Winter Riding in the Rockies
Why is that that people put on the incredulous face when I wax
enthusiastic about the Elephant Ride? It’s a motorcycle ride, for
chrissakes, and we all enjoy a motorcycle ride. Okay, this is not your
average Sunday toodle to the Hungry Hog for the brunch buffet of a
sultry August morn. Poseurs and wannabes need not apply. But
still…
Here’s the deal: Saturday night campout, a nice ride with scenic views
Sunday morning, leisurely lunch at a cozy restaurant in Georgetown, then
back the way we came, break camp, ride home. Sounds great, doesn’t it?
Well, it is great, but as usual, the devil’s in the details.
The salient details are these: the ride happens on the February weekend
closest to Valentine’s Day, in Colorado’s Rocky Mountains. The campout
is at 8600’ elevation, Sunday’s scenic ride is up and over 11,669’
Guanella Pass, and road conditions lead the prudent rider to dress
warmly and prepare his motorcycle by studding both tires.
The Elephant Ride is an annual ritual started some years ago by a few
restless souls suffering motorcycle withdrawal in the middle of
Colorado’s long winter. These days the ride draws hearty bikers from as
far away as Chicago and Southern California. In 2003, when I first
learned of the event, I knew I had to give it a go. I’ve since done the
Elephant Ride three times, and the fond memories and anecdotes from the
three separate weekends are intermingled beyond any hope of separating
them out.
There’s nothing like pitching a tent in a snowfield, enjoying cocktails
and barbecue with like-minded folks and waking up to a fine day of
motorcycling through drifted snow on a corkscrew road. Suffice it to
say, there are lots of laughs, hangovers, and the occasional low-speed
crash on the ice-and snow-covered pass road.
But as much fun as the Elephant Ride is, for pure motorcycling adventure
it can’t hold a candle to winter mountain riding alone, away from the
security and comfort of others. This truth became exquisitely clear to
me on the 26th of February, 2003.
Back in those days I did a lot of solo motorcycling. It was my wont to
strap a sleeping bag and tent on the back of my Norton or whatever bike
was running at the time, and head out for a weekend, a week, ten days of
riding and camping. So after my first Elephant Ride, when the following
weekend promised fine weather and with fond memories still fresh, I
decided to enjoy a day of solitary off-road riding.
I again studded the tires of my KTM, loaded it into the back of the
pickup and headed up into the Wet Mountains, some seventy-five miles
from my off-grid homestead. From previous (summer) exploration, I knew
of a forest service road that climbs up to the shoulder of Greenhorn, at
12,349’ the highest peak in the range.
As I had expected, the road had been plowed to provide access for
snowmobilers enjoying the backcountry. It was early afternoon by the
time I had my bike unloaded and ready to ride, and there were two or
three parked rigs indicating that snowmobiles were out and about.
Although the forest road heading up to Greenhorn had been plowed, there
was a dense base of compacted snow, perhaps six inches thick, uniformly
covering the gravel. Without studded tires, it would have been too slick
for me to negotiate, but my well-prepared bike was up to the task.
With a light heart I ducked around the gate barring the road and headed
up. I gained elevation, basking in the cool, clear mountain air,
unspoiled pine forest lining the roadway and ridiculously blue sky. As
much fun as the Elephant Ride had been, I’m a bit of a loner, and it was
wonderful and expansive to be out there alone in the Rockies.
I passed no one as I climbed steadily through the thick woods. The bike
was running well, the studded tires dealt with the packed snow and I was
in reverie. I’d been up this road before, and knew that it continued
some fifteen miles up to the base of the summit trail. For the first
dozen or so miles, the surface was pretty much the hard-packed snow
layer I’d started out on. Evidently, though, the forest service chose to
plow only to a popular snowmobile trailhead, but not the last few miles
to the summit trail. As a result, my reverie was suddenly and rudely
interrupted by a dramatic change in road conditions. Not only was the
road ahead not plowed, but a season’s accumulation of high-country snow
had settled, drifted and suffered the diurnal cycles of
sun/darkness/wind that turn stale snow into a wizened old foe.
