By Bob "Howling at the Full Moon" McCarter
Photos by Bob "Howling at the Full Moon" McCarter
and John "Keeps What Happened" Early
My fellow Warriors, my brothers and sisters of the proud tradition in
which we gather, it was my desire to bring you this day a story of man
victorious against the obstacles of nature and his own human frailties,
a tale of facing down the infirmities that accumulate with the passing
of age, a testimony triumphant of noble deeds accomplished..... but,
alas, this is not the account I bring you today....
The call from Lare Dog came early in the week. He was more than aware of
the coming full moon. The pull of our Earth's mistress, bright in a
night sky, controls him at the deepest level, a quickening of the blood
that demands to be satisfied and can only be fulfilled by basking in the
full glory of that light in the night, that second sun. This is a pull
that runs deep in my DNA as well, so I was all ears and ready to follow
where the Dog led....
His plan was to get our tireless Warrior leader out and away for an
evening, back to the simple joys of frolicking in the nature we all love
so much and have sworn an oath to protect and nurture. Dances With
Hornets, hard working, tireless and Noble leader of our clan, has far
too few opportunities to just ride in the joy for which the Dog Soldier
yearns. A night under the moon and stars, with fellow Travelers in the
pursuit, a trip into play that keeps us all alive and full of joy. For
me to be invited into that circle was an honor that leaves me
humbled.
It was going to be a ride up Holy Jim to Main Divide. We discussed a
probable continuation to the South along the Main Divide. To the top of
Trabuco, where we could check out the trail clearing of the week before.
This has always been a favorite ride of mine, one where the energy I get
back from the trail is always far more than that expended. Under a moon
high in the night sky, this is always a ride that is nothing short of
mystical.
Meeting at the entrance to Trabuco Canyon, I offered that I would drive
us up into the canyon to the Holy Jim parking lot. Upon my return, I
knew it would be great to be able to settle my spent body into a seat as
soon as possible. So, we threw the bikes into the back of my truck and
started the long bumpy ride up Trabuco Canyon.
At the parking lot, Lare pulled out the safety manual for review. It
wasn't long until the lessons contained within the Sacred Manual filled
my mind with a more relaxed and contemplative view of the evening. I'm
slow as it is, but when safety is the main concern, I can become
downright glacial in my movements. Dances with Hornets and the Dog were
getting impatient, so I told them to get underway and I would catch up
presently, as soon as I got my stuff all packed. They headed off into
the gathering twilight of the evening.
I packed, checked and rechecked my pack and, assured I had all I would
need for the evening, struck off. I caught up to them (only because they
were waiting) at the Holy Jim trailhead. The creek was flowing
moderately, from the recent rains of just a few weeks back. The air was
cool, but not chilling. We hopped on our bikes and started churning up
the trail.
As we came to the many water crossings on the trail, I was very
cognizant of the importance of remaining above the water and dry. Wet
can be deadly in the cool of a winter's evening in the wrong locales,
and can certainly become quite uncomfortable even in our relatively
benign So Cal climate. So, keeping dry, even dismounting when necessary,
was foremost in my mind.
But, the magical state of the safety mind can sometimes result in a lack
of proper focus for me. So, on about the 3rd or 4th crossing, following
Dances and Lare, who flowed smoothly through the stream bed, I found
myself losing confidence as I approached the darkened water and, as I
tried to pull up, found my body traveling in a nicely described arc over
the bars of my Fisher and straight into the stream's deepest parts.
Shitshitshit - I jumped up but it was too late! Gloves - soaked; shoes -
soaked; socks - soaked; jersey - maybe not soaked, but wet for sure. Not
20 minutes into the adventure and I've had a horrible lapse in judgement
already. And no replacement clothing with me, wanting to travel light
for the evening. Nothing to do but remove the offending wet clothing,
wring them out, strap them to the pack and continue on, hoping it
doesn't get so cold that hypothermia becomes an issue.
Once again, Dances and Lare waited graciously for the addled old man
with them. I'm sure this wasn't quite what they had envisioned for the
evening, but the gentlemen that they are wouldn't allow them to comment
negatively. Souls old and wise enough to have learned patience, for
sure.
We continued our trek up the trail, Dances in the lead and me bringing
up the rear. It was getting darker now under the towering oaks of the
lower trail. A beautiful carpet of leaves could be heard under our tires
and despite the earlier mishap, the eve's odyssey was turning into a
pleasant outing. We passed the last of the streambed crossings and set
about climbing the many switchbacks of the Holy Jim trail.
The moon was just beginning to rise above the ridge high above and while
the hillsides were starting to glow in that ethereal light, the trail
surface remained crouched in darkness. Travel was uncertain in the dark,
running without lights, unable to see the rocks and obstacles of the
trail. We picked our way along, Dances and Lare took command of the
trail while I started to wrestle with my failing eyesight, and fatigued
legs.
The 800 mg of ibuprofen I had taken earlier worked to keep the twist in
my back at bay, but the muscles of my thighs were not to be so easily
placated, having reached the point of exhaustion 24 hours previous and
containing a build up of lactic acid that would fell a horse. I
struggled to maintain my momentum, being tossed left and right on the
trail from obstacles unseen in the shadows. For much of the trail I was
off the bike, unable to remain in control of my balance upon it. It was
easier, not to mention quicker, to just push the bike up the trail. I
figured that once the moon reached a point in the sky high enough to
illuminate the trail, all would be well.
