San Juan Hut Trip -- Day 3, an entry unto itself
Day 3, The Saga ContinuesPlease allow me to save some time telling you about days 0, 1, and 2 and catch up on our San Juan Hut trips here. In summary, we've lost one of team and I've suffered a nearly detrimental mechanical, which was subsequently fixed and we then celebrated with a riveting round of horseshoes. (At which point we discover that I'm pretty horrible at horseshoes.)Rain on a metal tin roof in what a contemporary human would call a "tiny house" is like trying to catch some shuteye on Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras. We woke on day 3 having accepted that we're going to get wet today, but with some of the most coveted singletrack on the entire route, at least four of us were in for the radness. See, each day there is the basic route on double track, fireroads, or dirt roads, and then there are ample detours with singletrack and sinuous trips through the woods for those slightly more adventuresome.We broke into two groups with Scott, Timmy, Justin, and I gouch for broke, hucking it deep into the trenches. The first few miles (which amounted to hours) looked something like this:
When the traditionally dry Colorado wilderness receives buckets of rain, the precipitation doesn't soak happily into the ground. Rather, it immediately saturates the top layer of ground and the rest floats atop in filthy, sticky, clay-like mud.Next, when we finally garnered some speed, Justin really started to bug me with his constant jabs at my tight roadie clothing, so I punched him in the nose. Just kidding, he took a stick to the face, dangerously close to the eye. But Justin is a badass and within seconds of his initial yelp, he was back smiling and snapping selfies.
Soon after, Scott suffered a flat tire. At the time it seemed fortuitous because we were amid a lengthy descent directly into a fresh water stream crossing. Caked in mud, but with the rain ebbing, we thought it wise to clean all the mud off our bikes, drivetrains, shoes, helmets, hands, and blood from faces. That turned out to be a poor decision in hindsight because within minutes, the temperature plummeted, the mud was soon as thick as ever, and the sky opened up something biblical so that we were as covered as ever.Around about this point below, where you see Timmy and Scott hiding beneath a tree, we discussed our current scenario. We're 3 hours into the ride, and with even basic assessment we saw that we were literally one quarter into the distance to the next hut. Curses!
It's probably just as well that my GPS had died, because the Strava title would be saturated with angry four letter words. Between shivering, our quadrant (Quadruple? Quadruplet?) of riders then decided it wise to immediately make our way to the fireroad and then b-line it to the next hut. We briefly consider going on a monster adventure to a hotel in the nearest town, but upon the next road sign, we discover it to be 42 miles away, so that at least 84 miles (to and fro) would bring us back to ground zero. A hot shower and clean sheets sound heavenly right now. But realizing there's no way to communicate with the trio of our party on the alternate route was the biggest hiccip to our plan (as was the 42 miles). Current situation: it is dumping rain, the temperature is somewhere in the upper 40s, and remember, I still don't have rainpants.Thankfully we realize that the other three riders of our party took the simpler and shorter route from the previous hut and will already be at the next one. Furthermore, two of those three are the professional chefs of our party and therefore know how to wield a cast iron skillet and can of (insert food with timeless shelf life here). Shivering heightens as we approach the next hut until finally we arrive... to an empty hut. (Four letter word.)Self-preservation sets in and we immediately go about shedding our sopping clothing, so that four semi-naked frozen dudes are warming ourselves around the stove that we're stoking with wet lumber and shivering breaths. As soon as it's possible to use a can opener, we're shoveling piping hot chicken noodle soup down our gullets. With death ever so closely averted, we consider the current situation:-- we are alive-- we have no idea where our, umm, "ever so slightly less experienced in the field of mountain biking" compatriots are-- we have no way to communicate with them, since we're in the middle of the Colorado wilderness and Verizon has not yet tapped into that fledgling market-- we are aliveThere are not a lot of pictures in this period given the gravity of this situation. With hypothermia now escaping our bodies and snaking out the chimney above, the four of us consider our next move. For one, maybe our three friends seized upon the exact (brilliant) idea we had and sought out that motel. Alternatively, perhaps they've had a mechanical, a crash, a moose sighting, a bear attack. Truly the options are endless. I'll give Timmy the heroic award because it's around this point he says, "I hate putting on cold wet socks guys, but if they're not back in ten minutes, I say we go looking for them." The three of us shake our heads in agreement and thank the good Lord, exactly nine and a half minutes later, we heard the hooting and hollering of three frigid amigos.We assault them with hot beverages and soup, use our mildly functioning defrosted hands to help them strip down and watch steam emanate from their clothes. We hang sopping clothes throughout the rafters and crossboards above, and via an ice cold irony, first a sliver of sun comes out and then the sky is bright blue. (Four letter word.)
Stepping outside there's actually an iota of warmth to the air. Besides the enormous animal poo on the adjacent horseshoes court, we relax on the porch -- yup, this hut has a porch -- we absorb every bit of the sun's energy for a few fleeting minutes, and bask in what we've accomplished. Namely, not dying.
What'll happen on days 4 and 5? Guess you'll just have to tune back in and find out.