Smoke 'n' Fire 400, Day 3:

What a difference a day makes

Transitional moments are hard to explain. How our psyche gets from here to there, or there to here is often simply a mystery. For me, waking up from a Benadryl sleep in one of my favorite places in the world to ride my bike, was a transition of massive proportions, but this phenomenon may not be unique to me, or even the result of the Benadryl.

Billy Rice, a bikepacking legend with some truly crazy feats to his credit, like riding from the TD terminus in Antelope Wells, NM to the starting line in Banff, BC, then picking up his 16-year old daughter on a tandem mountain bike (three words that should never go together, unless in answer to the question, "So, how did you end up in the emergency room this evening?" Don't ask....) and jumping into the mix of racers to make the return trip--a trip that, I am sure, was his daughter Lina's lifetime highlight thus far, puts it like this: "It always takes me a couple of days to fall into the groove. It is hard for me to keep a focus early; I have to break it down into what I need to know for day one and day two--then it just seems to fall into place."

Amen Brother.

Wolves at the door...sort of

The Fisher Creek trail is part of the home range of a pack of wolves that are slowing re-populating Idaho's mountains, and as such, I was keenly aware that despite the Benadryl and earplugs I could experience a canus lupus vs. hipster doofus encounter. For that reason, being awakened by a faint howling sound, followed by another, louder howl, almost like a plaintive cry, and then another and another, each louder than those before, my alarm clock was strictly for show as a rapidly beating heart and a shot of adrenaline will do the trick just fine, thank you very much. It took me a bit to come to my full mental senses, which were a few clicks shy of a clean shift anyway, and realize that the sinister howling I was hearing was actually coming from inside my sleeping bag--inside my stomach to be exact. There was a ravenous creature in need of a good meal, but it turns out that that creature was me.

Larabars? You only have Larabars???

As I was shaking the frost off of my bivy sack, both inside and out, as well as off of my sleeping bag, I realized that at some point during the night I made the world-class mistake of tucking my head, and thus my breathing, into my bivy. Ooops.  Oh well, I blame the Benadryl. I also noticed something else as I was re-packing my gear onto my bike: a headlight approaching. My endeavor to get at it before everyone else, was clearly suffering an early defeat, and I was more motivated than ever to get my tires rolling. That haste must have been responsible for the fact that after spending too much time trying to get my bag of pseudo-food down from where I had hung it the night before, I realized that pulling down the dead snag that I had hung it in was the easiest option; I was quite proud of my Bunyonesque feat which resulted in my cache falling right at my feet--so proud that I was lost in my self-congratulations enough to ride off without it. Not that I minded, mind you. I realized my mistake about 3 miles up the trail, but decided that Larabars and string cheese are hardly worth retracing any steps for. In fact, my early morning thinking began blaming the extra weight of these non-essentials that I had lugged with me since Boise for all of my problems the previous day--and the day before that, and come to think of it, maybe even every bad day I had experienced since buying those horrible excuses for caloric intake. Nope, let the bears and wolves have them--as if.

In pursuit

Despite the significant chill in the air, I have to say, the morning of day three, riding on Fisher Creek in the silence of the early dawn was magic. I cannot adequately describe what that moment felt like, but it was powerful enough that it wiped the past two days clean out of my mind. Today was a new day, and it was going to be my day, done my way. 

I nearly floated my way through the remaining miles of single track, once again finding myself back on highway 75, this time headed south to return to Decker Flat Road and once again turn north headed for Redfish Lake. As if the morning wasn't already perfect, I found a new motivation on the road: the rider who passed me as I was packing earlier. I had seen his tracks on the trail and marveled at his tire choice: big, I mean big tires. Not fat bike tires, exactly, but really BIG tires. On pavement my narrower tires were too much for him and I let out a cheery, "Mornin'," as I passed by him. Later, we would play leap-frog as I alternatively stopped to pull my gloves off, then again to put them back on, then again to check my map, then again to pee--well, you get the idea. Ultimately, I hit the store at Redfish with no other racers in sight.

