Fearing the worst, I dropped to my knees and thoroughly inspected the dirt beneath the engine and tanks. There was no gas running, or even dripping onto the ground, so I figured I had some time. It had been 116 lonely miles from the closest gas station to where I now stood, overlooking the Grand Canyon at Kelly Point. Doubling that makes 232. With the extra gallon and a half, my range should be around 260 - if it was all nicely graded road. The extremely rough trail, however, likely dropped my mileage considerably. How much? I didn't know. A quick calculation did nothing positive for my confidence level. If I was averaging 35 miles per gallon instead of my usual 40, my max range would be about 228 - four miles short! Now, astute readers may remember that I also carried an emergency 50-ounce canister. That could end up saving me from a rather long walk. In short, I didn't have a whole lot of wiggle room, so stopping any fuel leak was of primary importance.
Despite the fact that I couldn't see any evidence, however, the strong gas odor remained. It then occurred to me that I hadn't considered the worst case scenario after all. What if the highly explosive liquid was dripping onto a hot metal surface somewhere, and thus not making it to the ground?
With that even more disturbing thought, I searched every nook and cranny between the bike's fuel system, and the motor and exhaust. Still nothing. Even the gasket that seals the fuel pump to the underside of the tank was bone dry. It had leaked for a short while after reassembling it last year, but mysteriously fixed itself.
So at least I had no major leak, and no extremely dangerous one. Though still quite unsettled about it, I forced a smile for the camera. After all, even if I didn't make it back, I did finally make it to Kelly Point - along the toughest trail I had ever attempted!
I went back to the rim and settled down for a while with my water bottle and a homemade molasses energy bar one of my friend's breakfast gang had given me. Taking my journal from my jacket's right chest pocket, I wrote "Kelly Point 3:00. Should not have come."
Truth is, potential gas leak aside, I was also extremely concerned about the ride back. I couldn't believe I had made it here without dropping the big, heavy bike in the rocks - and I figured the chances of doing it again without incident were dishearteningly slim. Part of me wanted to remain here for hours. The canyon exerts a palpable attractive force that's difficult to break away from. But I knew I was only delaying the inevitable. Whatever was going to happen on my way back, the sooner it happened, the sooner I'd figure a way out, and the sooner I'd get back to town.
I stood up at a quarter after three, having been at the point for only fifteen minutes. The sun would be largely at my back this time - that was good. And I knew what to expect, so I could check off the most challenging sections as I completed them. That always seems to make the return leg of an 'out and back' ride pass more quickly. That calorie-dense snack was already picking me up a bit. I was as ready as I was going to be. "Keep your head up, Troy. Stay as far away from the cacti as possible. Never let your attention waver. And take it easy as much as possible, but don't be afraid to gas it when necessary. Maybe you can do this after all."
The first major challenge was a series of 3-foot deep "V"-shaped ruts. This time, I immediately dropped down to the bottom, rather than attempting to balance on the edge, along the tree line, as I had done on my way down. Squeezing past one particular tree, the bike had nearly fallen over into the crevasse - a predicament from which it would have been extremely difficult to extract myself.
Now I'd just remain, meandering along the bottom, until an opportunity to get out presented itself - which it eventually did. Next up were the steep troughs full of loose, softball-sized stones. These are what had concerned me the most on my way down. Below each pitch, I paused to catch my breath, and gather my nerve. I knew that if I got stopped mid-climb, it would be nearly impossible to get started again. There really was no particular route that looked better than any other. So my plan of attack was simply to stay on the gas to keep my momentum, and to hold on tight, as the bike dodged and bucked wildly beneath me. It was quite a ride! At the top of each section, I had to pause again - to give my heart a chance to calm down a bit.
Passing the 21.9 mile marker, I knew the only real challenges left were the fields of large boulders. On the way down, it had been relatively easy to pick the best line around the worst ones, and slowly roll over the rest, taking advantage of gravity to keep me going. Going up was harder. One, it's tougher to see the trail above you than the trail below. The angles are all wrong. Two, gravity is always working against you, so if you don't keep some throttle dialed up, and/or a steady hand on the clutch, you're going to kill the engine when the front tire hits up against an immovable object - like a large embedded rock. Before this trip, I'd considered investing in a "slipper" clutch. It would take most of the tricky part out of ascents like these - making it virtually impossible to stall the motor. But I'm a cheapskate for the most part, and thought I'd never really need it. I killed it - twice.
