Crested Butte 2003 CB Revisted
By Steve Palmer

The first time I visited Crested Butte was nine years ago. I was new to mountain biking and had just graduated from UCR. Myself and three college buddies met up with RC, Pat, Tennes, and gang for a great time in Crested Butte. Imagine four college guys, their bikes, and their gear in one motel room with two queen beds and a kitchenette. The trip was filled with epic rides, Red Lady Ale, and dinners cooked on a hot plate. It was all beer, rides, friends, and food. The year was 1994.

I went again the following year with my new wife Heather, the one who introduced me to mountain biking. Again we met up with RC, Pat, and the group, but this time the trip had a decidedly different texture. It was more about love and beauty. We still had our share of hot plate and microwave dinners, but the trip was more about wildflowers, picturesque forests, shimmering lakes, and scenic vistas.

The first two trips were planned well in advance, but this time was on the spur of the moment, roughly three weeks notice. Hardly enough time to get ready to ride 20+ miles at 9,000 feet. It was an offer that I could not refuse. We had just relocated, bought a new house, and I had started a new job. I had been putting a lot of pressure on myself to perform at work and accomplish home improvement tasks. It all added up to a lot of stress. I needed a vacation. We decided that we didn't want our son to miss swim lessons, so my wife and son were out. I emailed and called several friends. Each one of them came up with a reason why they couldn't go. So it was decided. Once again I would meet RC, Pat, and their friends in Crested Butte, but this time I was solo. No friends, no family.

It is safe to say that Crested Butte was my central preoccupation in the weeks leading up to the trip. I checked the Crested Butte webcam several times every day, and set the picture as my computer wallpaper. I emailed the pictures to my friends, RC, and my wife. I was probably driving people crazy. I made trips to the bike store, built a bike rack, and prepared a driving itinerary. The only thing that I did not do was clean my bike. After all, true mountain bikers never have a clean bike.

The trip started in the rain. Thunderstorms accompanied me as I traveled along America's loneliest highway (US 50). The loneliest phone booth, sand dunes, and mountain bike advertising in the pine tree studded Austin, Nevada. All of these scenes played on the windows of my truck. After a filling sesame chicken lunch at the Eureka Cafe in Eureka, I followed the road into the lower desert, past the Great Basin and Sevier Dry Lake. After quick stops for gas and dinner, it was on to the day's final destination, Salina, Utah.

On the second day I was spurned onward by visions of the alpine vistas of Crested Butte. One stop in Grand Junction for lunch and a bike computer battery, and one stop in Delta for gas. The 73 miles from Montrose to Gunnison seemed to take hours, but before long I was drinking in the cool mountain air and basking in the scenic beauty that only Crested Butte can deliver. As I drove into town, a feeling swept over me like a wave of warm water. I swam in the flood of emotions from past trips. I swallowed the thick, sweet air, and it was intoxicating. Some people might call it nostalgia, but this word is not right. Nostalgia is like two old men sitting in a bar talking about the good old days. I was not reminiscing, for at that moment I was not recalling past events. Instead, I was overwhelmed by the emotions that Crested Butte holds for me. This feeling ebbed, but stayed with me as I drove up to the house that RC had rented. It filled me with joy to see Pat and RC again. Despite the time that had passed since our last rendezvous in Crested Butte, despite the time that had passed since I had last seen Pat and RC, and despite all of the changes that had occurred in our lives, it was like nothing had changed. It was a wonderful feeling to know that some things transcend time and space. We climbed into Big Red and drove into town. The day ended perfectly with food and drinks at the Eldo in downtown Crested Butte, A Sunny Place for Shady People.

Over the next few days, I rode some of the best trails that I've ever ridden, hung out with old friends, and met new people. I spent the entire week wearing either riding clothes or jeans and sandals. It was perfect. This year the group consisted of RC and Pat, Don and Carolyn, Ron and Linda, and Dean and Bonnie. This was the first time that I had seen Ron and Linda since my second trip to Crested Butte in 1995, and it was the first time that I met Dean.

