Day 1: Flagstaff to Bonito Campground: The Dirt is Calling

May 18, 2015

Note: That damn Stone can be so capricious! He can't even decide whether he's writing in past tense or present tense, and now he wants to switch to third person like he's some kind of fancy-pants wordsmith. Well, this little stylistic device will probably turn out to be a complete fiasco, as do most of his brilliant ideas, but at least the account is perfectly factual, including the story of the pork chops.

After the rigors of riding in a two-mile parade in Flagstaff with a rolling herd of costumed bicyclists on Sunday had been assuaged by visiting a local brew pub, Stone and Whitworth managed to drag themselves out of their respective bunks and down to the breakfast buffet on Monday morning. In cool, sunny weather, the snow atop Mount Humphreys and the San Francisco peaks glistened and beckoned in the distance. Time to saddle up and ride the first leg of the tour to the Grand Canyon.

The senoritas who had accompanied the boys to Flagstaff saw them off without tears, which made perfect sense considering the ladies retained possession of automobiles and credit cards.

After a couple of farewell photos and a brief episode of slapstick in which a confused young cyclist asked for help—her left crank arm and pedal had fallen off while she was passing by—the boys managed to ride safely out of the parking lot, across the street, and along the bike path toward downtown Flagstaff.

"It feels great to get going on our own," they said to each other, grinning.

The senoritas, wasting no time making an escape, honked and waved and sped off in their shiny automobiles for parts unknown and adventures of their own.

"Do you think," the boys asked each other with a sudden sense of dread, "they'll actually meet us at the park at the end of the week?"

The riders covered at least a mile or two before they reached their first stop of the day. The smiling sandwich girl at the convenient Subway assembled a couple of plump foot-longs for each of them, ensuring sufficient nourishment to fuel the team until they returned to civilization. Just in case, Whitworth added an extra ration of oversized cookies. It pays to be cautious when riding through the wilderness.

Beyond that fuel stop, the boys pedaled into and out of downtown, up Fort Valley Road, and onto Schultz Pass Road without incident. The only puzzlement concerned the varying spellings of Schultz. Did the road or did the road not contain a "c"? It didn't matter. Stone and Whitworth left Flagstaff and the unsolved spelling mystery behind, with more important matters to concern them. For example, was Schultz Pass—or Shultz Pass, for that matter—passable to heavily loaded Surly Long Haul Truckers powered by a pair of crazies old, weak, and slow?

That question assumed some importance when, as anticipated, the LHT's reached the diamond-shaped sign announcing the end of pavement. Now began a steady uphill ride on hard packed dirt and rocks through a chilly landscape with patches of snow in shady spots along the way. No motorized traffic disturbed the riders, but one mountain biker screamed downhill and waved as he passed.

After eating lunch while perched on rocks beside the dirt road, the boys pushed into a landscape blackened by fire. Unexpectedly, they came across a construction crew with heavy equipment leaving deep gouges of caterpillar treads in all directions. This, they learned, was an effort to divert channels and mitigate flooding in the wake of a disastrous wall of water which had swept through part of Flagstaff during heavy rains after the Coconino fire.

The mountainside soon returned to silence as Stone and Whit continued to ride through the fire-blackened trees. Had the road been much rougher, a loaded LHT with 700x35 tires might have been in trouble, but the boys gained an advantage from a strengthening tailwind. In some places, the following wind proved sufficient to push them uphill, much to their delight.

In the distance the riders eventually could detect signs of civilization along Highway 89. Chatter turned to the subject of food, none of which would be found along the route for the evening, except the sandwiches and cookies stashed in panniers. Stone decided he would prefer a steak. Whitworth announced that he wanted pork chops. Having chosen not to carry cooking gear, however, in actuality they realized they were doomed to eat foot-long sandwiches, cold and growing stale.

With the afternoon turning cloudy and chilly, the boys crossed Highway 89, sped down Loop Road on smooth pavement, and arrived at Bonito campground. The facility was in pristine condition, with large, well-separated campsites, but nearly empty. Tents went up quickly. Gear was stashed and payment made to the cheerful campground hostess. Despite advice and directions from the ranger, a fruitless search ensued for a cell signal, followed by a lengthy intermission outside the visitor center where one rider taught the other how to locate and siphon electricity in order to keep communications gear fully charged.

