Steamboat Springs

It rules! I can't believe I waited so long to go ride there. And since I wrote my current column about it, I'll paste it here with some photos.

____________________________________________________________________ Have you noticed that special sort of optimism that only mountain bikers possess?
It can never be underestimated, no matter how enhanced it may be by visions of sun-dappled trails lined with aspen and air-inducing water bars.
I witnessed the power of this Fat-Tire Thinking over three days in Steamboat Springs last weekend.
Day one was supposed to be an easy ride to warm up the legs, with a two-hour cruise to Long Lake and back.


But you know how it is. At the intersection to Long Lake, we decided instead to create a loop by riding the Lake PercyTrail and connecting it to a singletrack called Pleasant Rabbit. We were clearly deluded by the Alice-in-Wonderland name, as well as a by our map, which wasn’t entirely accurate in its depiction.
We ended up bushwhacking and backtracking, struggling to follow the faintest of trails. It lured us along hillsides, only to coyly disappear right when we got our groove on.
Quite some time passed as we rolled back and forth, eyed the map, pointed at landmarks, and rode some more.
Rob, my friend and guide, had never tried this loop. He began debating the merits of just riding/hiking cross-country until we hit a road we saw on the map.
“Should we be trusting this map?” I asked. It not only showed Pleasant Rabbit as an established singletrack, it idealistically called it a “sylvan lane.” Someone’s been hitting the hookah, I thought.
“Good point,” Rob replied. We stared around in silence. In the distance, we could see cars cruising along U.S. 40, but a huge chunk of land lay between.
Then Rob’s keen eyes spotted a light-colored smear on the hillside below. While I marked our current location, he rolled down the hill and found traces of the abandoned logging road that Pleasant Rabbit had sprung from.
Excitedly we cruised down it, hopping the endless fallen logs, and collapsed at the car six hours after leaving it. The legs were warmed up, all right.
Day two started on the South Fork trail, north of Steamboat. Again, optimism ruled as we ignored the storm clouds building overhead.
The rain hit us at about five miles in, as we huddled under trees at a trailhead. Mutely, we watched soaking wet hikers dash out of the woods and jump into their cars. The rain pulsed on and off, soaking us through.
Shivering, I began to have visions of the famed Strawberry Park Hot Springs. “Mmmmm....hot springs,” I said, hopefully.
Rob wasn’t buying it. “It’ll let up pretty soon,” he said.
Not only was he right, I was never so glad to be talked out of something. After making our way to Diamond Park, the return route along Scotts Run trail unfolded like a Steamboat Springs promotional video.
The sun came blazing out of the clouds, illuminated the drops of water hanging on the aspens, and made me wonder if that’s how Diamond Park got its name. The narrow trail twisted through the trees, and for another day, we didn’t see a single other person. Gotta love it.


Day three was slated for The Epic. We planned a huge, 30-mile jaunt over Buffalo Pass, along the Wyoming Trail, up the Mountain View trail, then down into the ski resort and back to town.
Even through this required an 11-mile slog up a dirt road to Buffalo Pass, Rob and I blithely figured it couldn’t be that bad.
It won’t surprise you to hear that it was only slightly more pleasant than being poked with a sharp stick. It was hot, steep and -- because of me -- slow. We were on target to spend two hours on the dirt road alone. And guess what? More storm clouds were building.
But we really wanted to do the whole ride. So we put our optimism to work again, willing the arrival of a pickup truck headed to the pass. And I kid you not, one showed up. Rob stuck out his thumb, but it passed us by.
Groaning, we bent over the handlebars again. Suddenly, the truck stopped just ahead, and a woman leaned out the passenger window. “Are you serious?” she called.
“Heck yeah!” Rob replied, and we practically sprinted up to the truck. She and her husband, also a mountain biker, welcomed us into the bed, where we gleefully watched the remaining eight miles roll by.
“I’ll be talking about this truck ride all week,” Rob said.
Although we got rained on yet again, the sun was shining by the time we stood atop the ski resort, huge grins on our faces.
I am now a firm believer in mountain-bike optimism: when you want something, you’ll make it happen.
Hmmm.... maybe we should write a self-help book. We could call it “Ride and You Shall Receive.”