to understand that for someone who does not actually live there, Jim knows Sun Valley as well as if not better than most of the locals. Employing a process over the years he calls “Filling in the map,” Jim has ridden nearly all of the traditional routes, improvised his own and trail-blazed a couple that simply do not show up in the guide books.

One ride is never enough

We drove up Baker Creek Road another seven miles to a crowded trailhead for West Fork Norton Creek — we got the absolute last parking spot. Fortunately, all the vehicles were for hikers bound for Norton Lakes — a different trail, off to the right. We headed to the left, toward Baker Lake.

The trail was all up and mostly rideable, although our shortness of breath and the 95-degree heat, combined with moto’d-out sections of trail that made it feel like you were trying to get traction on split peas, left us pushing parts we normally would ride. Conditions also were ripe for Sun Valley’s least hospitable population: Bugs. We got horse flies, deer flies, mosquitoes, gnats, you name it. I’m quite lucky in that bugs don’t, erm, bug me. Most of the time they just circle around. When they land, they usually take back off right away. If they actually bite me, I don’t show the bites. A couple of times horse flies — Yowch! — got in pretty good nips. “That means you’re bit, my friend,” Jim told me. But I never itched, and nothing ever showed up.

Jim is just the opposite. Bugs love the guy. Every time we stopped to catch our breath or admire the view, Jim turned into a hazy column of small buzzing critters.

Endless singletrack you say ...

All in all, a satisfying day. We scampered back to town, where the new Ketchum Y(MCA), which looks for all the world like a private spa you might find in, say, Dubai, awaited us with $5 showers. We discovered our first casualty of the trip: Our shoulders. Lobster-red, and broiled in the same manner. I don’t use sunscreen, considering it one of the great corporate scams perpetrated on a gullible American public. Jim does use it, however. He was more burnt than me.

We concluded about the only thing that would have saved our skin that day would have been duct tape.

But you know, that stuff just doesn’t stay on.

Day’s elevation gain: Approximately 3,500 feet. Mileage: 18.

[TOMORROW: Further acclimatization, with somewhat less huffing, at royal Imperial Gulch and the decidedly less regal Cow Crick.]

Return to Starvation Mountain

I had talked with Jim about doing one of my favorite epics, Cooney Lake/Horsehead Pass, the following day. But it’s a bit of a drive, including a godawful steep, windy and pitted fire-road climb, and Moby’s painful big toe persuaded me that we should choose another path. I discovered in talking with Jim that, for all the times he’s raced at Winthrop’s Fat Tire Festival, he’d never done Starvation Mountain. I hadn’t done it for a couple of years either. No mountain biker should go through life without getting Starvation under the belt and on a regular basis. We headed out early the next morning.

I’ve been riding Starvation about as long as I’ve been a club member, but it had kind of slipped to the back of my book. You do something enough times, you think it has nothing left to offer. There are several ways to do the loop from Beaver Creek Campground, but the only one that I really give any weight to is up Lightning Creek, then a 5-mile fire-road climb to the heli pad, then up to Starvation and down to Blue Buck. You can also ride up the whole length of the fire road, which is an abomination that Zilly, for some unfathomable reason, actually recommends. Or you can shuttle, an equally loathsome alternative.

At Beaver Creek some yahoo had posted signs, “DEATH TO SADAAM!” on trees and draped a big American flag across a campsite with his trailer. Given that Moby has an “ATTACK IRAQ? NO!” sticker on the back, I figured we didn’t have a whole lot to talk about. But I wondered about the legality of politicizing Forest Service property. It was like he’d staked out a good half an acre with various posters and emblems. We parked up creek, toward the trailhead.

Lightning Creek trail is a great ride down, and not a bad ride up. It’s rideable pretty much to Sandman, a deep quasi-dune that keeps getting longer seemingly year by year. Then you cross the road, bearing right (counterintuitively) till you pick the trail back up again on the left and climb some more till you T out onto the road. From there it’s a Tiger Mountain kind of climb, only quite a bit longer and a bit more fatiguing, since the singletrack climb takes a bit out of you and you’re ready for the road to be over with at any of the interminable switchbacks.

Where the road ends you take a trail off to the side and climb up toward Starvation Mountain. It’s a nice view from the top, but nothing like Tiffany or Angel’s Staircase. It’s also always a bit chilly, for some reason. One year I started the ride in sunshine and a tank top, and was in a long-sleeved Capilene shirt with tights and windbreaker at the top, where it was snowing.

The nice thing about Starvation is that once you’re at the top, you’re pretty much done with the climbing for the day. You start down a series of moto’d-out whoops and sandpits — the lower jumps give you pretty good air even if you’re not much of a launch artist — and then reach another encroaching sand quarry, after which you bear left onto Blue Buck Trail for a long, 10-mile ride down. Blue Buck is just fantastic. A lot of screaming singletrack, some ledge work, some drops and risers — it’s got a bit of everything, but nothing so severe you need dismount or play kamikaze. “This is what I call a ‘zone’ trail,” Jim told me. You can just zone out, enjoying the experience in an alternate universe state of mind.

At one point we came upon a big shiny black lump speckled with red berry pits, smack in the middle of the trail. “That there is bear pookey,” Jim said in his Appalachian affect. “Big, fresh bear pookey.” About then I started flashing on a Gary Larson cartoon, with Jim astride his bike, turning back to look down at the trail, saying, “That’s about the biggest, freshest bear pookey I’ve ever seen,” while a huge Grizzly rearing in front of him grinningly lowers its jaws around his helmeted head.

A couple parts of Blue Buck have been thoroughly trashed by hooved critters. There’s a horse tie-down at one point, and a gully churned to pastry flour. Then, at the final switchback where the trail heads back to Lightning Creek, someone has been herding cows up the ridge. What a mess. It’s all undoubtedly legitimate, but all the mtbs in Whistler couldn’t do this damage if they spent the entire day trammeling the hillside.

I asked Jim which of the two 10-mile downhills he’d done in three days was his favorite. As I suspected, Blue Buck won hands down over Pot Peak. When I thought it over, I realized that the Starvation loop was a classic for good reasons. You can stay on the bike the whole time, yet you’re constantly being challenged enough to keep things interesting. It’s long. It’s lovely (by Fat Tire Festival time the larches are golden). If it didn’t exist, a huge hole would yawn in Washington’s mountain-biking itinerary.

Starvation Mountain elevation gain: 5350. Elapsed time: 5:15.