The Last Ride

Short Version:
The Buckhorn Trail must once have been pretty cool to have been accredited IMBA epic ride status, but now exists only on maps and in memories.

We found this out the very hard way.

Thank you, Terry and Jan, for rescuing us.


Long Version:
The day started well, with a 730am start into a 2-hour climb up a dirt road. Snake and lizard tracks were visible, as were some of the critters themselves. Some great views, and both of us feeling strong on the climb. At the top of the hill, we turned onto the trail, and set off, gleefully, for the long downhill run into the beautiful Buckhorn Creek valley. Unfortunately, the trail quickly disappeared under a variety of plants, many of which had spikes. Wondering if we'd gone astray, it was reassuring that we kept seeing evidence of the trail's past existence as a rideable path, and it was bound to get better once we got to the valley floor, right?

Wrong. It got worse. Many places there was no trail at all, and where there was trail, it was fit for hardcore bush-whacking hiking at best. Machetes might've helped, but they'd've been something else to haul through the nightmarish 4 mile stretch. Which took us 4 hours. By the time we finally reached another trail sign, at Indian Creek, we were exhausted, I'd had two punctures, and we'd swapped roles of willpower donor and recipient for the first of several times.

I cannot adequately describe this horrible horrible section of the "ride."

The next few miles was almost pleasant - certainly by comparison to what we'd just endured! The sections where there was trail were mainly rideable, and there were almost as many sections with trail than without.

And then came the bad decision - we had the choice of riding the dirt road 10 miles back to a point halfway up the original climb and thence back down the road to the van, or carrying on as planned, down a riverside trail, past a reservoir, and onto the paved road near the campground below the ford. With the sun high in the sky and stupidly hot, we eyed the shady trees along the river and chose to carry on. Hindsight says: "You fools!"

In a surprising twist, given the map's accuracy thus far, the riverside trail turned out to not exist, and pushing the bikes through the deep, soft silt took most of the last of our energy. Eventually we pulled the plug, hiked the bikes dispiritedly back upriver, clambered up a bank to the road, and set off for the Ranger Station, because Rangers are helpful. Bear in mind that the Ranger Station in question was not the Ranger Station kind of near our campground, and that as a general rule they don't put Ranger Stations very close together. At any rate, the Ranger Station at which we eventually arrived was gated and locked, and no-one answered our calls for assistance.

It was a sorry-looking, bedraggled pair who limped into the camp area near the Ranger Station. Terry and Jan, we're really really sorry we killed your evening, and we're so incredibly grateful to you both for setting aside your nearly-cooked dinner and driving us two hours out of the wilderness to the top of the dirt road that led us homewards.

The slow leak in my rear tire and the gathering gloom were problematic, especially once the road ended in a quite-deep body of water and we were forced to go in search of a path. Horse people, your instructions on how to get to the road were invaluable, and the wee torch you gave us was brilliant.

We made it to the van at 930pm, 14 hours after we left it. It was pitch black by the time we made our way through the ford, and we used that to our advantage while getting naked and bathing with cold water and dishwashing liquid - to get rid of the poison oak oil - before dropping off the bikes (five hours late) and hitting the road to LA.