The backpack was stoked with three days of gorp. I loaded the pack and my roadbike into the auto and drove Highway 108 to the Pinecrest Ranger Station on July 8. I got a camping permit for an excursion into the Carson-Iceberg Wilderness on July 11, 12, & 13. I asked the Ranger if snow or bears were a concern for hikers on the 33 mile section of the Pacific Crest Trail between Sonora Pass and Ebbetts Pass. Nope.
Perhaps my cycling friends feel slighted, but I consider booted self-propulsion to have a higher level of kharma than wheeled propulsion. I have used previous Death trips for hiking excursions along the Pacific Crest Trail. Since my first Death experience (1988), I have hiked several sections of the Trail. After completing the 33 miles from Sonora Pass to Ebbetts Pass, I shall have completed all 190 miles of the trail between Mammoth Mountain and Lake Tahoe.
I reached Sonora Pass with plenty of daylight and elected to reconnoiter the trail for possible snowfield obstructions and a remote campsite for the night. Since the pass is at 9600 ft. elevation, it wasn’t long before patches of snow covered sections of the trail. Climbing over and around the snow was not problematical and I was able to go about 2.5 miles up to find an extremely scenic and tolerably flat site to spread out the bivy sack and enjoy an awesome twilite spectacle. From the North, Leavitt Peak is cloaked in snowfields. You get the impression that it’s February, not July. The moon is new and the big high sky is streaked by a brilliant Milky Way. I’m able to navigate and fumble about by starlite without the need for a flashlite.
Friday began with the stashing of some gorp under a rock. There is 4 or 5 pounds of stuff that I will not have to bring back up the trail to the 10,000 foot level. I return to the Sonora Pass area, wrap the backpack in two 39 gallon size trash bags, and strap the bundle to a limb of an out-of-the-way fallen tree using a bicycle cable lock. I tape a self-addressed label to the pack; “Please do not disturb my backpack. I will retrieve it on Sunday, July 11.” and drape some camouflage boughs over the heap.
I drove to the Death Camp along the route that I would cycle back to the pass; East on highway 108, down Sonora grade, North on 395; down the West Walker River Valley to Walker, along some county roads through Topaz, West on highway 89; up the Monitor grade and North again to the site of the Death Camp at Indian Creek.
The Death Camp is the place where cyclists of the Almaden Cycle Touring Club gather during the week before the Death Ride. Led by the indefatigable logician, Don Axtell, a group of 29 riders and supporters had gathered for tune-up riding, choice camp cuisine, hiking, swimming, lounging, and gaming by the lovely and secluded Indian Creek Reservoir. The preferred gaming activities were Yahtzee, jigsaw, cribbage, and feeding the slot machines (@ nearby South Lake Tahoe).
Special thanks to Pat and Mylo Stenstrom for being the main hosts for we doomed campers. Their mobile galley is complete with a bear-resistant kitchen sink. Although my companions are fit and stalwart cyclists, none had the courage to emerge from their tents to chase-off a bear that wrecked the campsite on Friday night. Credit to the cool wisdom of Mylo. When Pat asked him what he was going to do about the rampaging bear, he coolly replied, "Nothing." "Why aren’t you going to go out and chase it away?" "Because I’m scared.', he replied, "He can eat all he wants." Mylo’s a generous host, and strong climber, and he’s certainly no fool.
Stuart Wallace and I remained in hibernation over at our campsite, unaware of the mayhem and terror suffered by our friends. Of course, I’d have rushed the bear to save the stash of apricots and plumbs that was being ravaged. I’d have demonstrated my "shot-put" bear repellent move. Stuart admitted to a greater wisdom. "I ain’t chasin’ no bear."
The day of the Dead began with a spectacular blood-tinged dawning. Somehow I was unable to bestir myself for a departure from the summit of Airport Road hill until 6:06 AM. The weather was warm and deceptively clear. From experience, I knew that it is better to carry an unused windbreaker up the five passes than to risk another hypothermic descent. Among my previous eight Death experiences there have been rainslick descents of every one of the passes. More often than not, you’ll see shivering ghost riders draped in garbage bags during a Death Ride.
This was a routine but memorable death experience for me. Feeling strong up to Monitor summit (~2700’). Dosing Coke. Soaring down the east side of Monitor, skipping the second rest stop. Marveling at the rugged beauty of "tombstone ridge" in the ascent (~3300’). Getting a charge from the sprinting Skeleton Squad. The sprinters are from a nearby youth camp. You hand-off your water bottle to a sprinter who dashes up the road ahead of you, about 40 yards. A volunteer fills the bottle and hands it up just as you huff by. The energy and chanting of the relay runners gives you a visceral contact surge of energy as if you were being boosted up the grade.