I shifted down a gear and twisted the throttle to get a feel for what I
was up against. The road ahead slabbed across a flat saddle, so gravity
wasn’t working hard against me, but the virgin snow pulled at my tires,
resisting my passage. Undaunted I forged on, keeping enough
momentum to lighten the front wheel slightly and catching enough
traction with the drive wheel to push the bike through the deep snow.
For a hundred yards or so I kept grinding forward. The ungroomed road
was indistinguishable from the bare meadows on either side up here on
the saddle. But ahead in the distance where the forest took up again, I
could see a clearing in the trees indicating the road’s course.
Crossing the windblown open ground, I found myself fighting for
traction, and losing the battle. The crusty snow on the surface, an inch
or two thick, would give way and collapse, exposing a deep layer of
protected crystalline powder below. This was as slippery as talcum, and
too deep for the studded rear tire to find traction below. Try as I
might, I could not maintain progress in this morass, and when the bike
gradually slowed to a halt, the game was up.
When I stepped off the motorcycle to evaluate the situation, it was so
well stuck in the heavy snow that it stood straight up of its own
accord. The drive wheel was buried up to the axle, and clearly was not
going forward. Alas. Suddenly the reverie I’d been enjoying was ancient
history. Suddenly, I was living in the moment, acutely aware of my
surroundings, face to face with my arrogance and folly. The solitude I
had found so gratifying now mocked me.
As far as I could tell, there was not another human within miles. The
sun was now low in the west, air temperature was dropping fast and I was
ill-prepared to overstay my visit on the mountain. I was at risk
of becoming a tragic character in a Jack London novel, or at least the
subject of a human interest story in the newspaper.
Perversely amused by my circumstances, I took a brief walk to enjoy the
view before setting about to resolve the predicament. Every footstep met
initial resistance before my weight broke the snow’s crust and left me
thigh-deep. No wonder the bike stood up by itself.
Back to the situation at hand and keenly aware of the fading sunlight, I
tried to muscle the bike up and out of its tight quarters. But even
though the KTM was a relatively light machine, at 11,000 feet the thin
air takes its toll on human stamina. All attempts at winning this battle
through brute strength were met with stubborn inertia.
Brute strength to no avail, I resorted to engineering. With my gloved
hands I began to scoop snow away from around both wheels. After
considerable time and effort I was able to tip the bike over on its
side, with just enough strength remaining to haul on the handlebars and
drag the bike around, little by little, until it was facing back
downhill. Then I rested, my strength sapped.
After I caught my second wind, a Herculean effort got the bike upright,
and once the dizziness abated I stabbed repeatedly at the kickstarter
until the beast finally came back to life. No sweeter music have I ever
heard than that 400-cc single returning to service when nothing else
would do.
Grinding back through the thick stuff was more difficult bearing the
weight of fatigue, but mortality is a strong motivator. With more
determination than finesse the bike and I squirreled our way back the
way we’d come. Once we reached the relative security of the plowed and
packed roadway, I was home free. Fatigue still dogged me, but the giddy
recognition that I’d dodged a bullet – a bullet I’d fired my own damn
self – offered up a smugness that carried me those twelve miles back to
the truck.
But the road was now largely in shadow, which made the surface slicker.
Even with the studded tires, one hairpin turn got the better of me. The
rear wheel swung around and I came off the low side, stuffing the bike
into a snow bank. No harm, no foul, though it was tricky to stand the
bike (and myself) back up on the slippery bank. Nonetheless, I got the
job done, and before the sun hit the horizon I was back at my pickup.
The other vehicles were gone. The air was quiet. I still was alone, but
once again safe and secure, enjoying my own company. I shut off the
bike, lit a cigar and posed contentedly for my own camera.
RC Herman
Crestone, CO
October, 2007