This is the second installment of our supported mountain bike tour of Canyonlands National Park in Utah.  Please pardon the pre digital camera photos.

After the warm van, the breeze was chilling as we suited up for the first leg of the ride.  We rode a mostly downhill two-track through juniper and piñon pine to a more sheltered spot where Pablo and Jane invited us to explore a side road while they prepared lunch.  Mike was reluctant to put much distance between us and the chuck wagon despite the tantalizing views that revealed themselves around each bend of the road, so we turned back after only a mile or two.  To his credit, he did follow me down the trail while the others remained near the truck, torturing themselves with the sight and smells of food preparation.  

Lunch was laid out on a table made of the side boards of the truck with removable legs attached. The salad of the day was taco salad made with avocados, tomatoes, onions, cilantro, and corn all tossed with a generous sprinkling of cumin and a wonderfully exotic dressing.  The salad was accompanied by fresh spinach, sprouts, cold cuts, sliced cucumbers, onions, sliced cheese and a variety of breads.  We fell upon it like starving refugees.  No one gave a thought to the fifteen mile ride ahead of us as we ate ourselves into a stupor.  While Jane and Pablo cleaned up, we lounged under the piñon pines digesting the meal. I collected some piñon nuts to enjoy later even though I felt like I wouldn't’t be hungry again for days.

 Soon we were underway again with Jane riding with us and Pablo following in the truck.  Jane advised the more eager riders who wanted to forge ahead, to wait at any intersections lest we get separated.  She was clearly able to keep up with the fastest riders but spent time riding with each of us allowing us to get acquainted with her. The trail rolled through intermittent sand and slick rock with just enough climbing to remind me that I had made a glutton of myself at lunch. 

At last we reached the eagerly anticipated Flint Trail.  Our first hint of the degree of difficulty this trail presented was when Jane instructed us to proceed to the bottom of the canyon with caution and then wait for her to catch up.  She needed to stay with Pablo and the truck to help him navigate the switchbacks, some of which required some complicated maneuvering.  The trail dropped steeply off the rim of the canyon like a roller coaster but with no long ascents to diminish our speed.  Steep, loose, and perched on the side of the cliff, the trail plummeted, turning our full suspension bikes into rodeo broncos.  Even Mike, our state champion downhill rider, was forced to keep his speed in check to keep from going air borne at an inopportune time.  I proceeded with caution, acutely aware of how disastrous an injury could be at this stage of the tour.  Despite caution, Becky took a tumble in a sandy, off-camber section but was unhurt.  Jim, without embarrassment, got off and walked.  Even on foot, he outpaced Pablo in the truck.  Before we reached the bottom, we stopped to watch the progress of the truck with its bed and over-cab rack loaded to capacity, lurching and bumping along at a snail’s pace along the ledge.  We had blind faith in Pablo’s ability to get our supplies down the cliff at that point.  Later, however, we were less confident when he confided that the frame of the very truck he was driving had been broken twice before on previous trips.  We didn’t dare ask if it had been on this trail.

Camp for the first night was nestled in the juniper and piñon pines at a designated camp near the top of the Golden Stairs.  There were several secluded tent sites within calling distance of the truck.  Camp sites are strictly regulated by the National Park Service to preserve the “wilderness” experience in Canyonlands.  Reservations are required for the few designated sites and permits are required for back country camping.   A couple of guys pulled into our camp area just after dusk.  Pablo went over to find out why they were there when the site was reserved for our use.  They apologized for intruding and explained that they had back country permits but had encountered unforeseen difficulties in getting to this point.  Considering the hair-raising time we had had getting to this site, we were immediately sympathetic.  They asked if they could possibly share our site because they were too exhausted to hike to a remote camp site at night.  Paul and Jane graciously invited them to stay and join us for dinner.  They politely declined the dinner invitation which I suspect they may have regretted when they smelled the fresh grilled salmon we had for dinner that night. Accompanying the salmon was pasta tossed with some type of pesto and crumbled cheese; a tossed green salad with (among other wonderful things) dried cranberries; and topped off with fresh fruit dipped in chocolate fondue.

An evening stroll to the point of a narrow sandstone peninsula tantalized us with a dramatic overlook of the basin we would be descending into the next day. 

I was going through some old discs the other day and found a collection of travel journals.  I had such fun reliving the journeys I thought I'd start posting them in serial form.  They probably won't be of much interest, except to the people who shared the adventure with me, so be forewarned.  This one was a supported mountain bike tour out of Moab, Utah.  Moab is arguably the mountain bike capital of the world, home of the famous Slick Rock Trail. 