Feeling my energy bleeding away, gazing at the ragged rock skyscape until the rocks seem to morph into the form of tombstones en filad, I was inspired to utter a tortured plea. "Oh, dear Savior, if this be the day of my death, let Thy scythe fall swiftly and take me instantly to my perpetual rest. Let me be crushed by a wall of granite in a speeding descent. Do not let me perish in a fibrillating seizure on a climb. Let me come to Thee in a flash of brilliant glory, not in a whimpering and gasping terminal spasm." Earnest chuckles came from the cyclists in earshot.
The westbound descent from Monitor summit was smooth and expeditious. At the 4/89 junction, our friends Linda Hasten, Frank Correira, Pat Stenstrom, and Kim Carr were waiting to cheer the ACTC clubbies. Kim rushed along after me to get a panning pic. I tried to turn toward the shutter so that the propeller on the front of my helmet was shown in action.
The climb to Ebbetts (~3100’) passed uneventfully. On a long hypoglycemic and hypoxic climb I seem to slip into a benign alpha state of meditation. What can you do on an infinite climb? You know you’re going to be stuck in your granny with a conservative heart rate for a long, long time. You can’t use any technique, style, or surges. All you can do is grind in the saddle and stand-up from time-to-time. You’re too winded to chat with your doomed companions and you can’t match their pace. There you are, thrashing your life away, hanging on the upgrade like a wasting sheet in the pine-scented wind. You are shocked back to awareness by the two brutal switchbacks. You’re playing chicken with the devil. Either your knee will blow out or you’ll torque the crank right off the bracket. You can’t traverse the road because of the cyclists already flying down on the other side of the centerline. It was awesome to see my friends Ken Kennedy, Martin Mollat, and Stu Wallace flying past, already two passes ahead of me.
I chowed a bit at the Scocia Cow Camp but skipped the rest stop at the summit of Ebbetts. Killer pot-holes have developed on the road descending to Hermit Valley. I’m not sharp enough to see all of them nor agile enough to avoid all that I see. A guy fell into one. We saw his wrecked bike strapped to the seat of the sag motorcycle. I flashed-by Don and Pam Downs as they reascended Ebbetts.
I drain another Coke at the rest stop in the Valley. I encounter Leroy Rodriguez and Jerry Downing, my erstwhile buddies down here. Leroy exudes a cool competence and Jerry’s ebullient, bright, and fresh-looking as ever. The reascent of Ebbetts (~1700’) is scenic. I fly past the lunch stop at the summit, planning to take a solo break at my auto back on Airport Road. Descending the east side of Ebbetts is fun and treacherous as ever. Even when you know those switch-backs are coming, it’s a thrilling challenge to grasp the break levers in a white-knuckle deathgrip as the bike rocks forward. Even in control, you get the feeling you’re doing a slow motion endo with a half-twist. You feel for the contact patches of the tires and the trueness of the track to be vigilant for a fatal flatting.
I stopped at the Cow Camp on the descent to see if I could find the propeller trinket that I had attached to my helmet with a pipe cleaner wire. I thought that it may have fallen-off when I hung my helmet on the rack when I’d stopped there on the ascent. Nope. There was a big guy there waiting to sag back. Sure enough, he had torqued the crank right off of his bracket. As if with glee he held up the ruptured trophy. "I’m 245 pounds and I’m hell on my equipment.", he boasted. Who needs a five-pass pin when you’ve got a trophy like that? I saw the crash victim in the medic van. He was wearing a neck brace, but otherwise, he looked better than me. He only had to do three passes.
At the junction of highways 4 & 89, we were stopped by a flagman. We watched the medevac chopper set down at the intersection. The crash victim was gurneyed into the chopper, Mash-style. Lucky guy, he died young and in a descent, just as I had prayed I might. Death can be proud with drama, glory, dignity, crowds of witnesses, adulation, and even an airlift; a flight of angels chopping thee to thy rest. After about 15 minutes the flagman let us restart. About 150 of us were regrouped. It’s always a relief for me to get off of a climb. The stretch from the foot of Ebbetts back to Turtle Rock seemed to revive my energy. I could use the shifters once more. I pushed on the pedals and the bike would move. It was a relief to realize that the first four passes had not yet killed me.
The Stenstroms were waiting at the junction with Airport Road to greet and cheer us. Mylo had suffered an endo flip at a cattle guard going up Monitor road. Remarkably, he and the cycle were spun but not scathed by the Reaper. Terri Duffy and Jimmy Baker invited me to join them for a tailgater. Teri sliced some fresh tomato and Jimmy offered some iced V-8. There was lengthy relief back at my auto.
