Death Valley Road

With a name like Death Valley Road, you might expect today's ride would be exceptionally grueling. This would be my final ride with the group, and after the past week's riding it would take more than a name to intimidate me.

In the first edition of the Complete Guide to Climbing (By Bike) in California, John Summerson ranked this as merely the 64th most difficult climb in California. In his top 100, he also ranks some crazy-steep Bay Area climbs as easier than this one. Climbs that I lack the guts (and the gearing) to attempt. [Go figure.]

The day would only get hotter. Ready ahead of most of the group, I got an earlier start; they would catch me before long, anyway. The sun had no mercy. My self-generated breeze wasn't enough to compensate for my self-generated heat as I pedaled upward through the desert. I was certain that the air was perfectly still, but whenever I paused a weak breeze would tease me.

I haven't spent much time in the desert. Maybe, like me, you imagine a landscape of drifting sands and cactus—not rocky brown acres dotted with low brush. Cactus plants were less common than flowering plants. I only caught a glimpse of the mysterious little critters that set off cascades of dirt and rocks as they scampered away as I made my way up the hill.

At the higher elevations, my wish for a breeze was granted, in the form of a headwind. [Sigh.] From the first turn onto this road, it had been evident that there would be no shade. None, whatsoever, save for a brief respite where the road cut through a massive rock formation ... and a single roadside tree at the summit. Having reached that point alone, I continued a short distance to be sure the road climbed no higher. The terrain on the east side changed immediately, with trees suggesting a seasonal creek might flow nearby.

I turned back before long. Descending into Death Valley was never part of the plan. The Owens River Valley was a welcome sight.

For the day, about 3.681 feet of climbing over 34 miles. The rest of the group will travel farther south to continue their cycling adventure and I will travel west, just as the Bay Area's heat wave breaks. I paid my dues here.

Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest

Over the years, some riders have found today's route to be the most difficult in our Eastern Sierras series. Not Onion Valley. Not Horseshoe Meadows. White Mountain Road, all the way to the Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest.

In his Complete Guide to Climbing (By Bike) books, John Summerson ranked this as the third most difficult climb in California, and 11th in the United States. He cautions: “This is a long and tough climb so make sure you are prepared.” Heed those words.

Our ride leaders told us we'd find water a little past mile eight at Sweetwater Springs; they also kindly left some gallons for us around the halfway point. Nonetheless, it seemed prudent to carry a third bottle; I stashed a frozen one in a cinch sack for the occasion. A little extra water, a little extra cooling.

As I climbed higher and higher, I thought of the folks who rode the White Mountain Double on Saturday. We were tracing part of their route; this was the first climb of their 200-mile day—and the only climb of our 48-mile day.

Before turning onto White Mountain Road, we continued along California State Route 168 to the summit at Westgard Pass. Unlike the White Mountain Double riders, we made a u-turn there instead of descending into Nevada.

As my two riding companions lingered at our water stop, I began my solo ascent along White Mountain Road. How would I fare on this hot, challenging, high-elevation climb?

Consistent with the theme for this trip: I kept expecting it to get horrible—and it didn't. Sure, it was hot. Sure, it was a long climb. I paused at the 10,000-foot marker for a photo; evidently there is enough oxygen up there to keep me going. By the end of the day, I would climb 6,400 feet over 49 miles.

I marveled at the ancient trees, thousands of years old. The key to their survival is the low level of nutrients available in the soil— which is high in calcium magnesium carbonate, White Mountain's dolomite. This seems paradoxical, but perhaps it's analogous to animal research suggesting that caloric restriction is beneficial for longevity? A ranger pointed out one tree that went crazy producing cones this year; they are most curious about what's ahead, now that it has expended so much energy on those cones. To provide some perspective on their growth rate, he drew my attention to a small, bushy specimen, no more than 10 inches high. “That one is 20 years old,” he explained.

Wishing I had more time to explore the Methuselah Grove, I was the last rider to depart. Despite a few photo stops along the way, I caught up to three members of our group a few miles from the bottom. Taking the lead, I heard a trailing rider shout left turn—the rider on my wheel was inclined to turn right. She followed me on the next turn, approaching the park where we started, but then continued straight. And disappeared.

