The Wuanita loop in Saguache (“Saw–watch”) County, Colorado was my third bikepack, but my first without the handholding provided by a 2021 “Bikepacking 101 Course” offered by Rim Tours in Moab, or a 2024 Buffalo Creek trek offered by Bikepacking Roots Community Rides. I was an adult now and it was time, at 55, to be booted from the nest of helping hands.
So I corralled two pals for a three-day, two-night loop whose start was a short drive from my home in Salida. Anne, Stacy and I set off from Sargents, a bend in the road with a gas station, general store and cafe that would supply the visions of dancing cheeseburgers and beers on our last day. It would also cost six-damned-dollars for a bag of cool ranch Doritos (large, but still…).
My bike, freighted with tent, bag, pad, clothes, stove, food, water, etc. etc. etc. moved like a ponderous sloth, weaving back and forth across county road 888 while I strained to maintain forward motion. And I’d packed light! (Sidebar: on the aforementioned Bikepacking 101 trip, I’d arrived sure that I was set with my equipment. “I’m outdoorsy. I’ve got this” I said to me. The guide/instructor nixed my tent, bag and stove in short order. His face tried but could not hide the thoughts therein: “Did you bring an anvil too? Perhaps an old Singer in case something rips??” He replaced my loathsome and inadequate tent and sleeping bag with brand new Big Agnes swag and told me to share a stove with someone vs. carting that fire ring and cord of wood around for five days.
Meanwhile, back in Colorado, Anne mentioned that her friend would join us, and that friend had a treehouse just outside of Pitkin where we could spend our first night. My mind went to a low lit forest full of Ewoks and mist, hammocks slung between the ancient (sentient?) trees, where you’d be gently swung to sleep by a small furry creature named something unpronounceable that means ‘love muffin’ in Ewok. Did this break the rules of bikepacking? Isn’t it supposed to be hard and gritty? Well, if this didn’t, the top-shelf margarita and plate of joyous french fries at the beautifully restored and gastronomically delightful Pitkin Hotel probably did.
Properly rewarded for our 29 mile ride and 3,333’ climb, we set out in search of this mythical treehouse. With a bit of time to think, I remembered that in Lake Tahoe, 6,500 square foot mansions listing for $12 million plus are referred to as “cabins.” It also occurred to me that “treehouse” could be two sheets of plywood haphazardly threaded between branches with some slats nailed to the trunk for access. Which would we find?
Up a canyon roughly four miles out of town, sat the cutest dang treehouse you’ve ever seen. Ever. Gnarled wood, charm, form, function. 120 square feet of just-right. The others opted to pitch their tents outside so I got rocked to sleep up the curving staircase by Love Muffin.
The treehouse owner–Ticia–joined us the next morning and took us to visit her llamas. All 21 of them. They saw us coming with small blue bags of llama treats and began hurrying to the gate to greet us. A llama in a hurry is hilarity on four feet. They ambled and goobered their way toward us, crowded around and politely plucked pellets from our palms, their soft muzzles dainty in their hoovering.
“They are pack llamas and folks rent them for hauling gear, hunting, and for events” said Ticia, who bought Fossil Ridge Pack Llamas a few years back. “This one goes to parties and carries the beer cooler” she said, scratching a tall white feller behind the ears. A roving llama bar. My world is complete.
This is Tippy. Llama orthodontia was not a thing where he grew up. Tippy wants you to know that he is a-okay with the way he looks and that he is really good at things like hoovering pellets, carrying beer, existing as a modified ruminant and turning grass into fuel. Can you do that? No. You cannot.
We left our newfound furry friends and set off for Wuanita Pass where we’d camp that night, just up the way from Wuanita Hot Springs where this bikepack-turned treehouse/llama-glamp would find us the next day.
***
“There’s a llama pellet stuck in my lighter” Ticia reported, staring intently into the bowels of her Bic as she struggled to light her stove that evening. A hazard of the occupation, one supposes. Other hazards include being spat upon, though she says she’s never been intentionally targeted. She has, however, been “caught in the crossfire.” Yum.
We camped in a meadow containing some mysterious poop that we hoped did not belong to bears, and we hemmed and hawed regarding whether to hang the food or just be lazy and hope for the best. Reason won and we got a much needed refresher on knots, rope throwing and bear alarm deployment.
Our camp was at the bottom of the fast, fun, spectacularly beautiful Wuanita Trail so we went for an extra credit, unloaded loop–an additional 12 miles and another 1,500’ of climbing–but unladen by gear, the bikes felt like fancy ballerinas, nimble and lithe.
With Pitkin at 9,229’ elevation, much of this area had just emerged from its winter snow blanket and the spring melt was in full swing. Tiny, eager wildflowers were beginning to emerge, and stream crossings were cold, clear and deep, the aspen leaves an eternal spectrum of green, and a step off the trail for a photo released the smell of sage. A late afternoon thunderstorm combined with the smell of sage feels elementally West, the rustic barns and cows completing the tableau.
A stop at Wuanita Hot Springs on our last day was not complete without a long visit with Pepper, an ancient, diminutive donkey gracing the middle of the road in front of the establishment.
“Pepper does as Pepper pleases” noted the hot springs owner as he commuted the several hundred yards between home and office. Forgetting my manners, I inquired regarding her age.
“We think around 37?” Wow. That’s a lot of donkey years. Go Pepper!
The hot springs were a salve on aching muscles and bums, the only downside being that we’d need to step out of our swimsuits and back into sweaty, stinky, grimy, three-day hard-ridden shorts and jerseys and climb back over Black Sage Pass before falling headfirst into cheeseburgers and beer at Tomichi Creek Cafe.
All told the three days of riding totalled 82 miles and 8,102 feet of climbing. The act of packing for even a two night excursion is an exercise in whittling down, down, down. Every little last thing you add is more weight, more space. It’s taxing. And illuminating. It reminds me of the quote about writing often misattributed to Mark Twain (as so much is…) but actually penned by Blaise Pascal–“If I had more time, I would have written a shorter letter.”
Parsing, adding, discarding. This is bikepacking (and writing). Extra shorts? Nope. Fresh jersey? Nope. Moisturizer? My hands get so dry… Negatory. The feeling of having just what you truly need and nothing more, combined with the physical exertion of four mountain passes–at elevation–and the gobsmack beauty of Colorado in late spring brought on a euphoria that has persisted in the ensuing weeks back at my desk, back to “real” life.
I was delighted the very next weekend to do a quick one night car camp + ride in Crested Butte. I thought I’d be thrilled at the relative ease–neat things like ice, camp chair, real pillow–just hurl it all into the car. And it was great. But I felt…ponderous. Weighed down. A freighter vs. a sailboat. Guess my hands are gonna be dry.