Back at the campsite, the threatening gray clouds finally let loose with cold rain, and the riders retreated to their tents to nap, as old men often do after a hard day in the saddle.

When the rain stopped an hour or two later, the boys bundled up in extra layers of clothes and—with nary a steak or pork chop to be found—sat upon the picnic table and turned their gustatory attention to leftover sandwiches. At least the uninspiring dinner was accompanied by a pair of Sierra Nevada pale ales carefully and secretly freighted up and down Schultz Pass Road—with or without the "c"—in the deep recesses of Stone's commodious panniers.

The meal having been consumed, and ritual burping and farting concluded, in waning daylight the boys passed the time wandering the campground and meeting some of their motorized neighbors and admiring some of their behemoth-mobiles, fully equipped with lights, heat, and hot meals. Back on their own cold picnic table, they discussed the highlights of the day and the plan for the morrow. From the campsite across the way, the delicious scent of roasting meat wafted to their nostrils.

"Whit," said Stone in a low voice, "I swear those people must be cooking the pork chops you wanted earlier today."

Very soon after that, as it grew dark under the Ponderosa pines at Bonito, an apparition moved toward them, coming from the same direction as the drool-inducing aroma of meat. The apparition quickly materialized into a very real and very attractive blonde woman young enough to be their daughter—or perhaps granddaughter—but far too gorgeous for such lineage.

"Hi," chirped the blonde apparition with an irresistible smile. This was no sandwich-induced hallucination. She was entirely real. "I'm Emily, and we're cooking a pork tenderloin with potatoes and veggies and salad and bottles of red wine. Would you like to join us?"

Conditions

Distance: Approximately 28 miles (including fruitless search for cell signal), 9:00 - 2:00

Up: Approximately 2000 feet

Down: Approximately 1500 feet

Weather: Pleasantly cool, turning cloudy and chilly, with an hour or two of rain showers in camp. Down to 26° F overnight.

Home for the night: Bonito Campground

Riders ready to roll.

The senoritas are supposed to meet us in a few days, but they have cars and credit cards, so they might suffer selective amnesia.

(Photo by friendly desk clerk at the Pony Soldier)

This young lady, passing by with her left crank and pedal in her hand, sought assistance from the grizzled riders in the motel parking lot.

Hey, RJ, I don't think the crank goes under the saddle.

(Photo by DJW)

Ready to ride. What a stud!

(Photo by DJW)

Off he goes, resplendent in his California Republic jersey.

(Photo by DJW)

Logistical constraints dictated the first stop must occur within a couple of miles.

RJ is already wondering if I intend to stop every sixty seconds to snap a photo.

Heritage Square in downtown Flagstaff. The square is much quieter today than it was yesterday during the bike festival and parade.

RJ is counting in his head to be sure he's carrying enough cookies and Clif bars to get him through 20 miles of unexplored wilderness on Schultz Pass Road.

Cool, overcast conditions, but an excellent ride on Schultz Pass Road. Much better than taking the shoulder of Highway 89.

Schultz Pass Road from Flagstaff to Bonito Campground.

Entering the burn area.

RJ demonstrates high levels of skill maneuvering along a dirt road with a fully loaded Surly LHT while eating Clif bars.

Mostly RJ wants to talk about how much he wants pork chops for dinner instead of cold sandwiches.

This is the construction zone where crews are working to prevent further disastrous flooding in the burn area.

The Surly poses by the logging operation in the burn area.

A good view of the fire-devastated forest along Schultz Pass Road.

RJ pauses to check his handlebar bag for pork chops.

No pork chops—no food at all—at the visitor center at Sunset Crater Volcano National Monument. However, the boys did discover an electrical outlet ripe for the plucking.

The ranger told us we should be able to get a cell signal about a mile up the road, so we unloaded and headed east. Photogenic lava flows, but no bars.

Roughing it at Bonito Campground.

Bill bought these in Flagstaff, wrapped them in spare clothes, hid them deep in panniers, and managed to carry them across all the bumpy, unpaved miles of Schultz Pass Road without breaking a bottle.

RJ likes his suds at the end of the ride.

RJ perches on the picnic table at our campsite at Bonito and dreams of pork chops.

Today's ride: 28 miles (45 km)
Total: 28 miles (45 km)

Rate this entry's writing	Heart	5
Comment on this entry	Comment	0