Therein lies a tale.

Tyee Lakes

Our group has continued to shrink, with some people returning to the Bay Area already. We expect some reinforcements, though.

Today was another rest day, which most cyclists took literally. [Imagine that?] To some of us, this meant: Let's go for a hike! In fact, let's hike to a lake that's 10,000 feet above sea level!

I tagged along with two of the guys. One would go too far, the other would be too fast. Me? I was Goldilocks, seeking a pace and a distance that was ... just right.

We returned to South Lake Road, this time by motorized vehicle, to explore another fragment of the vast John Muir Wilderness. The posted Wilderness Use Restrictions prohibited, among other activities:

Entering or using the wilderness with more than 25 head of stock.

So noted.

I ambled along in comfortable solitude, savoring the views below Table Mountain. Granite boulders the size of whales. Lodgepole pines rooted in rock. Trembling aspens with golden leaves. Bare, craggy peaks and distant ridges.

I hiked only to the first lake in the chain; despite the promise of greater beauty at the upper lakes, I needed to conserve energy for tomorrow's challenging ride. Perched on a rock along the shore, I enjoyed my own private picnic. This lake was beautiful enough.

Mother Nature had her own plan. Huge clouds rolled over the peaks and darkened the sky. What is this unfamiliar wet substance falling from above? Raindrops dotted the dirt and stained the rocks. Before the cloudburst passed, I sheltered under some large branches to avoid a thorough drenching. It was a rare treat, this rainfall.

I timed my return well, arriving back at the trailhead five minutes ahead of our trio's agreed rendezvous.

4.4 miles and more than 1,000 feet of climbing: Just right.

Glacier Lodge

There is no lodge at the end of Glacier Lodge Road; sadly, it burned some time ago. There isn't much glacier left, either—or at least, not much that's visible.

Some riders chose to skip this climb; not one of their favorites, they said. Scary descent, they said. In his Complete Guide to Climbing (By Bike) books, John Summerson ranked this as the 15th most difficult climb in California, and 38th in the United States. He notes that it is “almost identical in length and average grade to the mighty Tour de France climb of the Tourmalet,” and cautions that “it is an extremely fast descent in places so watch the drop off into the creek.”

What was I getting myself into?

Glacier Lodge was a long, exposed, and challenging climb. Some clouds had rolled in, and I was grateful for the looming shadows they cast. The breeze picked up, but morphed into crosswinds on the descent.

My ride partner and I met a few others at the top, where we enjoyed an impromptu picnic next to a small pond stocked with trout for fishing.

Mindful of the wind and the warnings, I descended with abundant caution. One gust was strong enough to move me and force me to adjust my balance.

On a descent like this—especially on a descent like this—don't hug the rightmost edge of the pavement. Whenever there were no vehicles in sight (which was most of the time), I took the lane. That is, I rode smack in the middle of the right lane—often edging close to the center line. A lane wide enough for a truck is plenty wide enough for a skinny little bicycle.

It was a short-ride day (22 miles, with a stout 3,655 feet of climbing) and a not-so-scary descent after all.

Lakes, South and Sabrina

Decisions, decisions. The full route for today's ride sounded pretty daunting, with the first climb a slow uphill grind through the desert on a state highway with little or no shoulder (and some blind curves). We would visit two lakes today, South Lake and Lake Sabrina, and the group was buzzing about the steep approach to South Lake.

Hot day. Steep finish. High altitude.

Riding straight from the hotel had a certain appeal, but I fretted about completing the ride. This group of riders is a class above; if they think this is a difficult ride, for me it might be a climb too far. In his Complete Guide to Climbing (By Bike) books, John Summerson listed South Lake as the 8th most difficult climb in California, and 21st in the United States (13th and 32nd for Lake Sabrina). The cover of the first edition to his Complete Guide to Climbing (by bike) in California features a photo taken on the climb to Lake Sabrina.

