It had been raining most of the night; very unusual for July in this part of the Rockies.
Now, after breakfast at the Kendal Mountain Cafe, the rains had subsided, allowing the sun to show up over the mountains. By 10 o'clock it was a beautiful, sunny morning with the temperature already rising to about 62 degrees; perfect for comfortable dirt riding.
Kendall Peak, rising some 3,000 feet above Silverton's 9,300 feet, has a fairly easy jeep road running about seven mile up the mountain. Winding around the back of the mountain then facing out over the town at over 12,000 feet.
Usually this time of the year, there were several Hang Gliders coming off Kendall Peak and landing between our travel trailer and the Animas River. Of course they wouldn't show up until fairly late in the afternoon. The winds and air currents were more agreeable just before sundown.
We were fired up by around 10:30; Bob on his vintage 350cc Bultaco, George on his 175cc Yamaha, and me on a 250cc Yamaha. We left without jackets, in the sure knowledge that it would continue to get warmer and knowing we would be working up a sweat shortly, then return before the evening cooled down again.
The road officially ended at the 'Ice Cave' which was an old mine tunnel opening right onto the road. The name was derived from the fact that it didn't get much sun and was usually full of snow and ice all summer.
From there on up the road was passable but tricky. We went all the way around to the face, sat and watched the town below for a while, then started back.
At the summit, on the backside from town, there was an opening cut out through the rock face looking down into another valley. It looked like someone had started to build a road through and down the back side. Now, there was only a pile of large rocks descending about a hundred feet to the snow. There was always some snow fields down that way that lasted all summer.
"Well, what do you think," George asked of nobody in particular.
It was a little rougher than I had expected just getting down the first few yards, but we managed to bulldog the bikes down onto terrain we could actually ride. The snow proved to be solid enough to slide the bikes down; too steep to ride but not steep enough to get out of control. After the first snow field, we rode a short distance and repeated the process. The third one was easy, we were able to actually ride over it.
We must have traveled about three hundred yards on the old road as it curved around the side of the mountain. The surface was small rocks, actually graded out through an old slide. We were still a ways above timber line when we rounded the curve. By now we were out of sight of our drop off point at the peak, and well beyond the point of no return due to the snow fields.
Like the three musketeers, Bob, George and I had been through some very rough places together in the past few years, but this was the granddaddy of them all. My previous bravado had left me with just the cold chill of fear niggling my backbone. That slide looked altogether to steep to me. I could just see me hitting the rocks below at a high rate of speed. Bob was more analytical. Studying the slope and distance and the consistency of the loose shale, he hadn't yet made a decision.
By now the temperature was beginning the daily drop which we knew would reach near freezing before morning. We didn't notice the cold much yet as we worked the bikes over the huge rocks towards the timber below. There was no possibility of riding yet. We literally dragged the bikes over one big rock after another for the next couple of hours.
Now, in total darkness, the cold, hunger and especially thirst made the swarm of mosquitoes even more exasperating. Even when we occasionally came to an open area where the timber had been wiped out by snow slides, it was covered with weeds and underbrush as high as our heads. At one point, just before dark thank goodness, I came upon an old mine shaft, only partly covered with tin and rotting lumber. The rest of the ordeal was overshadowed with the fear of stumbling into one of these bottomless pits in the darkness.
I had lights on my bike, the others had none. Of course I couldn't afford to use up the small battery, so I never used the lights except when I could run the motor.
It seems that just a month ago, a local man had come down the same side of the mountain. He was on horseback. He straggled in on foot. The horse was left with a broken neck somewhere on the slide.
It was a great adventure, re-told many times in the past twenty years. I'm glad we did it. It helped create a bond that can only be gained through experience with already good friends.
"But we ain't gonna' do it again!" (I Hope)
Bob Hanner, George Lair and myself were in Silverton, Colorado for the purpose of riding the 700 miles of trails and jeep roads networking the San Juan
Range. We had been following this ritual for several years and this was about the fourth day we had ridden. With the advent of this unusual weather we had decided not to do any serious riding today.
After some discussion we all agreed that it was a bit late in the day to begin any of our normal routes. Usually we would take one of several routes to Ouray, Lake City, Telluride or Rico. Each offered a scenic, sometimes challenging ride over a major mountain pass, some crossing the Continental Divide.
"We could make a quick run up Kendall," I suggested.