As I re-entered the course I saw the cycles of Jennie Phillips and Karl Schilling already racked on the roof of Jennie’s auto. Shower time for them; climb time for me. Climbing Woodfords Canyon and Carson grade (~3000’) is a trip of its own. The grade is not a killer, but it’s a long, long reach. At the summit I found Graham Flower and Art Cruz nursing on frozen fudge bars. Art was overloaded and his stomach sphincter was clenched. "I drank too much Coke. I feel like my gut is going to blow-up from gas. I can’t take a leak or a dump, and my heaves are dry." There was a horizontal crease in his jersey at the level of the navel. The jersey was visibly distended above and below the crease. It looked like you could pop him with a safety pin. "The gastric emptying rate slows down when the stomach is overloaded. See if you can get on your bike. You can freewheel for about 40 minutes down the grade. Maybe that will be enough time for your gastric contents to start flowing again.", I encouraged. Art looked so bad that I doubted that my advice was practical.
When you see so many friends and companions sprawling on the ground, writhing with tortured faces, their bodies cramping with rigor mortis, you have to ask yourself, "Where am I ? What the hell am I doing ? How am I gonna make it back?" Shortly before or after you die, you may feel that you’re in Hades itself. Perhaps it’s better to wish you were dead than to feel like you’re already suffering the consequences of a sinful life. I made a silent plea, "When the hour of my death is near, let not my heaves be dry . . ."
The last hill is always the toughest. There’s only about 800 feet of hills along the road from Woodford junction, but these are fatal feet. If not dead already, you’ll wish to be so. 130 miles and 16,000 feet of climbing will burn the meat clean off the bone. After enough Death Riding, the person is reduced to a naked skeleton. Gravity looses its effects and a spirit can float and climb like a whispy specter.
I enjoyed chatting with Ken Kennedy, Teri and Jimmy at the revival feeding at Turtle Rock. I staggered like a zombie into the shower at Indian Creek. I joined the spirits of the other recently deceased ACTC clubbies and their survivors for a recap by the campfire. "Yes, I remember the Death Ride of ‘99. That was the day I died. I’ve been a cycling zombie ever since." By 10 PM our flesh-free spirits were ready to collapse into our body bags; fully expired and ready for the racem in pacem.
Dawn Sunday found my spirit ready for two more passes; Monitor and Sonora, 64 miles, and about 7900 feet of climbing. I took the cycle up to Ebbetts and parked at the Pacific Crest Trailhead. Back on the cycle, I descended Ebbetts once again. Climbing Monitor Pass for the third time within 24 hours was some kind of radical exploit. It seemed so much longer and steeper the third time. Without 2499 other Death Riders to accompany your spirit, climbing Monitor solo gets to be a damn chore.
Beyond the summit, at the Mono County line, you get that awesome view down to the basins of Nevada. The eastern slope of the Sierras is the most steep, long, and tall escarpment on the continent. The slopes are mostly unforested and vision is infinitely unobstructed. The view is superior to the birds’-eyes below. The Skinnard Valley gapes with an awesome variegated green splendor, miles below. The winding road appears to be a mere thread across a grandiose scene. This is not a race. I pause to drink-in the view and a V-8.
You mount the cycle, aim it into the fall line, and physics takes over. The road’s a ramp with the kind of sweeping turns that require no braking until you reach the 395 junction, 3300 feet and 7 miles below. Jimmy said his cyclometer pegged at 58 miles per hour yesterday. No doubt. Your wig is laid back and your helmet pulls on your chin like it’s an arrest parachute. No wonder to me, I was the pilot flying down this ramp for the second day in a row.
You have about 30 rolling miles to ride South to the junction with the Sonora Pass road, highway 108. At Topaz, you can get off of highway 395 onto Topaz Lane and Eastside Lane, avoiding about 10 miles of the busy highway. At Walker you can be revived with fresh broccoli soup, a pile of saltines, and a tuna sandwich. The waitress refills the water pitcher for me, twice. The road ascends from about 5000 ft. elevation at Walker along the Walker River Valley. This is a delightfully scenic route that I recommend for cycling in spite of the RV traffic. A tailwind keeps it in the big ring and makes it feel as if you’re descending. The continuous sight of whitewater flowing toward me seems paradoxical with the ease of the scenic ascent.
Near Devil’s Gate you reach the junction with highway 108. This is my eighth climb in two days, but I think it would be a grunt, even if I was fresh. I tell myself, "It’s only 3600 feet, that’s like a Quimby and a Metcalf hillclimb. It can’t be tougher or longer than that." Sure enough, there are a couple of pitches and corkscrew hairpins that warp the cranks, stretch the chain, and make the cartilage herniate from the knees and discs. I’m a zombie. You can’t abuse a corpse.
I was greatly relieved to reach that final summit with plenty of daylight to retrieve the pack, stash the bike, and hike about a mile up the trail. I wrapped the frame and wheels in three oversized trash bags and strapped them to a sapling with the cable lock. I taped a "Please do not disturb my bicycle." tag on the sapling and camouflaged the bags with some boughs.