The road to Redfish with the Sawtooths in the background

"Books are for tourists"

Most captive-audience resort stores are poorly stocked and quite pricey, but the Redfish store was neither, and I took full advantage, wisely planning the entire day of meals completely devoid of candy bars and sugar-stuffs. I grabbed a coffee, a breakfast burrito, a chocolate milk and found a putative peaceful bench to enjoy them with a grand view of Redfish Lake and its mountain companions. I had barely settled onto my peaceful perch when I realized that I was literally in the thick of the early morning action at Redfish, of which there is surprisingly a LOT. Backpackers, day hikers, kids on bikes, racers on bikes, curious tourists, you name it, I was surrounded by it. Backpackers wanted to talk to me about my gear; others asked who I was on the phone with as I made my morning call to MTBcast (?!). Passersby wanted to know where I was headed: "Are you a part of Rebecca's race?," one elderly gentleman asked good-naturedly. "Well, she's in this race, but I would think that she has already finished by now." I was right. In fact, she was likely already back home in Ketchum in her cozy little bed wishing she was still out in the wilderness riding like the rest of us slobs. Pffft. Poor thing.


The curious are merely a distraction and typically mean well and as such I was polite and maybe even pleasant as I patiently answered their questions. It's no big deal in the long run, really. I am not going to win anything so a brief conversation of good will is a good idea. One visitor, however, put me a bit on my heels and left me shaking my head. She had fiery red hair and wore a flowing white gown (what else?). As she floated by, she paused as she turned to me and said, "I don't know you, but I say good morning to you!" I can honestly say, I was speechless, not that it mattered, because with only a moment's pause she was on to greet the 200 other people milling about, no doubt with the same naive sincerity. I swear the Benadryl had worn off; I know she was real--I checked: she cast a shadow.

I made a cursory stop at the grocery in Stanley, glad that I had stocked up at Redfish as there really wasn't much I could add to my stash except for a can of cream of potato soup, some salsa for my burrito and a plastic spoon....  As I was packing the last of my provisions for the day, I found myself again in the presence of the Big-Tire Guy. His real name is Greg Johnson and he is from Vancouver island, BC--maybe that explains the tires?? It seemed as though Greg was as enamored with the sports food product offerings as I had turned out to be. "Care for any Nuun tablets? I simply cannot stand the thought of them at this point. Even the packaging makes me want to throw up." I hear ya, brother, I hear ya.

The ride to Stanley Lake was one I had been looking forward to for an entire year. In our home we have a beautiful picture of Stanley Lake that stares me in the face as I descend the stairs each morning. Just think, I am going to ride my BIKE there, pushes every other thought from my head as I look at that photo--every single time. This was going to be special.

Stanley Lake

It was. Kinda. You know those people that just seem to spoil every special moment they touch?  It's the person who invites a bunch of his friends over for a barbecue, but after they arrive he informs them that the steaks and beer will be served right after they help him build his new barn? You know, THAT guy. Well, Norb Dekerchove and Tyson Fahrenbruck, SnF race directors, are those kinda guys. Just as you are able to grab the briefest of looks at the amazing, world-class beautiful, Stanley Lake they send you up a trail so ridiculously rough, so insanely steep, so diabolically relentless and just flat-out pure evil, that within 3 minutes you have forgotten everything from the past 3 hours and are completely focused on keeping your bike upright and moving forward while coming up with creative names for your joyous tormentors. Tyson was easy, just one look at his last name and you have some rough idea of the names I landed on for him; Norb is tougher, but I came through, I just can't repeat what it was. My mom might read this.

Suffice to say, the entire "Elk Meadow Trail" (all of which were conspicuously absent, I might add), was less than awesome. Did I mention the mud bogs? Yeah, there were also mud bogs, and babyheads so thick on the trail that riding through the woods next to the trail would likely have been preferable. I didn't do it, but I thought about it. Oh, and as a cherry on top of the dog-poo cupcake that is the Elk Meadow Trail, there was a tree across the trail...at head height... Those two thought of everything, bless their little hearts.

At the historical museum in Stanley, they have a copy of a journal entry made by Lewis and Clark's Corps of Discovery, on the day they attempted the Elk Meadow Trail:

"Lost game trail while attempting passage of rocky path. Checked map, unhappily, this is indeed the trail. I fear that if the intire [sic] way to Pacific Sea is like this, we will be obliged to turn this entire mis-adventure around, and open a hat emporium in Dayton."