"I believe the girls are planning a cookout this afternoon," Bob said, reminding us of the previously made plans.
"No problem," George assured us, "we'll be back at least by noon or so."
Riding in only a sweat shirt it was a little chilly for the first few minutes but by the time we crossed the Animas River and started uphill I was comfortable. It was a wonderfully clear, sunny morning. We made a short stop before rounding the base of the mountain. It would be the last view of Silverton until we rounded the peak. Here we watched the Silverton-Durango narrow gauge steam engine cross the river and pull into downtown where they would disgorge the first of four daily loads of tourists. Further up, we stopped for a few minutes to relieve ourselves and check out the now familiar box car that had been dragged up the mountain some years ago. Now abandoned, we could only speculate as to it's previous use. There being no mines in the near vicinity, we assumed that they were unable to get it any further up the ever increasing incline. By now we were gaining a lot of altitude with each of the continuous switchbacks in the worsening jeep road.
"Hey, that looks like an old road down there," Bob exclaimed.
Sure enough, just below the last of three snow fields, you could see the faint tracings of roadway cut across the face of the loose rocky mountainside. It continued as far as we could see, rounding the mountain about a half mile away.
For three seasoned trail riders with good bikes, this was nothing less than a challenge!
"Let's go!" I exclaimed. (I'm probably not the brightest when it comes to making rash decisions.)
"I don't know," Bob reasoned. "It could get pretty rough, and I don't see us coming back uphill over that snow pack."
"Yeah, but we won't be coming back up," I argued. "It stands to reason that road has to go on down to the main road. It had to be built from the bottom up, and I know there is an old mine and mill just east of town. I've been up past it on the unused wagon road for a mile or so. This road has to be the same one."
"Sure, I remember that road," George grinned, "looks pretty good for the first mile or so coming uphill."
George seemed ready to go, but Bob was showing better judgment. I just didn't like the indecision.
"So, let's give it a try." And with that I cranked up.
The others followed.
I was beginning to feel very good about finding this new piece of territory. It was going to be great!
"Well Henry, what now?" It sounded to me like I was being accused of something.
"Yeah, stupidity," I thought to myself.
Aloud I replied, "We need to think about this." It was all I could think of at the moment.
We spent the next fifteen minutes discussing the possibilities. The options were none too optimistic.
We could walk back up and out, leaving the bikes. But how could we retrieve them? We could slide down the shale for about two hundred feet but it looked very steep. How fast would we be sliding by the time we hit the level area? How much damage would it do to us and the bikes, would we be able to ride them out even if we got past the rock field below?
While we were still discussing the slide issue, Bob and I heard a rumbling noise behind us. Looking around we watched in amazement as George, always a man of action, drop his Yamaha on it's side, shove it off the side and start sliding down the shale towards the rock field below.
"OK, let's go," I heard Bob call out as he followed George's lead.
My fear alleviated somewhat, I followed suite. The slide turned out to be the least of our worries. We arrived on the fairly level rock field without any damage.
As we rested in the upper growth of stunted pines our thoughts were pretty much in sync.
I tried to sound encouraging. "That road has to be off to the right, and can't be too far away."
But as we could all see, the mountain side sloped off to the left, which would make it difficult to maintain the right direction which would be somewhat uphill. This became painfully apparent as we proceeded into the forest below. The deadfall of decades of fallen trees were an unbelievable hindrance. Some were large pines and we had to drag the 285 pound bikes over each tree trunk. So long as we were going downhill this wasn't quite so bad. The problem was, it was working us inexorably toward the canyon on our left, not toward the old roadway we hoped to find to our right. We had to keep to the right at every obstacle if we were to find the road, and it was always slightly uphill. Even in darkness, we knew we were nearing the canyon as we could hear the water below.
It felt like it must be midnight or later when we got the good news. We had stayed as close together as possible throughout the night.
"I think this is it!" Bob shouted.
George and I made our way to the sound of his voice. I cranked up my engine and lit up the most beautiful sight of the year. The faint signs of an 80 year old trail, grown over and rugged. I led with the lights and the others followed, in less than an hour or so we were on a better road, able to make better time down the mountain. When we saw the town lights I stopped and we all took a much needed break.
There wasn't enough energy for much conversation. After a few minutes, I cranked up and led the way down to the blacktop, then another mile into town. I think we were all surprised to find the Cafe still open. They normally closed around ten o'clock, and I knew it must be well after midnight.
