october 14-17, 2004 by John Siebenthaler: photos©john siebenthaler
clik for lg view
Once past the uphill track of sand, roots, and stone rubble, the smooth rounded granite of Bald Mountain was a brand new riding surface.
Jeff, Martin, and I looked down the hill as Marc willed the Honda over and around the rut-strewn path that seemed to rise vertically out of the valley, a hanging cloud of dust marking his progress. He made the crest, exuberant over his accomplishment and confident about the rest of the ride.
For us this was the biggest challenge so far, and the most satisfying. Bald Mountain lay directly ahead, and where before the trails had been sandy washes, inches-thick dust, and stony rubble, now it was smooth granite punctuated with large boulders and slab-like outcroppings.
We crisscrossed the mountain as we worked our way to the summit, surprised at how suddenly the tower appeared after we crested the last peak, and parked near several previous arrivals, including a KTM with what looked like a serious case of blown head gasket. Trekkers came and went as we climbed the tower and took in the view.
The descent off the mountain was shallower, down through a labyrinth of fire trails and logging roads that eventually broke out back on Route 168 not far from the lodge. Jeff took time to point out the cairns, small piles of rock, that defined the trail. In zero visibility, these informal stone road markers could spell the difference between life and death if you had to navigate off the peak by touch instead of sight.
Back at the lodge an hour later, we crossed paths with a wildlife officer who'd stopped by to find out what nearly a hundred dirt bikes were doing on the mountain. Jeff broke out his map and the two plotted our afternoon adventure. We filled up on our bag lunches, then headed north to Huntington Lake for gas and Kaiser Pass road. Road? I've seen wider jogging paths.
Our next destination was Mono Hot Springs, in the Ansel Adams Wilderness area, then we'd ride further inland to manmade Lake Thomas Edison before backtracking to the lodge before the sun set. These mountains aren't meant for after hours sightseeing, as Marc discovered after rounding a curve and finding himself goggles to grille with a Ford dualie towing a horse trailer. Jeff, busily practicing his road racing chops, barely tapped Marc's tailpipe while taking in the view straight down over the side. Funny.
We'd again ridden over a hundred miles, through some of the most rugged terrain I've experienced. Tomorrow would be our last day in the saddle, transporting the bikes back down to Oakhurst, where we'd shower before hitting the road for distant homes and freshly minted thoughts.
Dinner Saturday night was steak and potatoes, beer and bourbon, and bullshit and sign language around a storybook campfire that felt great against the cold Sierras' sky. Before calling it a night, everyone in the room introduced themselves, using anecdotes and exploits from previous and current treks as part of the bonding experience.
Well, almost everyone. There were a couple of slackers who thought they wouldn't be missed if they skipped tradition and turned in early. They hadn't counted on a monstrous potato cannon, wielded by the camp marshall, which went off in their room around midnight and was heard throughout the lodge. No doubt they heard it also.
I woke just before dawn to what I thought sounded like a gentle rain. Dennis Murphy, my roomate, thought I should check the view and obligingly pulled open the sliding window for my benefit with barely concealed laughter. I shivered against the damp, cold wind, trying to focus on what looked like snow. Snow? Then came the realization that the rain I thought I'd heard was sleet, not really all that common in Florida and definitely not wanted on this day.
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