Twas a helluva weekend.

Harris was late (!) by over an hour, but we were on the road by 0730 anyway. Gorgeous weather.

The first fifteen miles are buff rollers through an austere clay wasteland at the base of huge cliffs. Fast conditions would prove handy on my return the next day.

Then you have a biiig climb, the upper reaches of which are lost in the shadows. Amazing riding, up and up, waiting for the clever route to the top to unfold.

As is often the case, the top of the mesa is not flat, in this case the southern reaches of the Kaiparowits slant back to the north, with more rollers. These too would have quite a bit more up on the return.

One of the few occasions when the professor was both mobile and in view. Next time I’m rocking his pack and filling his bearings with mule snot.

Unseen in the above is the massive canyon system off to the right, or east. Dave’s map hints only, and even though the Croton road through that canyon is likely loose and horrid for a long ways, I want to go anyway.

One of several reasons for a Pug presented this weekend.

The ponies. 3″ Levs, Rebas, WW’s. Harris brought way more luxuries than I, many of which I was glad to take advantage.

The man himself, surveying Last Chance Canyon. Based on the flow we found, I’d imagine it to be a perennial stream in all but the hottest months.

It was also the source of serious fun. At the end of the aforementioned rollers, the road dropped off and began the characteristic Utah contouring of drainages. Down to the creek, and back up the other side.

And then the fun began. My camera went a little wacky further down the descent, so no more pictures were had, let it just be said that we had a couple solid hours of old fashioned mountain biking. Tough, cerebral, and fun as hell.

Then we had 20 miles of Hole-in-the-Rock road as payment. The washboard was not at all bad, the wind cooperated, but oh the rollers! I rolled into the Sinclair in Escalante pretty cooked, though nothing a cheap pizza, cup of Fresca, and Cherry death-pie couldn’t fix. I also restocked on snickers and pringles and we headed off for camp, in the dark.

Laziness led us to choose the most open field in the area, the folly of which became evident around 2200. I didn’t worry about getting shot, but was rather annoyed at being woken up. The fire before, and being exposed to the sun early after, made it worthwhile, though that morning we did ride by the many very nice and much more sheltered sites minutes up the canyon.

The climb up did not prove my mortality, the rollers! and contouring drainages did. I caught Harris again around 1100, or I should say blew right past his bike and waterbottle sitting in plain view at the bottom of a small wash. I was very, very confused at who was yelling at me as I flew up the next hill. We had ridden ~35 miles with over 4k of up since a bit before 8, and the dude had been waiting for me for almost an hour! I was feeling damn good for the second day of riding, but homeslice was dwelling in a different universe.

I was only too glad to cut him loose, he to take the Head of the Canyons road back, me to reverse our outbound course. No difference in mileage, but a lot of uncertainty for Harris and a good dozen or more major drainages to cross. I was not worried about being adequately challenged.

The long climb of yesterday was todays screaming descent, and pleasantly Harris was still filtering when I made the creek. I took my time on the climb out, finding a pleasant rhythm to the day, and paused briefly to note his divergent tracks before I set out to conquer the rollers. Which it rather like “conquering” a mountain; I was pleased that they let me pass unmolested. I got to the top of the big climb at 1400, set off down it at 1410, got to the base at 1430, and was at the truck a few minutes before 1600. The last miles hurt, but that is it would seem my chosen lot in life.

All in all, words wholly not up to the task. Go. Ride. See.