The man you marry will know the way he likes his eggs.  And chances are he'll be fussy about them.  So it behooves a good wife to know how to make an egg behave in six basic ways.  And here they are, with helpful hints.

So begins the chapter on cooking eggs in my tattered 1973 edition of Betty Crocker's Cookbook.  Ladies, oops I mean women, does this take you back? 

Now I'm not saying that American women are so different than they were in 1973, nor are their responsibilities in the household greatly changed.  As a matter of fact, I read recently that despite the fact that the majority of women hold down full time jobs, they still bear the burden of about 98% of the domestic chores.  Women do the shopping, the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry, and the child care. 

Even though cookbooks no longer appeal to a woman's desire to be a "good wife", advertisers still target women when marketing cleaning products and cooking shortcuts, which indicates they know their market. 

So what happened to our liberation?  At the risk of sounding like a Randy Newman song, we're free to be put in an unrewarding desk job, we're free to support our children on our own, but we are never freed of our biological need to make a nest and nurture. 

I don't really have a leg to stand on here since I never had kids, but I watched my sister raise her three without help from their father so I know whereof I speak.  I have women friends who, even though they have husbands, still are the only parent in the house. 

So where am I going with this?  I don't know, I just cracked up when I read that paragraph while I was making deviled eggs (which is the only food I can think of that I dislike) for my husband who was sitting in front of the TV yukking it up. 

When one thinks about finding that perfect mate, one generally assumes that one's soul mate should have similar personalities.  For instance, if you were to list the qualities you would look for, you might list the things that you like best about yourself, or the things you imagine to be your good qualities.

If you're fairly easy going, you probably think that your spouse should be affable as well.  And if you're a bibliophile, you might look for a partner who shares your passion for good books too.  But I've come to realize that what we actually find most attractive in another may be the opposite, or complimenting qualities.

What made me think of this was this:  I was reading and Mike was in the music room being absolutely silent.  After a while I went to see what he was doing that was so engrossing.  He was sitting in his chair deep in thought. 

Today he had discovered a flaw in the side of his latest guitar that was more than skin deep.  To most of us, it would be easily dismissed as it doesn't impact the sound quality, it's playability, or it's beauty; but to him it is an unacceptable imperfection.  It's a place where the figured walnut left a visible variation in the surface that isn't completely glossed over by the lacquer.  So, in his usual fashion, he put his brain to work to devise a technique to repair it.  Sometimes it takes days for him to work out a viable solution.  It disrupts his sleep because he can't stop working at it in his mind.  I have no doubt that he will find a way to make it perfect.  He always does.

I love that about him even though it often drives me crazy.  I love it because I'm a lazy brain.  I don't worry about small things, in fact, I don't even notice them.  The fact that he does ponder every little thing frees me to be as free of worry as a grasshopper.

We each have our strengths and talents and they mesh together like a cog set.  I cook; he eats.  He builds things; I keep them clean.  I ride my bike; he keeps it in perfect mechanical order.  He is volatile; I'm calm.  He despises humanity; I embrace it.  Somehow we temper each other and sometimes even bring out the best in each other.  Do we argue?  You bet'cha.  Does he drive me completely nuts?  Frequently.  Does he bore me?  NEVER!

 Getting a jump on the spring growth, Sally, Tim and I assaulted the lower section of the Morton Peak single track, which is actually a part of the Santa Ana River Trail.  It had not been our intent to trim bush but I had packed a small pruning tool to ward off the worst offenders.  It wasn't long before we encountered a waitabit bush that was more than a little insistent.  I trimmed some smaller branches until Sally called Tim back with his manly man hands to wrestle with the thicker ones.

We alternately pedaled and hiked up the steep, rocky trail until we came upon a small live oak tree that had fallen across the trail blocking all passage.  Tim assessed the situation and decided he might be able to shove the entire tree down the hill.  He scrambled nimbly up the soft bank, more cliff than hill, until he reached the stump end.  He managed to get it to slide down onto the trail where it dug its severed limbs in and held its ground.  He wedged himself against the hillside and braced his feet against the trunk and managed to shove it over the edge of the trail far enough that the trail was passable.

Here Sally poses as if she contributed to the effort.

Sally and I marveled at his youthful energy and his masculine strength.  Earlier we had been pushing our bikes up a hill, too steep to ride, and Sally suggested that Tim take his bike to the top and come back down to get ours, as we were really struggling.  He did it with good humor.