Despite the boundless joys of the Elk Meadow Trail, I was still in a great mood and feeling stronger and stronger as the miles ticked away. The roads were good, the traffic was, thankfully, light, the sun was shining and I was eating normal food. It was a good day. For awhile....

Little Larry??

After a lunch of a roast beef and cheese-like substance sandwich, a bag of Maui chips and a--you guessed it--chocolate milk, I was ready to embark on the infamous Landmark road, when I was approached by two guys on four-wheelers. "Hey, is there a way to get back to Stanley on only gravel roads?", they asked.  First off, I have to say, they were very polite and courteous, however, they literally rode their ATVs about 50 feet from where they were hanging with their buddies, to ask me that question. Now, perhaps I am being a tad judgmental, or maybe a bit more than that, but, how do I put this?--they had an ample supply of stored calories to make the round trip with little metabolic cost, but they chose to ride their ATVs for a 100 foot roundtrip. They were probably trying to get to Stanley to get a big lunch. I told them that they would likely have to push their ATVs in order to make it their desired destination so they might as well forget it. Nah, I didn't. But I wanted to.

The rarely-used connector

The Landmark road is the only way to get from the Wood River Valley, or the Sawtooth Valley to Valley County, southern Idaho's other playground, without going far enough south on highway 21 to hit highway 55 and then come all the way back north to essentially where you started from. The only drawback is that it is 90 miles of dirt and gravel road. In a car, it may not be worth it--which makes it perfect for a mountain bike. The road also accesses the Salmon river, which makes it popular with rafters and rafting companies and their big rigs and trailers loaded with boats, which make for really nasty washboard--which is wildly unpopular with mountain bikers. It was into this world that I now dove headlong. It was rough, it was dusty and it was awesome. The scenery was alternatively straight out of the Idaho Tourism Department brochures, and late 20th century apocalypse, as about 75% of the forest was nothing more than scorched logs, some standing, most not. Vegetation was having a tough time returning to dominance, except along the many streams that crossed paths with the road, offering ample water supply opportunities, many of which I took. It was spectacular.

The route guide promised severe and nasty washboard on the way into Deadwood reservoir, but in the scheme of things, it was no worse than the previous 30 miles, which is to say it was a bit rough. In Stanley, I had purchased a large berry smoothie which I broke out about 10 miles away from Deadwood. It was yummy, but the road surface, combined with my lack of coordination, left me splattered with day-old blood colored goop, a fact that was lost on me until I ran into a couple at a Deadwood campground and the woman asked if I was Ok. I think she was referring to the berry blood, but maybe there was something else...who knows?

I noticed that the only water pump in the campground was conveniently nearby, so I approached it to avoid filtering from the nasty, stinky, appropriately named Deadwood reservoir, but it seemed as though I was too late. My new companions had brought their dinner dishes and in what was likely a re-creation of a domestic nightly ritual, proceeded to, in turn, wash and dry the dishes while telling each other about their day. As much as I was in a hurry to attack the Scott Mountain climb, I didn't have the heart to interfere with such a sweet, though ultimately untimely for me, moment between two people. Sigh,

The dam start of the damned climb

What can one say about the Scott Mountain climb? I am sure books could be written, and maybe have been, but the only metaphor I can come up with is to imagine you are on a roller coaster, and I don't mean a regional amusement park roller coaster, I am talking about a world-class, leave your stomach at the top of the drop, pick it up on the other side-type of roller coaster. But, instead of just one or two cycles of big climbs and precipitous drops, imagine doing that, say, 4-5 times. That, will give you some idea of what Scott Mountain Road is like on a mountain bike. It is a leg-searing, spirit-breaking, never-ending ribbon of elation and disappointment that ultimately tops out with a stunning view of the South Fork country and infinitely more as far as the eye can see. Or, so I hear. I began the climb in the beauty of late evening, so by the time I summited it was darker than the inside of your hat, as my friend, Mike Rust, is fond of saying. My plan was to eat my dinner of potato soup and moo juice once I reached the summit, but in the dark that is not an easy call to make. I am pretty sure I ate at the top of the climb, but flat ground was hard to come by, so I made a judgment call and cracked open the soup. Remember how I said I picked up a plastic spoon in Stanley? Yeah, well, it was probably as frustrated by the ups and downs and alternating cycle of joy and disappointment as I was, because it was nowhere to be found when I needed it.

