I’ve never met a mountain bike map that wasn’t worth more as kindling than finding my way, a tough confession from someone who minored in Geography in college.
Then again, it’s probably karma biting me in the ass for the epic battles I waged with my cartography professor on the importance of attending class, when I argued working part-time for a newspaper was more beneficial to me than his boring lectures.
Whatever the case, I headed off for Glorietta Mesa to ride a couple of trails from our spot at a somewhat natural RV park just outside Santa Fe called Rancho Santa Fe.
It’s not like a full-fledged state park, but not just an asphalt parking lot, either. A pleasant mix, with a pool that’s chilly, yet inviting, for my daughters.
The ride seemed simple enough: Left on Old Las Vegas Highway, right on County Road 51 and follow it up to the trailhead. That’s what the handwritten map I got at the front desk showed.
Yeah, OK, so I’m not talking about USGS Topo Map. I’m talking about a map drawn, no doubt, by someone at the RV park. Although not to scale, it did have some mileage listed.
So I got that going for me.
The ride began with more than four miles of steady descent before hitting Old Las Vegas Highway, so I noted that I get to look forward to that climb to finish the ride home.
It wasn’t long before a long climb began, first through a small neighborhood of houses, then breaking free into the wide open New Mexico countryside.
In retrospect upon nearing the top of the climb, I assumed the trailhead I searched for was back a ways where there was a gravel parking lot and a car parked just in front of a fence with a big old “NO TRESPASSING” hand-painted sign posted on it.
I respect signs, maybe a little too much. Maybe the landowners changed their minds and no one at the RV park was alerted. I don’t know. Undaunted, I continued up a massive climb, on and on.
After 10 minutes of climbing, I finally I hit a crossroads and made the decision to head seven miles farther toward Ojo de la Vaca — Ghosttown — since I no doubt missed my trailhead.
The map had a faint single line heading out to Ojo de la Vaca that, well, it just trailed off like the map maker fell asleep during a another lame lecture, so who knows?
The beautiful landscape of New Mexico swept me into a fantasy world, especially up near Santa Fe. I could ride here all day long.
They had plenty of rain that winter, so the wild flowers bloomed in rather significant force — one magnificent view after another, wide fields of yellow flowers waving up to the olive green of sagebrush with splashes of red sand between.
As I rolled toward the Ghosttown my perspective got re-calibrated, as the vastness of New Mexico overwhelmed me.
So many subtle details that escaped my radar when I was younger return, triumphantly. My memories transported me back to my teens, rolling around the farm fields of Wisconsin.
Old homesteads, now nothing more than stone frames, reminded me of the spirit of the West that lured us out the first time and have ignited our moves from California to Colorado and eventually to Oregon.
We live by that same notion that you go for it, make your life what you want it to be. If it doesn’t work out here, move on. Try again.
I coasted down the red dirt road and something caught my eye. I slowed as a rattlesnake, about four feet long, slithered across the gravel, into the brush. I paused for some video. The snake paused, too, and puffed out, in attempt to look much bigger than it really is.
I got caught up in my own National Geographic moment. Something stirred. Inside. Deep inside.
I thought about countless miles over the years, as a younger man, just hammering through the mountains and valleys. Miles zipping past in a blur, savoring the physical rush while ignoring the obvious all around me.
I might be more than a pinch slower these days. But I still can get lost with the best of them. It’s just now I find other ways to soak in the experience than just fill my headband with sweat.
Time to ride.