But I didn't fall! I rolled back in to Waring Ranch at 5:15 - only two hours this time, for those 26 miles. That was half an hour better than my time going down. I practically bounded over to the trail log book to record that I'd made it. Yeeoow!! That was a mistake. My foot began throbbing again.
Oh yea, I forgot that part of the story, didn't I? As I'd started up one of those boulder-strewn hills, my right foot slammed into something large and hard, and intense pain shot up my leg. The force nearly ripped me off the bike, but I stayed on and we both kept moving forward. Out of the corner of my eye, I just caught a glimpse of the rock that, unfortunately had somehow escaped my attention until it was too late. With that foot completely numb for the rest of the climb, I'd made it to the top, and put the other one down to assess the situation. I wiggled all my toes and the pain didn't seem to get any worse, so I assumed no bones were sticking out. Confident enough then to take a look, I glanced at my boot, and couldn't make out more than a little scuff mark. Unlike the slipper clutch, I had invested in high quality full leather riding boots years ago, and that decision had certainly paid off today. I've heard stories of mountaineers making the mistake of taking boots off their injured feet - and then not being able to get them back on, because of the swelling. I opted to wait until I was safely back at my friends' house, before conducting a more thorough examination.
It was better on the bike - as long as I didn't stand up on the pegs. On the nicely graded gravel again, emotions began to swell, as the reality of my accomplishment sank in. I guess that's largely why I do this. The feelings are nearly indescribable - immense relief at first, as tensions melt away and hope is restored, then a calm satisfaction from the completion of an impossible task. If it ended at that, I might be content to return home and stay there. But there's one more phase in the progression...
Bolstered Confidence. Five miles back on the trail, I was thinking I'd stick to pavement for the rest of my life. But here, five miles closer to civilization, I was already considering other routes across the country, that I'd previously deemed too difficult - you know, for next time.
Yes, I've thought of that. For me, it might actually be labeled an addictive behavior. But "obsessive" sounds a little better, and "passionate," has even fewer negative overtones.
I had to stop here, because even though there was nothing in my mirrors, I couldn't shake the feeling that a large object was about to overtake me from the rear. Peering over my shoulder, I realized it was the cloud of dust from my tires, blocking out the brilliant setting sun, and creating a huge shadow.
Guess I don't need my sunglasses anymore. And no, I don't have a clue where that dark ring around my right eye came from! In fact, I didn't notice it until I posted this picture. It must have faded by the time I got town, because my hosts never mentioned it.
Speaking of my hosts, I figured this would be a good time to try and give them a call. I knew the Parashant was not supposed to have cell service, but I was sitting atop the highest point around, so thought I'd give it a try. Yes, you're looking at not one, but two different flip phones - they do still exist! Each utilizes a different network, to increase my chances of making contact in remote areas. In this case, however, neither were going to do me any good.
I climbed the road cut bank to get this last shot of the sun. From this point on, things would get even more interesting.
Fortunately, I had just the thing for night riding! I'd used these auxiliary lights several times on the pavement, but this would be their first real test in the rough stuff. After that terrible trail, they were no longer actually pointed down the road, but an additional stop or two for fine adjustment did the trick.
Later, when the city lights of St. George came into view far below, I pulled out the phones again. Surely now I could check in, and update my estimated time of arrival - but no.
And then suddenly, those brilliant white LEDs revealed a hulking form, spanning the road in the inky blackness. At first, I had no idea what it could be. Then it dawned on me - the highway overpass! I'd been concentrating so hard on dodging suicidal jack rabbits, that the miles had passed much quicker than anticipated. I'd made it to the pavement! The time was 8:00.
A few more miles to the gas station, and I was finally able to tell my friends and my wife that I'd made it and was OK. Over the last 30 minutes, I'd finally encountered a few vehicles, heading the opposite direction, probably up to the view point, from where I'd first seen the city. I slowed for each one, until I confirmed that it wasn't Ed's Suburban, coming to find me!
It was a quarter 'til nine before I was finally safe and sound in my friend's garage. After greetings and a couple quick stories, I found my Sharpie and ceremoniously filled in the outline of Arizona on my RV sticker. I was certainly feeling good! - until I climbed the steps into the house, and the sharp pain in my foot reminded me of a story I hadn't told anyone yet. No, not my wife either. Plenty of time for that later.
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