The trails in Crested Butte cannot be described in words, they must be experienced. The best ride of the trip was on the first day, Trail 401. I don't remember much of Trail 401 from the first year that I visited Crested Butte. I remember a steep hike-a-bike section from Schofield Pass, I remember being exhausted, and I remember some gnarly single track near the bottom. The next year an avalanche/mudslide blocked Gothic Road, and we could not reach Schofield Pass. This year we met a couple from Austin, Texas, Brain and Cindy. After some debate, Brian and I rode up Trail 401 from Schofield Pass while everyone else went back down Gothic Road. The steep hike-a-bike section had been rerouted, and although we stopped quite often, it was very rideable. This time I remember much more: thousands of brilliant wildflowers, incredible vistas, and smooth, sweeping single track.

During the next two days I rode Upper-Upper Loop, and Kebler Pass to the Dyke Trail. The Dyke Trail was new to me, and a trail that I won't soon forget. RC warned me about this trail. He told me that it was technical, and that it would take me to the other side of Kebler Pass. I would have to climb back over Kebler Pass to get to Crested Butte. I had to try it for myself. I couldn't miss a chance to ride a new piece of single track after driving 1,000 miles to Crested Butte, and then riding up Kebler Pass Road to Lake Irwin. Besides, the single track was only six miles. I set off by myself to see what the trail was all about. My endeavor started ominously. I headed down the trail, and was enjoying the scenery as I crossed a high alpine meadow. The silence was shattered by the crash of thunder. My heart raced as I thought about being on a metal bike in the middle of a meadow during an electrical storm. I kept my fingers crossed until I followed the trail into the forest. For a long time after, the trail swooped through the trees, and dipped in and out of dry creek crossings. For some reason, I felt out of place in this forest. Like an unwelcome visitor. Maybe I was still unnerved by the thunder, or the thought of being alone on a trail that is 15 miles from town, and more than 1,000 miles from home. Eventually I passed a couple hiking, suffered through a nasty hike-a-bike climb about half way through the single track, and finally dropped down to Horse Park. Then the worst part of the ride started. I began the climb up to Kebler Pass. The climb up to this side of the pass was much steeper than the climb from the Crested Butte side. There was no one around to share my pain. I tried every trick imaginable to keep my body moving up that road. I guzzled energy gel, spun in my granny gear, sang songs, picked up roadside garbage, and eventually started encouraging myself out loud. Finally, I reached Kebler Pass, took a picture at the sign, and descended into town. I rewarded myself with lunch at Pitas In Paradise. A restaurant that did not exist the last time I was in Crested Butte. Gyros never tasted so good. The Dyke Trail is actually very nice piece of single track It would be best experienced by driving a car up to Horse Park and beginning the ride by climbing to Lake Irwin. That would shorten the ride considerably, and get the worst climb out of the way at the beginning.

On my last day of riding, Dean, Don Greywood, and I rode Teocali Ridge. We had a hard time choosing between Teocali Ridge Trail and Strand Hill, but we finally choose Strand Hill. We started off down Brush Creek, but when we got to the cutoff for Strand Hill we kept going and finally ended up at the Teocali Ridge Trail. Teocali Ridge was different. The climb was the same, but the downhill had a different character than I recall. I remember the downhill as an epic, fast, smooth downhill that left you wanting for more. This time the downhill was very rough, and very technical. I was actually relieved when the downhill was over, because it was so much work!

After that, I had time for one last dinner in Crested Butte. We ate an excellent meal at Bachanale, a restaurant that did not exist the last time I was here. The next day I began my journey home. I traveled along Interstate 80 instead of Highway 50. The drive along Interstate 80 was very boring as compared to Highway 50. There was much less to see, and the towns along the way seemed dirty and seemy. I spent one night in Elko or Winnemuca, or some other forgettable town that appears to exist only to provide a place for road weary travelers to "crash" before they really crash. Needless to say, I was happy to be home after two days of driving, and a week away from my family.

Crested Butte has changed, but it is still the same. There are more houses on the east side of town. Skyland is now a country club with multi-million dollar homes. Restaurants have come and gone. It is much harder to find mountain bike shirts, there are a lot more non-mountain biking visitors. But some important things are still the same. The rides are still incredible, being there is still like being in a postcard, it is still a great place to nurture friendships over a pint of ale, and it is still a place best experienced by sharing with good friends.