Maybe I should ride from the hotel to Lake Sabrina, skipping South Lake. After poring over the map online [thank you, Google Streetview], I embraced the wisdom of the crowd. Most people planned to drive to an intermediate point, skipping the long climb through the desert in favor of the upper climbs.

When I stepped out of the car at Aspendell (elevation 8,400 feet), I felt a little woozy. [Uh oh.] I decided to start the ride and turn back if I felt unsteady. I often start to feel the effects of altitude at an elevation of 8,000 feet, so this was no surprise.

My regular ride buddy, having done these rides before, had moved on to tackle some mountains farther south. I was delighted to pair up with another rider who was content to match my pace—and who shared my weakness for photo ops.

We paced ourselves up the long climb to South Lake, dreading the long steep pitch we expected at the end. It was so quiet that I was startled by a loud whoosh whoosh when a pair of ravens swooped alongside us, checking us out.

The road pitched up a bit ... and then, there we were! A recurring theme of this trip is “I kept expecting it to get horrible, and it didn't.” [Not that I'm complaining.] I felt triumphant as I circled the parking lot at the top; another rider commented that I looked fresh. [Pacing. It's all about the pacing.]

We headed back down and turned onto the (easier) climb up to Lake Sabrina, which rewarded us with a clear view of the old Cardinal Gold Mine along the way; today, the only gold we saw was in the changing colors of the aspen leaves.

Mountain berry pie à la mode was my reward for 3,110 feet of climbing over 23 miles.

Back at the hotel, I found a cyclist pulling a beautiful bicycle out of his somewhat rare 12-cylinder BMW. He was not part of our group; he was in town for the weekend's big event, the White Mountain Double. And because he was using this as a training ride for the Everest Challenge, he was hoping to make it a double double: Ride the 200-mile course twice (Saturday and Sunday).

Crazy. I will never attempt a double century, much less back-to-back double centuries; not tomorrow, and definitely not when I'm ... 72 years old. Crazy.

Nonetheless, we are sampling our way through the Everest Challenge. One climb at a time.

Ruby Lake

What do cyclists do on a rest day?

Hike!

We piled into a couple of SUVs to carpool to the end of Rock Creek Road to explore what we missed yesterday. And, of course, to climb even higher.

Our visit to this corner of the John Muir Wilderness began at the Little Lakes Valley trailhead, reportedly the highest trailhead in the Sierra. Along the way, we passed a local woman who has been hiking up there for 90 years (beginning when she was four years old). Yes, you read that right: We met a 94-year old woman hiking, alone, at an elevation above 10,000 feet. [I hope that's me, someday.]

I was lagging behind (as usual) when another local hiker approached. His eyes grew wide when I described our previous two days of biking. “You're a cardiovascular animal!” he exclaimed.

There were two options for today's hike: Most of us chose the shorter route to Ruby Lake, but a few indomitable souls more than doubled the distance to reach Mono Pass. From the lake shore, they were soon bright specks on the rocky slope towering above us. We counted down to hoot and holler in unison to draw their attention, and impressed ourselves with the echoing clamor we unleashed.

An unexpected pleasure of this trip is getting to know my fellow cyclists. One of my regular ride buddies is here, but most of the other riders are new friends. My club rides are limited to weekends, and many of the folks on this trip are retired and ride on weekdays. Conversation is easier when hiking than biking, although the altitude (over 11,000 feet) and elevation gain (more than 800 feet) had me huffing and puffing a bit.

I have been admiring the deep blue sky on this trip, and picked up a new fact from one of our fellow hikers who has visited much higher altitudes: The higher you go, the darker it gets. [Of course.] Learn something new—every day.

Hiking back down, I was especially grateful for my Leki hiking pole. The flat-top handle is like having your own personal handrail, wherever you want one. Being something of a klutz, it has saved my bacon more than once over the years.

Our last stop was another spot we were denied yesterday: Pie in the Sky. I earned that, right? Yesterday, if not today. Boysenberry ... mmm.

Paradise

I have seen more Caltrans trucks in two days in the Eastern Sierras than I've seen all year in the Bay Area. Everywhere, roadwork.

We learned that the upper portion of Rock Creek Road had been pulverized in preparation for re-paving, which disappointed some and delighted others. I fell into the first group, having never climbed it. The second group included many who had.