On Monday I trekked back up the trail, North toward Ebbetts. I retrieved the cache at the 10,000 foot level and continued toward Wolf Lake. Above the lake I surveyed Sonora Peak and my guide map. Behold, a mere 1000 feet of elevation from the trail to the summit and plenty of daylight. I put my water jug and V-8 in a knapsack, left the backpack on a boulder, and headed right up the fall line. Some time, some sun, and some view from the lofty 11,459 foot peak. There I was, about 6400 feet above Walker; 4600 feet by bicycle and 1800 feet by boot. Elevated by human power, fueled by V-8.
A wonderful feature of this day was the 3400 feet of descent in the last six miles of hiking. I reached my destination at the East Carson River trail junction with plenty of time for comfort in camp. I was a little concerned about a large pile of fresh and tarry bear scat that I found near my site. Before turning-in, I repacked my food and backpack tightly and placed it a long stone’s throw in front of my bivy sack. I piled a few stones and a couple of brick sized rocks beside the right elbow position of the bivy sack. (Of course a good scout knows to bag the food and tether it over a live branch at least 12 above ground and ten feet from the trunk of the tree.)
Tuesday was planned to be a 13 mile hike to Asa Lake. It began with a long draw of hot chocolate followed by a tankard of pulverized french roast. A 1200 foot climb and rests at two personal sized waterfalls ensued. Stanislaus Peak was worthy of many halts for slack-jawed catatonic gazes. Upon a shaft of volcanic tuft it’s sculpted rooftop tilts into the sky. Although I’d been acclimatizing for five days, my lungs were still working overtime. The striding felt comfortable and sufficiently powerful. There was enough power in the legs to be concerned that my poor feet would be abused. I was glad to suffer only a single small blister on the heel on day 3. Two light showers cooled the breezes, softened the tread, and enriched the skyscape. Dusk found me fairly-well played-out at Wolf Creek and ready for a bivouac about 2 miles short of my goal at Asa Lake.
Wednesday was the day to complete the 11 miles back to Ebbetts. The tour of the Highland Lakes region was sublime. Tryon Peak and Ebbetts Peak are connected by a fantastic balustrade of oozed-out andesite. The formations are like some crazy demonic pastry chef decorated the serrated ridges with rock-granulated putty. The ridges of Ebbetts Peak itself seem to trace a gigantic jagged labyrinth across the earth. The contoured slopes of Silver Mountain seem smooth and molded by comparison.
I retrieved the auto, opened the windows and roof, and freewheeled down the road once more. I stopped at the Raymond Meadows Creek crossing for a natural shower. Some cycling friends showed me this secret spot during the ‘94 Death Ride. The stream pours off of a granite chute at a 50 degree angle and plunges about 12 feet into a sculpted boom hole. You can step out onto a ledge under the fall and put your head right into the falling stream.
In twilite I drove back to Sonora Pass and car-camped under the setting crescent of the moon. At daylight I was happy to find my bicycle and motor homeward. There is another chapter to this adventure, however. It has to do with my promise to meet my cycling friends for the scheduled 5PM "Thursday Mauler" ride back in San Jose. A radiator hose ruptured as I reached the foot of the Sunol Grade on highway 580. A samaritan recommended the use of duct tape to patch the hose and limp the remaining 25 miles to my pad. Emboldened (totally deluded) with the suggestion, desirous of making my cycling appointment, and charged with complete denial that was reinforced by a few wraps of duct tape, I filled the thing with tap water and burned up the grade.
By the Berryessa junction, the motor was fully toasted. Duct tape is great, but there is a certain incontrovertible physical property of superheated steam that vaporizes adhesive as if it was a trace of snow on a molten volcano. As I awaited the tow truck I changed into my cycling apparel and reassembled the bike. I turned-over the fuming heap of my auto to the salvage truck driver and checked the clock. 3:50 PM; just enough time to cycle from Milpitas to McWhorters to join my ACTC companions for the mauling.
It was wonderful to be reunited with Don, Stuart, Pam, Art, Martin, and the other Maulers. "I’ve come straight from the Deathpack to this mauling." I explained. "I haven’t even been home yet. Don’t you recognize this jersey? These are the same clothes I wore on the Death Ride. Now I’ve blown-up my car so that I could keep my promise to meet you here. I didn’t want you to be concerned about me if I didn’t show up. Now, see what you made me do?"
Somehow ending these adventures with a good mauling was an apt splice back to life. I rode back to the pad and staggered into the shower as if it was my Thursday evening routine. Which of course, it is. I’ve completed the central section of the Crest Trail and died once more during my ninth Death Ride. The searing heat of the hereafter hell has singed the very soul and fully seized the engine block. Now I’ve entered a new and higher kharma state: I’m auto-free. I can handle the miles, the mountains, the snow, the wilderness, even the bears. It’s metropolitan life that challenges me.