With the truck in working order and the knowledge that we would bid adieu to Moab the next morning, we headed out on the bike for one more adventure. We headed out to Moab Rim, a jeep trail/hiking/biking trail given the highest difficulty rating by the Red Rock 4x4 Club. The trail climbs 1,000 feet in just under one mile. When you reach the summit, you share the incredible view of Moab Valley with the folks who took the chairlift for $9. (You can bring your mountain bike on the chair as well.) We followed the trail up with a trio of Toyotas and one Jeep, and were continually amazed by their creeping determination.
Brant mounting the Z-Turn.
Past the summit the trail looped around inside a hidden canyon of sagebrush, sand and rock peaks. One of the spur trails led up to an 1,000-foot stone canvas, where petroglyphs of both ancient peoples and more recent dwellers (the latter more commonly referred to as grafiti) decorated the sheer face of the dark rock. They told tales of great mountain goat hunts, battles between tribes, and that John was there in 1910.
Spur trail leading to the petroglyph wall.
The way back down the steep incline was accompanied by a dozen old-school broncos and a thunderstorm in the distance. We learned from this club of Broncs, who had gathered in Moab from five different states, that one of the secrets for their mechanical monsters to be able to climb otherwise insurmountable obstacles was tire pressure. Or lack thereof, since the pressure in their oversize knobby tires measured in at only eight to 10 pounds!
The last few miles of the return trip brought big plopping drops of warm rain, and that pungent scent of thirsty asphalt. We returned to the CarQuest campsite and prepared a fresh trout dinner for our friends, Charles and Mary, who had decided to buy a whole new engine and install it to make the trip home. It would arrive from Salt Lake City in the morning. We spent the evening telling stories and discussing social politics, talking about dogs and learning new things. In the morning we wished them good luck on their colossal project and agreed to meet them again in Texas when we passed through.
Charles, Mary, and the hole of Born Free.
We spent most of Tuesday driving towards the snow. Highway 70 followed the Colorado River often, and we wondered what it was like when the waterway was the only freeway in existance. We made it to Glenwood Springs around 4pm, thanked Daylight Savings Time for the four more hours of sun, and pulled out the mountain bikes. We were parked at the Hot Springs Pool, which is Glenwood Springs oldest attraction...two huge pools which would make Olympic standards seem smurfish. We shared the parking lot with a rig to compete with: camper turned trailer with satellite dish. Here a picture truly is worth a thousand words.
Competition.
The Hot Springs Pool is also right near the trailhead for the Glenwood Canyon Bike Trail, a 16.2 mile paved path that winds right next to the Colorado River. The scenery was awesome, the river was singing, and we ran across some colorful river kayakers surfing the rapids. We went up the trail for 10 miles, then turned around and cruised with gravity and the sunset. We passed up the camper as destination in favor of Mi Restaurante in the downtown area. Research purposes only, of course. We had to see if the Colorado Mexican food could rival that of our native California. Well, perhaps we were just starving after a 25-mile bike ride, but even upon the first bite we were both declaring "muy bueno."
Surfing the rapids.
10 miles up the trail...our turnaround point.
On Wednesday morning we headed up to Snowmass to get back on the slopes. Unfortunately, the direction gods decided to take a breakfast break and we made the first wrong turn of the trip—the sign pointed right and proudly said "Snowmass," but when we got to the dead end dirt road 15 miles in (at 20mph), with the resort just a hop, skip and a jump away (if you were a crow), we finally saw a lady walking her dogs and asked her what was wrong with us. She said this was the old Snowmass, and what we were looking for was Snowmass Village. We had to go back out to the main highway and go east a few more miles. Which we did. In the meantime we got to see some incredibly beautiful land and homes, and so the scenic route prevailed, even though it cut out the snowboarding of the day.
At Snowmass Resort a good hour and a half later, we found out that the season lasted for another two weeks, and that of the four mountains in the area (all owned by Aspen Ski Company), only Aspen and Snowmass remained open, and Aspen didn't allow snowboarders. Snowmass it would be then.
We set out to spend the day exploring the village of Aspen on our bikes. Now in the time considered the off-season, the little village was incredibly quiet and empty, but just as charming and quaint. We found some incredibly bakeries, a unique cheese shop—we picked up some Jarlsberg and Drunken Goat—the prerequisite Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory, and a tiny bookshop with tons of character. We ate a picnic dinner outside in the fresh mountain air, and ended up in a coffeeshop called Zélé. The plan was to hang there until it closed, waiting for 11pm to arrive when a reggae/hip-hop band was going to be playing at a bar in the village. In the end our energy couldn't string out that long, and since we wanted to get up early to hit the snow, we opted for sleep at 11 instead.
Tomorrow we'll see if we remember how to snowboard.
