It’s pitch dark. I am immediately reminded of one of those cartoon scenes when there’s a black screen with nothing but wide, white, terrified eyes. I want to laugh but the image brings little relief to my first night alone in the woods. Oh, come on. I tell myself. I thought I got over my fear of the dark when I was eight. But I am alone. And I know the lions are out there. The last time I spoke to anyone was five hours ago when I told my roommate, “If I don’t see you again, it was nice knowing you!” I chuckled. He didn’t see the humor. Neither do I now.
From the start, the idea of solo self-supported bikepacking was intriguing yet intimidating to me, kind of like wanting to pet a cactus or get a little too close to the edge of a cliff. Could I do it? Did I want to do it? I had never been backpacking or spent a night alone in the mountains. Beyond being alone in the dark, two big fears gnawed at me—mountain lions and lightning.
Although getting eaten alive by a mountain lion is unlikely, it’s not an unwarranted fear. On rides at dusk, I have felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up—they were watching me. But all this fear—of the dark, of being eaten, of failure—is necessary. One of my most inspiring realizations of 2011 was that vulnerability unlocks emotions at the deepest level—disappointment, exuberance, elation, uncertainty. Risk-taking is an art. Taking a chance widens the scope of being alive, whether it is through triumphant success or heartbreaking failure. I was ready to try something new and solo bikepacking seemed to perfect solution.
I combed backpacking websites for the best backcountry gear. Lightweight equipment is a significant piece of the puzzle since, as any fastpacker will tell you, every gram counts. But pedaling a bike up a hill with extra weight is even harder than walking uphill with a pack. Basic human creature comforts were suddenly up for debate. To save weight, I opted for a tarp and bivy sack over a tent and I chose to forgo the extra ounces of a stove to make hot food and water.
The next subject to broach was exactly how I was going to carry my gear. Stuffing it all in a backpack makes it almost impossible to ride with the balance you need to tackle singletrack or even a dirt road climb. Luckily, there are a few companies that make custom frame bags along with top tube bags and giant seat bags. I chose a small company in Alaska called Revelate Designs based on good reviews from friends. Each bag is handmade. I traced the “blueprint” and took my frame measurements. Just like that, I was committing myself to nights alone in the dark.
My first solo trip was not nearly as dramatic as I’d like to think. My plan was to head up the mountain for one night and return the next morning. The truth was that I had been dreading it all week. The biking itself, though slow, was not difficult. My fears focused on mountain lions, particularly because I had seen their tracks in the snow on a hike-a-bike training day months before. I suddenly wished I had carried the weight of a tent.
After a few hours of riding, the sun began to sink behind the horizon and the magnitude of my fear increased. It was only a minor detail that I had never slept outside alone or without tent walls around me. I was isolated that night. I thought I could feel the mountain lions watching me, and my eyes frantically scanned the darkness having become that wide-eyed (and vulnerable) cartoon character.
As a thick blanket of darkness swallowed the area, I scrambled to set up my resting place for the night. I fumbled with the bivy and tarp with nervous hands and tried not to look into the woods fearing I would see a pair of eyes gleaming back at me. The tarp was anchored to the bar-end of my bike grip and a few points in the ground. I was seeking security in a shallow nylon shell covering my head. Every sound interrupting the silence of night made my heart flutter. I wondered if I was going to have a panic attack.
I thought about how I was missing all those gorgeous stars that are normally muted by city lights, but I was too chicken to look outside. Just one little glimpse, I’d tell myself, but I couldn’t do it. I clutched a small canister of pepper spray in one hand all night long. I glanced at my watch every twenty minutes that night, anxiously counting down the minutes to dawn. Time seemed to move in slow motion. The confidence I normally carried was gone. I was reduced to a silly ostrich with its head buried in the sand, except my head was buried in a small nylon tarp whose rustling in the wind was freaking me out. When morning arrived, I felt more confident with the gift of sight, but I was still shaken from my irrational fear. I felt very mortal.
After a few days, I thought of how I survived my first night alone in the woods and I was hungry for something bigger. I realized the freedom that bikepacking offered—the ability to go anywhere with a bike and be self-sufficient. All I needed was a plan, the right equipment, food, a light, a water filter… and maybe a partner.
A month later, my teammate, Jeff, and I embarked on the next journey. I told Jeff to plan something difficult. He has been my training partner for several years and I knew to expect something heinous. He decided on the Sawatch Range. It would be bigger and more remote. This time, my fear revolved around storms and lightning.
We drove to Salida, parked the car, loaded the bags on our bikes and the peaks quickly devoured us. I dutifully followed Jeff as we pedaled up the Colorado Trail. The weight of my bike and gear—close to 50 pounds with fully loaded bags—bogged me down. I felt like I was pedaling through a swamp. It was hard to believe that my friends could do this for several days in bikepacking races and I gained even more respect for them.
When we turned off the Colorado Trail to start our ascent toward Mt. Antero, I realized hiking your bike is an integral part of bikepacking in these mountains. On the map, it was a dirt road. In reality, the rocks were the size of human heads and the road was so steep that it even made walking a challenge. Sections that would normally be rideable were too difficult due to the weight and clumsiness of the loaded bike. The clouds had been building over the last few hours. Rain began to fall. We slipped into our Gore-tex jackets and pants, continued forward, and hoped the rain would abate. The road became so steep that I had a hard time walking and keeping pace. The distance between Jeff and me quickly grew until he was a speck on the horizon.
I was panting from lack of oxygen and walking sideways because my calves were on fire. I kept tripping on my own feet. The mighty presence of the mountains was a reminder of my vulnerability and how inconsequential and infinitely small I was in the shadow of million-year-old giants.
After five unrelenting hours of pushing our bikes, we arrived at the pass. The wind howled. We could almost touch the sky. The rain had stopped, but there were clouds building to the west. We began our descent and headed toward the Alpine Tunnel. The sun was setting. Then, out of nowhere, I heard some people yelling my name.
“Sonya? Unbelievable.”
Two familiar faces came into view. We had randomly bumped into some friends who were camping up here! After accepting an Odell Cutthroat Porter and an oatmeal cream pie, which was my dinner for the night, Jeff and I moved on to our camp spot.
As we set up, we could see four elk on the ridge line watching us. The rain began to fall again. Jeff did not have a tarp and we both tried to huddle underneath mine until the rain stopped. This time, I wasn’t afraid to look up at the vast expanse of stars in the crisp, clear night at 13,000 feet.
We awoke with the sunrise and continued on our adventure. Snow covered the trail, making it impassable, so we pushed our bikes up the nearly vertical side of the mountain to access the Continental Divide Trail. My legs screamed at the punishment. We were far away from civilization, alone, self-reliant and once again well above treeline. I wanted to dawdle, to roll around in the high alpine tundra flowers and drink it in, but the clouds were building once more. We picked up the pace. No longer afraid, I was simply awestruck by the dramatic views.
Most people do not get to see what we did that day. And we rode our damn bikes to get there. Several hours later, we triumphantly cruised into Salida. I rewarded myself with a beer and a burger. It had only been two days, but the residue of the experience would last a lifetime.
I attempted the Colorado Trail Race a month later and while finishing the event was not in the cards for me in 2011, I made it to a new place in life. A place where I was willing to try new things, take risks, take a chance at something where most fail, and cope with bitter disappointment. Best of all, I know that I’ll be back.
Sonya Looney is an endurance bike racer and regular blogger for ElevationOutdoors.com. She won the 10-day Yak Attack race in Nepal last month.