Looks about right....

I will say one thing about cream of potato soup: when it is cold, it ain't real creamy, which is a problem when you don't have a spoon. I made a valiant attempt to get every last clump of nourishment out of that can, I really did, but it ended up looking more like a county fair pie-eating contest, you know the kind where the contestants' hands are tied behind them--you get the picture. It wasn't pretty, but it was good.

I had seen 3 racers up ahead of me as I approached what I guessed to be the summit, but noted that they seemed to pull off on a side road, likely to bed down for the night. While I was envious of the view they would wake up to, I wanted to get down that mountain as fast as I could. The Scott Mountain climb is only topped in legendary status by the harrowing descent down to highway 21 which leads to Garden Valley. The air was pleasant despite the lateness of the hour as I turned my wheels onto the ever-increasingly steep and rocky path which some people refer generously to as a road. I would love to give details about the descent, but honestly, my mind at this point was in a bit of a fog. I had been pedaling since 6 AM and it was now 10 PM and I had miles to go before I slept, so just living in the moment and surviving was taxing my brain to its limits.

The Road to Perdition

Adrenaline has the ability to sear memories on our brains in a way that is completely unique. It is for this reason that I have one of the two memories that I can access regarding the Scott Mountain descent. At one point, I was feeling self-assured enough to pick up a bit more speed than was recommended for those who wish to make it home without the assistance of a vehicle with flashing lights and swinging IV bags. At least, I think that must have been what happened, because in an instant I found myself, and my bike being swerved sharply to the right edge of the road by a thick patch of sand. Now, it should be noted that the right side of the road at this point was nothing but a blackened abyss. From what I hear, it is likely that at that point it was a shear drop of 50 feet or more, but I have no idea, fortunately. I reflexively turned my handlebars and leaned to the left so as to fall against the bank, not off of it; as I did so, my bike re-oriented itself sideways in the road, making the situation even more grim. I was picking out a patch of ground upon which to deposit myself when the numbness in my hands took over and I lost my grip on my brake levers. The instant my bike was again subject to a gravity free for all, it straightened back out on the trail and the bike and I were once again moving in the same direction--together. Whew.

My heart was still pounding when I heard a sound that sent new shivers up my spine: it sounded like a squeal from the hounds of Hades, but much more sinister: my disc brakes were heating up, and on a descent like this one, that is not a good sign. Three times I stopped to spray some of my precious water supply on the red-hot rotors. They sizzled and popped like searing steak, but the technique worked and they operated admirably--until they heated up again.

Sign(s) of life

It is amazing how the simplest things take on new, sometimes emotional, meaning in the right setting. I nearly cried when I saw the STOP sign that signaled the intersection with highway 21. Never before has so little meant too much. No more dodging rocks and sand at 20 miles an hour in the dark; no more squealing of over-taxed brakes--I was back into the land of the living, if rural Boise county can fit that description.

The ride into Garden Valley was surreal under the pitch-black sky and the steady glow of my, now reliably functional, headlight. I was warm, awake, safe and best of all: I had conquered Scott Mountain in the dark.

In no time I found myself at the dirt road that marked the route to Placerville and up the back side of Bogus and ultimately back to Hyde Park. Without hesitation, I turned off the paved road heading south. Well, without hesitation until I remembered that I was out of food. The South Fork of the Boise was right under my feet as I paused on the bridge not 200 feet off the highway, so water wasn't an issue, but food....  There was no way I could make it all the way to Boise without food, and a re-supply in Placerville was iffy at best in the early morning. As the clock struck Midnight, I made my decision: I would bed down near the bridge, make my way into Garden Valley at 6 AM, re-supply and mount my attack on the final 45 miles of this crazy adventure as the new day dawned.

I pulled out my bivy and sleeping bag, but stayed in my cycling kit--this would be a short night, and contemplated that day I had just experienced. It was amazing to think that I had started the day on the Fisher Creek trail and was now in Garden Valley. The day had gone like clockwork and my body had performed as asked with not even a hint of trouble.  Maybe Billy Rice was right: after two days riding is merely routine.

That is a routine I thought I could get used to.

To be continued.....