Lunch Nordic Ski

Afternoon Mountain Bike Ride

Lunch Run

Lunch Hike

COMING HOME SWEET SILVERTON
The first crack of thunder came around noon. 

It sounded like a bowling ball exploding the top of a mountain top a few miles North. A quick glance in that direction revealed a swelling white wall surging up the valley like an angry tsunami. I was standing in a high saddle between two of the many climbs on the Coney-Cataract section, about 6 miles and at least a couple of hours from the Stony Pass exit to this high hell.

I could see it was only a matter of minutes before the storm overtook us. I hurriedly put on all my raingear, re-packed my bar-bag into a “lightning bag” (containing all the emergency shelter gear and warm clothes I’d need if I had to temporarily ditch the bike), crammed as much food and water in my face as I could choke down, and started walking.

Moments later the first wave of hail tore into my back. I could feel it pinging off my ears through my rain jacket but was otherwise layered up well enough to avoid any damage. “At least it’s a tailwind,” I chuckled nervously as I pushed my bike 1 mph up the next rise.

Earlier that morning, I’d risen from a two-hour nap in the saddle between Slumgullion and Spring Creek Passes.

The weather seemed ok. I figured if I could do the 33.4 mile continuously high elevation crossing of the Coney and Cataract sections in less than nine hours, I should be able to get back below tree line before bad weather comes in. That seemed doable. 

As I reached the Spring Creek Pass Trailhead, I could see five or six headlamps getting rolling around the same time. I could see a couple of racers still sleeping. It felt good to be in the mix again as I had been off the back of this group for several days. I was even moving faster than a few folks in my immediate vicinity – a novel occurrence for my race thus far.

Spring Creek Pass to Carson Saddle went slowly but smoothly. I ended up in a fluid group containing John, Marco, and David as we hiked and rolled that initial section. The mood was light, and we regrouped several times on the high points to refuel.

Everything changed on the first big climb out of Carson Saddle. 

We could all see the puffballs in the sky were starting to rapidly grow and darken. It was no secret what that meant. Our pace quickened and the periodic re-grouping ceased. It was every rider for themselves from that point forward and I was the caboose. 

For the next hour or so, I tried to rationalize my way out of the impending doom. “Maybe we still had a couple of hours before the storm would materialize? Maybe it would hit over there, but not over here? Maybe we’ll find a good place to wait it out? Maybe…?” 

I finally settled on the correct assessment that we were fucked. Honestly, that made things better. It came with the calm sensibility that I must prepare to face my foe while there was still time to do it.

I can’t fully articulate how scary the next hours were after the storm started. 

Thankfully, it did not bring a lot of lightning, and the lightning there was never materialized close by. There was however the constant fear that when it did come, my bike would be the prefect conduit. 

The rain was steady, and the hail came in heavy waves. The area we were traversing is between 12,000 and 13,000 feet in elevation, thousands of feet above tree line and much further to civilization. There was no suitable escape or shelter from the lightning. 

The only realistic escape route was forward along the trail which rolled from saddle to saddle along ridges and over several high points. It was cold and wet, but I found the thermal aspects to be manageable if I never stopped moving. This seemed a sustainable strategy for the distance I had to go.

I could occasionally see Marco in the distance. Those moments helped take my mind off the fact that Thor’s hammer could come down on me at any second.

Some three(?) hours after the storm began, I arrived at Stony Pass fully intact and with great relief. I was a little chilled, but my rain gear had done its job well. Saved my life really. 

The rain let up as I started the descent. The sun even poked out for a quick moment. Unfortunately, I took a wrong turn towards the bottom of Cunningham Gulch. By pure luck, I stopped to give my brakes a rest only a couple hundred feet below the mistake and noticed it then. I thought it might be a GPS error, but that wasn’t good enough. I took the bonus grunt for the honor of my race.

As I finally rolled into Silverton it was pouring rain again. This time I gave zero shits. The terror-monkey I’d been carrying all week had frozen off my back somewhere along Cataract Ridge. As my fear fatigue faded, a sort of post-traumatic tunnel vision came over me. I would make it to Durango – rolling, walking, crawling, or swimming. No amount of rain could stop me now.

I’d enjoy this naïve aura of invincibility for the rest of my journey.

I found the cheap BBQ place in the center of town. 

John was there - and Connor! After several days of playing catch-up, Connor had danced his way through the storm and back up to our group. 

We chowed together and talked about what was to come. It was supposed to storm the rest of the afternoon, and the whole next day. But looking out the window we could clearly see the rain was clearing out… a small mercy that none of us could ignore.

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Matt Annabel

CTR: Day 5, Part 1 (Slumgullion/Spring Creek Saddle to Silverton)

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Lunch Nordic Ski

Afternoon Mountain Bike Ride

Lunch Run

Lunch Hike

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