Except for one washed out switchback, the trail was in remarkably good shape.  Evidently, we are not the only ones contributing to the maintenance of this popular trail.

We paused at the first (or last if you're riding the trail in the downhill direction) view point for a snack and some vitamin D and then headed back down the way we had come. 

Every time I ride this trail I get butterflies in my stomach thinking about it.  Its perilously steep drop offs, narrow rocky track, sharp turns, and prolific tick population all conspire to instill a certain amount of trepidation in even the competent mountain biker.  Today was no exception.  As I donned my protective leg and arm guards, I felt that familiar sense of foreboding. 

My mind darted back to one of the worst wrecks I've ever had, on this very trail.  I was at the back of the pack, being the only sheila on the ride, and trying valiantly to keep the guys in sight.  The trail dropped steeply from its narrow perch on the side of the mountain onto the top of a broad saddle and then rose again to climb the next hill.  More or less a straight shot, with no drop off penalty, I saw it as an opportunity to make up some time and released the brakes.  In an instant I was accelerating as if shot from a cannon.  A rut opened up on the two inches of trail I had intended to use and in a split second I opted for the high side of the rut which offered a bit more trail than the other. 

When riding an off camber trail it's important to stay off the brakes because your tires will lose traction and slip into the rut you're trying to avoid.  Knowing this immutable law of physics, I resisted the urge to attempt to control my speed at this juncture.  At a most inopportune time, the rut (that was now a small ravine), meandered back across the trail, forcing me to take to the brush studded side of the trail. 

The human mind is amazing in its ability to calculate risk and take decisive action.  Experience had taught me that I had one chance of surviving this and it did not entail the use of brakes.  Still gaining momentum, the bike between my legs was now bucking and threatening to take to the air as it hurtled through the undergrowth over hidden rocks, small shrubs and alas, invisible ruts. 

Of course, you already know the outcome.  I didn't pull that one chance out of the bag.  I remember thinking, "Shit! I'm going too fast to wreck!" but sadly that was not true. 

I lay in the grass, many feet away from the steed that had betrayed me, trying to get breath back into my lungs.  Once I could breath normally, I noticed that it was an uncomfortable thing to do.  Several minutes passed while I gathered my senses and limped back up the hill to where my innocent looking mount lay serenely atop a small manzanita.  It stood passively as I straddled it's crooked saddle and righted the cocked handlebars. 

For a fleeting moment I hoped that one of the guys would have noticed my absence and would come back up to help me, but logic told me what a vain hope that was.  When it comes right down to it, in mountain biking, we're all in this alone. 

So, with this memory in mind, I flung leg over mount and let her rip.  The fun thing about downhill is that the moment you make that first turn, you know you are the master of the universe.  Eyes searching for that perfect line as far ahead as the trail is visible, you and the bike fly as one.  Each phrase of the trail sings smoothly under your tires as momentum carries you effortlessly into perfectly carved turns.  Gone are all of the doubts and fears that tie you to the earth.  This is the one thing you know you can do beautifully, brilliantly, totally in the moment.  

Bev and I shared a birthday sandwich today, my birthday was last month and hers is coming up on the 24th (or was on the 24th of Jan. I don't quite remember).  Where did we enjoy this birthday sandwich, you ask?

Why, at the rock overlooking the headwaters of the south fork of the Santa Ana River, of course.  We parked on Jenks Lake Road and walked a short way on the Family Unification Camp road before striking out cross country.  Bev had bought several pairs of snow shoes and was eager to share them and I was happy to join her for a hike.

We were surprised at how quickly we reached the headwaters trail, remembering how long it had seemed the last time we rode our bikes up this way.  It's probably not more than a mile, but it's steep on a bike. 

For a while we followed the footsteps of some hapless hiker who had plunged knee deep, and more in some places, until he evidently turned back.  From there on we were in a trackless wonderland of our very own.  Since neither of us have any back country snow experience to speak of, we reviewed what we should do in case of avalanche; try to stay on top of the sliding snow and use your arms to create an air pocket around your face and chest if you get swept under.  In the areas that looked precarious we kept sufficient distance between us so that one of us would be out of harm's way to rescue the other. 

Then we reviewed bear or mountain lion encounter procedures:  Whip out the camera and start shooting; if he's going for your friend, shout profanities and keep shooting, if he's coming for you, toss your sandwich down the hill and keep shooting.  Here's a picture of Bev, shouting profanities but still shooting.  It was a hungry walk home for me because when she started shouting, I tossed my sandwich down the hill assuming a bear was after me.

