Fire on the Mountain

Nearly everything in the mountains is amplified and the entrance of fall is no exception.  The energy and power of summer has grown weary and the forest is silent.  The earth dries out and wildlife frantically prepares for winter. Afternoons are still warm and for a window of time only the nights grow colder.  A few leaves fly in the wind before the hills suddenly explode with red, orange and gold.

This is a time for reflection as we pause, ever so briefly, between summer and winter.  Our recreation waits until the sun has warmed the forest. It is nice to be unhurried.  The objectives of the summer have either been met or missed and the outcomes accepted.  It is a time to look forward.

In this season of comfort it was unusual that I found myself in the morning cold astride my bike before eight AM.  Circumstances necessitated a completion before one in the afternoon and simple arithmetic dictated the start time.  It was about four or five Celsius with the clouds and sun playing tag in a bright blue sky as I departed. 

This was my first ride of the season with big gloves, booties and a wool beanie under my helmet.  Summer is gone for good. My jersey pockets sagged with food and extra clothing as I embarked on my long solitary ride. I passed through town and it was comically quiet.  In a week this place will be busy with hunters getting coffee before seeking their trophies, but this morning everyone must have still been in bed.  In the summer this street is so busy you almost expect to see jugglers on unicycles, but this morning it is deserted.  

I downshifted and started the climb up and away from town. In the shade of the hillside I felt suddenly colder than I had been in the filtered sunshine.  The ascent warmed me and after ten miles I had only seen two vehicles.  I scanned the hillsides for grouse and deer.  Squirrels darted across the road and hawks soared overhead searching for their breakfast.

The road climbed gradually as I made my way north alongside the Chewuch river.  I wasn’t warm and I wasn’t cold.  My effort kept my furnace stoked and I took comfort knowing I had a wind jacket in my back pocket just in case.  The eastern side of the valley was still in the morning shade but the road had sunlight filtered through the trees.  I rode on the left side of the road just to increase my sun exposure. There was no oncoming traffic.  There was no traffic.  I felt like the only person on the planet.

As I continued north the road gained elevation steadily.  I realized I had forgotten to account for the conundrum of riding in the mountains. The higher you go, the colder it is.  The increase in temperature by the day warming up was almost perfectly offset by the decrease in temperature because of the increase in elevation. 

The grade kept my speed moderate and I was able to look around searching for deer, elk and bear.  Sightings are rare, but worth celebrating.  On my return I would be going thirty to forty kilometers an hour and my focus would be on avoiding the countless potholes in this old road, so if I wanted to see wildlife, this was my chance.

Finally the valley floor opened up a bit and for the first time on this ride I felt some warmth.  I pulled off my big gloves and rode with just my liner gloves on my hands.  My cadence was high and the road continued to alternate between slight incline and steeper sections. 

Nearly two hours into the ride the pavement ended and I smiled at the wonderful sound of gravel crunching under my Sectors. As I climbed and climbed the colors got brighter and move vivid.  I was about 1000m (3,300’) above sea level and autumn was ON!  

The gravel road was steeper and alternated between soft sandy patches and washboard at its end of season finest.  I looked up the valley and churned onward.  The valley floor was a mix of jumbled rocks and a meandering stream that seemed to be in no hurry to send its water down the valley.  The ground cover was awash with color and the mix of dark boulders and colorful foliage was stunning.

This spot was the site of a tragic fire in 2001 and in the spring, when I usually ride this route, the black and grey of the snags is only slightly offset by the smattering of green.  Today the hills were muted grey under the clouds yet the yellow on the valley floor was in bright sunshine and the contrast was a treat I may never see again.  I passed the memorial to the young firefighters who died battling the fire sixteen years ago.  I bowed my head out of respect as I rode past.

Any description I might try to convey would betray my shortcomings as a writer and fail to relate the solemn majesty of this silent valley on this crisp morning.  I paused and tried to absorb the scene.  I wished I could capture the feeling and relive it another time. The sound of my breathing vanished in the vastness of the valley.

I had a keen sensation that reminded me that I was a visitor to this valley.  I could stay, but not for long.  I was a long way from people and warmth.  I ate a bar and thought back to last May when I was here and the valley was flooding with snow melt. 

It is such a dichotomy to be in mountains that have been in existence since man stood upright, yet to be witnessing a color explosion and light combination that may only happen a few hours each year.  I soaked in all I could fathom then turned my bike downhill and with the sun on my back I began the journey home.

I was struck by the steepness of the descent on gravel.  I had been so entranced by the beauty on the way up I had forgotten the unrelenting grade.  The washboard and soft sand demanded my focus.  

When I was back on pavement I are a plum I had carried and forgotten about until I felt it in my pocket.  Then I zipped up for the speedy roller coaster descent.  My speed on the sub-optimal pave’ demanded my full attention and only allowed for momentary glances around me. I got in a good rhythm and pushed the pace.  When the grade would let up or even turn upward for a few hundred yards I got out of the saddle and pushed.  I was feeling strong.

As I was nearing home I attacked a short hill and my quads screamed when I got out of the saddle.  I was approaching four hours of ride time and I had spent most of it riding a moderately serious tempo.  It was now warm enough that I took my liner gloves off and unzipped my jersey a few inches. 

Rolling back through town the tourists were now getting lunch and shopping for things they didn’t even know they needed.  I pedaled on and drained the last drops out of my last bottle.  Although I was tired the climb back to the cabin was easy enough and when I unclipped from my clipless pedals (ironic isn’t it?) I savored the satisfaction of a good day in the saddle.