My head swirling from the mystical spell that Zion National Park casts upon its visitors, I yearn for an enchanting journey outside the park, where I could roll off on my bike and get lost in the beauty of the high plateau and desert.
Everyone I ask about bike trails and rides defers me to the local bike shop — even the guy who rents bikes just outside the Park. He made my quest sound almost Harry Potter-like.
“Oh, I don’t keep that information here,” he says, “you must go into town. On the right, you’ll see a building that almost looks like a church. Back in there is a bike shop. He’ll be able to tell you where to go.”
The bike shop embraces this magical aura, indeed off the back alley beneath a tall spire. Inside, I inform the owner that, whether or not he’s aware, he’s the keeper of this sacred information.
He gives me good, detailed directions to Gooseberry Mesa and while I try my best to keep track, what gets my utmost attention is mention of Cry Baby Hill.
Less than an hour later, I stand at the base of what I believe must be Cry Baby Hill. Only one thing dominates my thoughts: If this isn’t Cry Baby Hill, but only a prelude, I’ll be wailing like a newborn shortly.
From the base I look up its grade that must be at-least-25-and-to-infinity-and-beyond. This is a dirt 4X4 road, deeply rutted with gravel, rocks, boulders and whatnot from the winter wash.
A quick glance at what vegetation survives in this inhospitable environment — in this case, scrub brush no taller than 10 feet or so — and I learn that the sun is near its zenith because shade is nothing more than a few inches skirting the base of the bush.
After two stops when I hit anaerobic thresholds with my head thumping like a bass in the backseat of a cruiser in Chula Vista, I wonder just why this is so horribly difficult, dismissing the impact of triple-digit temps and a bit of altitude.
I hit the last stretch again, hard, and a little worried that the excessive heat must be altering my balance. My rear tire seems to slip to and fro as it searches for some traction.
Just about then reality hits. Flat. A flat tire. I’ve been struggling up a mountain with a rear tire slowly heading south. I decide not to stop 50 yards short of the summit to change a tire because that would mean finding a way to get back up that last 50 brutally demanding yards later.
When I hit the top, it’s time for a pit stop. I change the tire in short order, and take out my CO2 cartridge. I hook it up and? It spits out a little shot that sounds like a mocking, Pssfftt! As in, are you serious?
I begin to dig through the small pack that hangs under my saddle as though it were Mary Poppins’ carpet bag. I can find no more CO2 cartridges. I KNOW I packed extra. No way I could be out in the middle of nowhere, with it more than 100 degrees and I have no air for my tire.
No way.
Please, no way in this hell.
As I videotaped the view down to the base of Cry Baby Hill a few minutes earlier, I saw a bright red Jeep Wrangler begin bouncing its way up toward me. I figure there’s hope on the way.
I keep searching my bag with an eye on the hill, awaiting possible rescue before I break down and, you know, sniff, sniff, sniff …
Instead of my sparkling Jeep, a banged up old van suddenly appears out of nowhere, commandeered by two rather, well, the only way to describe them are two Shrek-ish looking folks.
They pull along side me, stop and politely ask if I need anything. My mind wanders. I can imagine simply saying to them, no, I’m fine. To which, of course, the driver would respond, well, no, you look like you need some salt. The passenger would laugh, yeah, and maybe a little ketchup.
Before I let my mind fly off the deep end, I ask if they have a tire pump. No, they shrug, but they have cold water. Another scenario flashes into my mind as I envision exactly how extreme my condition could be before I decide to drink something from two folks who look like Billy Crystal’s Miracle Max and Carol Kane’s Valerie in “Princess Bride.”
See, it’s like this. Any time I see folks with heads larger than a beach ball, I go on red alert. Then again, I suppose, that’s just me.
No thanks, I say, I have water. That’s true. When the bike shop dude made one final suggestion: Make sure you have plenty of water! I stopped at a gas station and added two 24-ounce Gatorades to my stash of a water bottle and fully loaded Camelbak.
The gravel crunches loudly beneath their tires, as if to accentuate the weight of their vehicle, as they ride off. I resume my search for some cartridges with renewed vigor. No way. This can’t be happening. I know it’s in there. Somewhere. Where the heck is that Jeep, anyways?
Just before the Jeep makes its appearance, I dig one final time, and somehow find the tattered box with two CO2 cartridges. This whole bag is the size of a large coconut. So hiding two breakfast sausages in a coconut should be impossible. Stranger things have happened — ah, they just rode off in their van …
The pristine Jeep rolls up on cue, like it just rolled off the showroom floor, not rattled through the dusty desert. The tinted window rolls down, and a perfectly coiffed older couple — imagine a present-day version of Thurston Howell III and his wife Lovie — in their Sunday-go-to-meetin’ clothes, ask if I need anything.
My immediate thought is that, in the world of temptresses, this couple has to be the complete opposite of the first couple. I say, No, thanks, I think I’m fine. Moments later, when I mis-load the cartridge and nothing comes out, I have a moment of panic. I right the ship eventually, fill my tire and my trek continues on.
I finally settle in to enjoy the serenity of the desert, only to have my peace jarred time and again with the bizarro couple in the van popping up here and there along the way, stopping on the side of the road for one reason or another.
I ride all the way up Gooseberry Mesa and see the great views of the high desert that stretch seemingly forever. Then turn to head back.
I’m fascinated with desert riding because you continually put liquids into your body that you would deem too hot to drink as soup on a cold winter day.
When I hit the descent of Cry Baby Hill, I realize even more so its outrageous proportions. Coming down is an exercise in brake control for the technically challenged like me. The whole way. My hands cramp and my arms throb from the bone-rattling descent at a hair-raising 2 mph that appears to take longer than the ascent.
I stop at the bike shop on the way home to reload on CO2 cartridges, deciding that I would never again be caught anywhere with less than 2 in the bag, least I find myself on a skewer roasting over a campfire with two mouth-watering ogres sprinkling salt on my flank.
That’s when the owner informs me that Cry Baby is basically an ascent of 600 feet in a mile. 800 feet over 1.5 miles. All while it’s like climbing up the wall of a rock quarry.
My fertile mind, delirious from four hours in the sapping heat wants to retort, “And if the climb don’t kill ya, the ogres will!”
Instead I smile and take my leave.
Time to ride.