Of course, we didn't see any bears, or any other wildlife, for that matter, because we were laughing and jabbering pretty much non stop.

I liked this stump next to a beautiful little manzanita so we took turns posing on it.

The trail went from barely discernable to completely invisible just past the big rock where we stopped for the Birthday sandwiches. 

I already had some serious hot spots on my feet so we decided to head back.  Going back was far easier, of course, as we had already broken a trail through the deep powder and it was downhill.  On the south facing slopes the snow was getting mushy on our return and we had to scramble to keep from sliding down the hill into the creek. 

We made it back to the car still grinning from ear to ear, pleased with our intrepidness.  We coined that word just for the occasion. 

As some of you know I have an outdoor shower.  It was built for use while our only bathroom was under renovation and we enjoyed it so much that we never dismantled it. 

The new shower is lovely to look at but is very high maintenance as it has to be completely dried after each use to keep the glass crystal clear.

In spite of the unusually cold winter we've been having, Mike made his way out to the back yard shower today...

He said it wasn't bad once you got in.  I think I'll go to the gym to shower.

This is for Guy, Bev, and Sally, my intrepid cycling pals and fodder for my moving making projects.

Guy assisted with the filming on this one, risking life and limb to get to the perfect vantage point from which to shoot.  The clarity of his clips isn't quite what we had hoped for but, considering the tumble he took, it's probably no blurrier than his vision was. 

I got one of those all too common emails today that purports to alert you to some malfeasance on the part of our elected officials.  This one was about how Obama wants to give social security benefits to illegal aliens.  They wanted you to add your name to the petition and bcc it to all of your friends.  The one thousandth signer was instructed to forward it to the White House.

The last seven people, in the chain that ended up in my inbox, had neglected to use the blind copy feature not only, but they had not stripped the previous sender's email recipients either.  Ha!  What a gold mine of unsuspecting people.  I decided to conduct an experiment.

First I clicked "Reply to All" letting them know that Snopes.com had deemed the information in the email was false and I included the link.  Then I sent an email to the first sender of record. 

So far, I've had one response from the first email.  The gentleman said "I probably get at least one of these emails each week and forward some of them without bothering to check snopes. One of the positive aspects of this is, assuming you send them to reasonably intelligent people, that it stimulates people to think about significant issues and become much more informed than they were before. More progress comes from differences of opinion than ever comes from agreement."

That seemed like quite an assumption considering none of the last seven senders had bothered to read the forwarding instructions, much less investigate the story.  But the intelligence of the original sender was clearly confirmed by her response: 

"Don't tell me what to think or do.  Do not respond to this message."    I guess I've been told!  Considering the snotty tone of my email, I suppose it was well deserved.

-----Original Message-----
From: Judy RutRider <judyrutrider@>
To: mrsdaley@
Sent: Thu, Feb 4, 2010 8:18 pm
Subject: Fwd: False Social Security information!

Dear Mrs. Daley:

I received this email, it having been forwarded seven times by people who took your word for it that it was the truth.  Might I suggest that you check your facts and then issue a retraction to all of the people to whom you forwarded it, so that they, in turn, can let their contacts know the truth?  The following link will take you to the true story about the origins of this email:  www.snopes.com/politics/immigration/petition.asp

If it was your intention to spread misinformation, please excuse this email.

Sincerely,

Judy Tanner

Lassie's got nothin' on Grace, I tell you.

Mike, Grace and I ran our loop out to the wash and back through the orange groves today.  I stopped to answer the call of nature and Mike continued to run leaving me to finish my business.  Grace ran on ahead with Mike. 

It took me a couple of minutes and they got completely out of sight and earshot.  After a few minutes Grace came racing back to me with Mike not far behind.  Mike said that they had gotten a couple of hundred yards down the path when Grace ran up behind him and lightly jumped against the back of his legs with both front feet, then she stopped and looked at him.  As soon as he turned around, she started trotting back down the trail, turning to make sure he was following.  It was clear that she was alerting him to the fact that the pack wasn't together.

I continually marvel at how easily she learns new tricks and how well she follows commands.  It took only one lesson for her to understand how to run along next to my bicycle on the leash without getting too close or pulling on the leash.  Today we learned how to heel off the leash and she stayed right by my side even when she was approached by a Welsh Corgi who was running loose. 

I suppose everyone who spends time with a dog thinks their dog is the smartest but Grace really has a wonderful combination of intelligence and an eagerness to comply.