I was on a mountain bike ride
with a good friend the other day when I stopped to ponder the
fate of the trail we were riding. It's called Cow Canyon, a
great trail, one of my local favorites. A long, grinding climb
up a steep fire road into a canyon is rewarded by a steep, fast,
single-track descent back to the car. It all takes about an hour
and the climb makes for great conversation with riding partners
because you can ride side-by-side on the way up.
Two winters ago much of this trail was totally ruined by an
unusually warm wet storm which resulted in monsoon rains which
cut deep channels into the single-track in sections several
hundreds yards long. It’s kind of an indictment against poor
trail planning—natural selection for trails built by dirt
bikes—but it was frustrating nonetheless. This wasn’t the only
problem this storm caused. The river in town flooded and many
homes and caused damage for businesses as well. I didn’t ride
this trail for quite some time because much of it was
impassable. I’ve started to get used to losing trails to urban
sprawl, but this one got chalked up to the “act of God”
category.
Then last fall a fire broke out and burned hundreds of acres of
the south slope of Peavine Mountain, including the Cow Canyon
trail. Now my favorite trail area, which had first been deluged
by a monsoon, had her last shred of dignity stripped away by
fire. There she lay, gutted by rains, then burned to a crisp.
The combined effect made the trail literally look like
moonscape.
A few months ago I decided to give Cow Canyon one last try, just
to pay homage to an old trail that had been good to me. I
figured it was going to be a hike-a-bike tour of desolation and
destruction. However, I wanted to pay my respects to an old
friend, kind of like visiting a grave plot. I have many memories
on this trail over the past few years when I went through some
very rough and life-changing times. I had many talks with God on
that trail, worked out a lot of problems, and had left a lot of
mental anguish there. I felt a piece of my past was there and I
wanted to pay it a visit one last time.
As I rounded the first few curves and surveyed the damage, my
heart was broken by the war-zone scenery and further denudation
of a recent winter storm. Now that winters’ snow and rain has
been sent on a post-fire zone it was obvious things were going
to just get worse. As I rode up the familiar double track road,
I noticed something markedly different. Prior to all this fire
and rain the road was very rocky, but now a layer of smooth,
fine dirt covered the once rough road. I pedaled and pedaled up
the fire road on a smooth carpet of silt.
Then I got to sections of single-track that had been gutted by
the rains, only to find that most of these sections had been
filled up by recent rains because there was no foliage on the
hillside to hold the earth. Not only had they been filled up
with dirt, but that had been filled up with the finest
sandy/silt on the planet—the perfect blend of traction inducing
earth I have ever ridden on. In my excitement, I dropped a gear
and cranked up the climb to the turn-a-round spot where the
single-track descent begins... my favorite part of the trail.
It was a dream come true. It was as if God himself took his
finest rake and manicured this once rock-strewn trail into fine,
fast single-track. I rode turn after glorious turn, undulating
and descending, all the while the faint smell of smoke and the
blur of scorched earth. I started laughing out loud, whooping it
up, like a little kid on Christmas morning. Halfway down the
trail I stopped to take it all in and a realization came over
me. My old friend who had been through so much disaster was
smooth and friendly, easier to be around. She still bore the
scars of her past, but where it mattered—where humans engage
her—she was at her best.
The huge rains had removed all but the biggest rocks. The fire
made way for the silty earth the fill in the gaps. And what was
left? Perfection, refinement, maturity.
Then my mind was flooded with the memories of my prayers and
thoughts and ranting on this trail. Through miles of climbing,
praying and thinking I wondered what my future would hold— even
through the floods and fires of my personal journey. I find
incredible solace in knowing that even though I may bear the
scars of fire and rain (much of which is my own doing) what
comes out on the other side, I hope, is a man who has a few less
rough edges. I hope where I engage with others, where it matters
most, I'm a bit smoother, friendlier, easier to be around.
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