Canyonlands National Park, Utah — The real mountain bikers, those with ropy leg muscles and well-worn bike saddles, careened down the Jeep Trail, past the red rocks and purple pinnacles, toward the White Rim Trail below. In minutes, they sliced through the sandstone layer cake of reds, chocolate browns, curry yellows and greens that took 15 million years for time and water to carve into a labyrinth of colored canyons, buttes and arches.
It's easy to see why Edward Abbey called the canyon lands around Moab, Utah, "the most beautiful place on Earth." Every twist in the trail unveiled attention-grabbing colors and formations that demand a long stare. But in those first miles, my focus was trained on something more immediate: the steep, rocky trail beneath my tires.
"Right for rear brake and left for front." That was my mantra as I tried to maintain control on the mining road that begins at 5,920 feet near the Island in the Sky Visitor Center and corkscrews downward 2,400 feet to the Colorado River.
Two bends ahead, my partner, Ken, waited patiently. Both of us are occasional cyclists, and the double- suspension bicycles we rented for this trip seemed as sensitive as racehorses. The rest of our group, all hard-core bikers, had sped far ahead, except for Chris and Karen, who pedaled back uphill to offer friendly advice. "Too much front brake and you'll go over the handlebars, too much rear and the back wheel will skid out from under you," Chris coached, gliding beside me in effortless control. "And don't clutch your handlebars too tightly -- it makes the ride bumpier."
This was the beginning of our five-day mountain-bike trip early last May on the White Rim Trail in Canyonlands National Park, a 100-mile loop through a wilderness of rock. The White Rim is to mountain bikers what the Grand Canyon is to river rafters: a self- propelled journey into what the National Park Service calls the heart of "wild America."
Over the millenniums, Utah was flooded by seas, cut by rivers and buried by mud and sand. But today only the sedimentary strata in the canyon lands are left to reveal this past.
The "white rim" is a sandstone bench about 1,200 feet below the top of the plateau, tracing the shoreline of an ancient ocean.
The former white-sand beach was squeezed into rock, then uplifted by tectonic shifts over geologic time. The white layer gleams in contrast to those above and below.
It became our path, the thread that guided us through this immense backcountry, looping between the Colorado and Green rivers that meet here, mixing their silt-laden waters and carving the Colorado Plateau into a mesa called the Island in the Sky.
Outfitters out of Moab lead guided trips on this world-class trail, a circular route that can be ridden in either direction.
Our group was made up of White Rim veterans who, just like the professional outfitters, had a pair of four-wheel-drive support vehicles that carried all the gear of a comfortable safari camp, leaving us to ride mercifully unencumbered.
The park service limits each group to 15 people and grants permits -- key to a true wilderness experience -- for each of the minimalist campsites.
Some days we ran across only a few other souls, usually those navigating the White Rim Trail from the opposite direction. Other days we encountered members of only our group. Sharing such big country with so few people is inspiring, even meditative. An experience of desert solitaire.
A downhill blur
Even at my timid pace, the steep descent into Canyonlands National Park went by in a blur. Before I knew it, the switchbacks opened up into rolling hills. I began to pedal leisurely and to believe the brochures that tout the trail as of "intermediate difficulty."
By late afternoon we rolled into a flat area, called Airport campground for a makeshift airstrip that has been since swallowed by desert sands. Only 18 miles from the trailhead, it is a world away -- a sweeping barren plateau with pipe-organ-shaped buttes and La Sal Mountains ringing the horizon.
Nothing marked the site but a sign and a well-designed composting outhouse that was surprisingly pleasant. In no time we had a comfortable camp fine-tuned by our seasoned group. Our trucks carried portable tables, chairs, gas stoves, lights, tents -- even black plastic solar showers to wash off the day's dust -- and, most important, 5 gallons of water per person.
Then there were the coffin-sized coolers like professional rafters use, filled with icy beer and imaginative foods, thanks to Christine, a chef, caterer and an avid fan of cycling, a passion shared with her husband. Taking turns cooking, members of the first team made a feast of Thai-style curry with basmati rice. By nightfall we could barely stay awake and eagerly crawled in our tent, falling into a deep sleep in the moon shadows of buttes.