Lare and Dances kept shouting out 'another switchback' to me, as if in
my weakened state I had no idea where I was. And maybe I didn't. Never
mind that I've been traversing Holy Jim since the days of my youth (back
in the late 19th Century), tonight the trail was not quite the familiar
path I knew from my youth. On I pushed, off the bike, back on, then off
again. Progress, if one could call it that, was slow and labored. All
the while, my comrades waited patiently, eager to charge off into the
night, but reluctant to leave a man behind.
Ultimately, I reached a point where it was obvious that I was not going
to be able to complete the ride planned - I was stopped, off the bike,
leaning over waiting for the blood to clear the acid from my legs
(though it could not tonight) and just knowing I didn't have it in me
tonight. Cursing my age and infirmities, not knowing if it was the pain
in my body that was sapping my will and ability to continue or if it was
the laziness and senility of mind that was preventing me from commanding
obedience from my beleaguered body.
Not wanting to disappoint my brothers, I told them I was going to turn
around and they could continue up, no worries, but Lare wouldn't hear of
it. 'We stick together' he said. I tried to assure them that I could
make it down fine and there was no need for them to cut their ride
short. We argued back and forth about it, but neither side was giving
in. I didn't want to ruin their ride, so I finally just agreed and said
if we're going to ride as three, then we will continue up. I threw my
leg (literally had to throw) back over my bike and forged on, this time
turning on my light so I could at least see the trail, and continued
up.
Lare and Dances were shouting at me to turn around as I rode off, that
they were turning back to accommodate their weakened partner. I wasn't
listening and kept on. Turning the lights on proved to help quite a bit,
as I at least was not expanding what precious little energy I had
fighting to stay upright. With the trail well lit from my light, I found
a renewed, if not expansive, vigor that allowed me to continue up.
I continued for a half or three-quarter mile, all the while Lare and
Dances screaming at me to turn around. I tried to ignore them the best I
could, but couldn't bring myself to just ride on disregarding and
disrespecting them. I turned around and rode back down to the spot where
they had remained. 'Look', I told them, 'if we're riding the three of us
together, then you're going to have to follow me up 'cause that's the
direction I'm heading. Or, I can go down and you two up, but those are
the only choices I'm allowing. So I'm heading back up now.' (As an
aside, my wife thinks I'm a control freak - not so!) I jumped back on my
bike and charged up the hill as fast as my fatigued legs would carry me,
which, with my lights on, turned out to be much quicker than Lare and
Dances with their lights off.
On I rode, without looking back, for 20 minutes or so. I reached a point
above the trees and the moon was out, full and so bright in the sky. I
looked out on the forest, basking in the glow, and stood silently
observing the fullness of the wonder before me. Quietly I listened for
the sounds of the night forest, and for the sound of tires on trail. It
was mostly quiet, so quiet, the occasional rustling of the brush below
as some creature of the forest made its way about, and I heard the
screech of an owl off in the dark distance. But mostly the quiet sound
of my own thoughts, deep in contemplation.
For many minutes I waited for the sound of Lare and Dances making their
way up. Nothing but silence returned to my ears. I was beginning to
think that they had, indeed, turned back, having had enough of my
overbearing demeanor. I was considering my options, push on to Main
Divide or turn back (hey, turning back was my idea to start with!) when
finally the sound of their tires on dirt crept into my consciousness.
They were still traveling slowly in darkness, but within minutes now
they were to me on the trail.
By this time, I had been waiting there for maybe 10 minutes and the
blood in my legs was coagulating into a thick syrup, heavily laced with
lactic acid. At least another 20 -30 minutes from the top, I was not
going to be able to muster up the energy to continue up. Hell, there was
no guarantee I had the energy to make it down. I probably could have
slept on the trail that night, under the moon, if I only had some effing
dry socks! So, tucking my tail between my legs and choking down what was
left of my pride, I turned downhill and started back to the truck,
flanked fore and aft by Dances and the Dog.
What is it about this thing we call mountain biking? No matter how beat
up, bruised, exhausted or tired, there's something about traveling
effortlessly, silently down a trail, rolling along on two wheels that
just brings the karmic reality into focus. I am usually able to find and
enter that space where trail, bike and self all merge and become just
one single entity in the Universe of One. Tonight was no exception.
Moving down the trail, fatigued but focused, blissfully unaware of the
pain and weariness which drove me down to start with, I flowed along
with the other two spirits, who were guiding and protecting me, ensuring
my chance to see another day and ride then.
Back at the truck, spent but happy for the adventure, shortened as it
was by my weaknesses, we off loaded Dances' and Lare's bikes back into
their trucks. Off to dinner at the Rose Canyon diner, where we enjoyed
good beers, good food and good conversation. My friends swore themselves
to secrecy about the evenings trials.
But I could not let it be so. Praise of their magnificent and helpful
spirits must be sung. Such is this tale, one which proudly and loudly
proclaims the generosity and helpful spirit of these two Warriors from
whom such a good example is offered. God smiles broadly on these two,
and I am humbled to count them as friends.
-Bob McCarter
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