In his Complete Guide to Climbing (By Bike) books, John Summerson listed Rock Creek as the 10th most difficult climb in California, and 26th in the United States. The climb tops out at an elevation of 10,220 feet, the end of the highest paved road in California. I would not find out today whether I could turn the pedals at that altitude, and the road work may not be completed by this time next year, either.

Lower Rock Creek Road passes through Paradise, which (as one might expect) is not a crowded place. Population: 120. Reaching Upper Rock Creek Road entails a short trip on U.S. Route 395. Three of us (the stragglers) reached the highway ... and paused. That stretch of road was being re-paved; all vehicles were being funneled into the rightmost lane, which was barely wide enough for the tractor-trailers lumbering through and which had no shoulder whatsoever. [Yikes.]

Luckily, a worker was nearby and directed us to ride in the closure: smack down the middle of the highway! Queens (and King) of the Road, we were.

There was some uncertainty about how far we could venture on Upper Rock Creek. The pavement might end six miles up the road, or at 1.6 miles. Heavy equipment was tearing into the right lane of a bridge over the creek. A flagman waved us through, and a descending rider told us we could go up four miles before the pavement ended. [Yay!] Later we would be the envy of the rest of our group: everyone else had turned back at this bridge, discouraged by the flagman and a long line of cars.

Shortchanged by Upper Rock Creek, we headed northwest for a consolation climb along McGee Creek. Returning riders cautioned that it was steep: 12-14% grade. “You'll need your low gears,” they advised. Not to worry; my lowest gears get a lot of action.

We felt intimidated, but we did not turn back. The grade felt more like 9%, and my stats later confirmed my hunch: 8.8%. My heart rate spiked at one point, so there definitely was a steeper segment (for a distance of about 20 yards). We were rewarded with views of Crowley Lake and celebrated with treats at the local bakery; then we realized that we faced more climbing in retracing the morning's route. Remember that long, sweeping descent on Lower Rock Creek? [Uh-oh.]

We were astonished to enjoy the wide shoulder of U.S. 395 on our return—road markings were fully painted, and the workers were collecting the safety cones and temporary markers. All in the same day! In the Bay Area, temporary markers can be in place for weeks before the lanes are striped.

Being the few who completed the full route, and being slow, we were the last to roll back to the start. And proud, we were: 51 miles, 6,005 feet of climbing.

Pine Creek

Wow. Wow, wow, wow.

I had not spent time in the Eastern Sierras before this trip. Some club members have been leading rides here each fall for the past few years, and this was the year I managed to join the group. The hotel clerk had commented “You folks like to suffer!” when the leader shared our plans.

Pine Creek Road was our first climb in the Bishop area. In the first editions of his Complete Guide to Climbing (By Bike) books, John Summerson listed Pine Creek as the 49th most difficult climb in California, and 81st in the United States. (In the second edition of the national guide, it has fallen off the top 100 list.) I tackled it with some trepidation, but did not find it difficult (despite the altitude, and the heat). The scenery was even more stunning than I had hoped. The slower I climbed, the more I could take in.

We marveled at the robust flow of Pine Creek (given our extended drought), and wondered about the source. In a rocky, brown landscape studded with sagebrush, it was easy to trace the water's path: just follow the green line (trees, bushes, grasses). At higher elevations, I even saw some ferns!

The public road ended at a gate to a (closed) tungsten mine; our highest point, about 7,250 feet. Starting my descent, a cautionary sign caught my eye: Trucks Use Low Gears. Translation: Cyclists Use High Gears. My highest was maxed out; I surrendered to gravity and coasted. The pavement was smooth and clear, with long straight stretches—a glorious descent!

Back on the valley floor, we followed the route across the highway into a small gorge, passing through some gates to follow an access road alongside the Owens River and Pleasant Valley Reservoir. We marveled at the exposed pink walls of the gorge—Bishop tuff, pumice formed by a massive volcanic eruption some 760,000 years ago.

For the day, 48 miles with some 3,770 feet of climbing, and no suffering at all. Really.