Unconventional Suicides and Motorcycle Mayhem

 Every year I meet some Crested Butte friends for a weekend of big rides. These are guys I rode with in the 90's when I lived out there. One friend, Chris is the voice of reason, he's sensible and realistic, and he had a legitimate concern about the weather.

I was really looking forward to a weekend in the mountains so I waited to hear what my other friend Kevin thought.

So I loaded up my van and headed west, the drive started with a strange omen when I followed a guy on a motorcycle down the diagonal. 

He popped into a very confident wheelie and then rode it for a solid minute and a half while I filmed him. I kept driving, the domestic clutter of the front range fell away behind me and I knew I was nearing my destination when the aptly named Mt. Massive came into view.

Despite my driving while taking photos, I made it to the crest of Monarch pass. There I noticed a police car and a sparkly orange Harley parked facing the wrong way. As I got closer I could see sparkly orange pieces on the ground and one whole side of the Harley was not sparkly. Maybe they were driving and taking pictures. I made it to the campsite where I got to experience one of the lightening storms Chris had mentioned. Then those guys arrived along with a super fun kid named Avery Kaiser.

I need to call my friend Sam Adams and tell him he's no longer the only beer themed friend I have. Avery is twenty-five going into his third year in CB and hasn't been mountain biking for very long. His attitude and enthusiasm made him a great addition to the team. He's basically the same age we were when we found CB. This was his longest bike trip and we got to show him how we do it. 

Saturday morning we started grinding up county road 888 through the old mining town of White Pine. Decaying mine buildings and hardware lay scattered around the valley alongside the cabins of current land owners. As we got farther up the road the land owners became more odd.

Then we reached the original cemetery full of miners and minors. One headstone stood among the trees describing the hard life for these tough mountain folk.

We read the inscription with the cause of death Killed By Explosion. Avery said, "whoa." I said, "What a way to go." Chris said, "Can you even imagine?" Kevin said, "That's how my brother died."😳😳😳

He then told us when he was 16 his older brother Shane got dumped by his girlfriend. Shane was so distraught he set six sticks of dynamite at his feet and lit the fuses. The biggest piece that could be recovered was some jawbone with enough teeth to make a positive identification.  We all pondered the fragility of life as we continued our climb past the treeline.

The deal was, we would reach tree line and assess the storm danger. The sky seemed pretty friendly so we continued upward. The top was a barren skree field, a freezing wind blew constantly. Hardy grouse and pika stirred among the rocks unconcerned by our trespassing. I snapped a quick pic.

We could hear the rumble of two-stroke motos approaching from the opposite direction, but they never met us at the top. We started going down and then we found them. A grizzled old moto rider sat astride his beast on the side of the trail and greeted us with a kind grin. "We got a bit of a log jam going on here," he explained. With his subtle Texas twang and patient demeanor I understood that he was the type of man who would describe the scene as a 'log jam' and not use terms like, 'a shit show' or 'monkeys fucking a football.'

Below us was the crux move of the trail. A cliff face met a steep skree field and the trail came right through the choke point. Six riders in full moto gear lined the trail while one attempted to take his shot. The actual challenge was a series of rock steps a few feet tall. On a mountain bike we might just put our foot down once or worst case pick our bike up over a rock, but with a two-hundred pound quivering moto it was a different story. 

The old guy casually told us how on his last trip he had seen someone fall to the bottom and they needed search and rescue to bring them out. He described having to ride the damaged bike out with twisted bars and a bent frame. He gave the impression that calling in search and rescue was all part of riding motos.

With a loud, Brap brap braaaaap a rider made it through and we cheered for him.

The old guy said, "you boys might as well go on down we'll be here a while."

So we started to cautiously approach the choke point walking our bikes along the high side of the trail. Right at that moment another rider went for it. He quickly got hung up on a rock, fell off his bike and started tumbling down the skree field curled up in a ball.😳😳😳😳

The technique of 'tuck and roll' is helpful in many situations, but not when you're at the top of a mountain. Luckily the rider self arrested after about forty feet of tumbling. His bike was tipped over leaking gas and I helped another rider lift it up. His friends went down to help him and we used the opportunity to sneak past them and begin our descent.

Despite being a little torn up by moto's the ride down was pure bliss. I was in the flow and riding like a golden god. I dropped thousands of feet with my hands off the brakes, levitating over obstacles. The weather held out as we dropped into the aspen forest, stopping only for a few quick breaks.

    The trail is called Canyon Creek trail and eventually it dropped us right back at the Snowblind campsite. Another Crested Butte friend came out to join us and we spent the night eating and drinking stuff.

The next morning we loaded all the bikes on my van, broke camp and shuttled to the top of Monarch Pass. The shuttle service was dropping off a bunch of riders. Other riders, and hikers made the parking lot feel pretty busy, but every one was friendly and happy to be on the trail. A large group of riders dropped off into Fooses drainage while the rest continued down the Crest and Rainbow trails.

    No other mountain bikers followed us to Agate. On Trail forks it wasn't even identified as a bike trail. The top was loose and rocky, but then it started to flow. Heavy rains had left it a little greasy and the splatter was flying.

Then we got to the creek crossings and the bikes started self cleaning. The previous night the guys had mentioned that a memorial service had recently been held in the Butte for a town local who had passed away in April. My friends had heard that the man had chosen to end his life by driving off a cliff on highway 50. We were riding directly under highway 50 and as we rounded a corner on the trail, we found his truck.😳

Personal effects lay scattered around the wreck and the engine was flung off by itself. The police report says his accident is under investigation as "an intentional act." We pondered the fragility of life as we did a dozen more stream crossings and passed all the other vehicles that had tragically ended up on the banks of Agate Creek.

The ride ended with dirt speckled faces and single track grins. I drove back to the front range recharged and happy. Mountain biking has given me the opportunity to keep long time friendships and make new ones along the way. Always keep climbing. And ride Agate if you ever get the chance.