Men's Journal, October 1997
America's Best Fall Rides
First stop: Vermont
So I had already flown over my handlebars twice, fixed a flat tire
after slamming into a rock, sucked down every drop of water in my
trusty 90-ounce CamelBak, and now my legs were starting to cramp.
Yet there I was with a mud-eating grin, the same adrenaline-induced
expression that had been pasted on my face for the past six hours.
It was day two of Columbus Day weekend, and I was mountain biking
on the outskirts of Waitsfield, Vermont, with a local extreme skier
named John Egan. This was the same John Egan who's seen in many
of Warren Miller's legendary films, flying down the side of an uncharted
mountain or volcano. Indeed, Egan has skied more than 50 virgin
slopes, most recently in Greenland, where he was hired to map and
name the slopes he survived.
I knew that Egan's passion for skiing extended to mountain biking
in summer and fall, and if anyone could show me the secret trails
in Vermont, it was a crazed explorer like him.
"Mountain biking is a lot like extreme skiing," Egan
explained. "You get dumped in the woods, find your own line
through the trees, and somehow make your way out."
Egan was one of a trio of bikers whom friends in Vermont suggested
I contact; the others being Jeff Hale, of East Burke, and Paul Rea,
of Randolph. These three fat wheelers would introduce me to a wide
range of trails: thigh-burning, technical climbs; sweeping smooth
singletracks; and more relaxed farmland doubletracks. Better yet,
I would do my riding at the peak of fall foliage.
The Green Mountain State has always been cherished by a few inveterate
bikers for its incredible network of trails. Yet for decades, this
expansive web was open only to locals who had befriended the farmer
next door. Everyone else was forced to bike at crowded downhill
and cross-country ski centers, like Mount Snow. That has changed
in the past two years, thanks in part to the work of Egan, Hale,
and Rea, who have persuaded farmers and private landowners to open
up hundreds of miles of trails to the public. I'd told these guys
that I didn't want to deal with the crowds, and each of them delivered.
In three days of riding, I didn't pass another biker.
The Mad River Maniac
From the Mad River Bike Shop in Waitsfield, Egan and I climbed
Tucker Hill Road to reach the start of the recently carved Millbrook
Trail. Within moments, I was jumping logs and pedaling through small
streams on this root-studded, rock-littered singletrack. I bounced
from obstruction to obstruction, like a kangaroo with one wobbly
leg, wiping out several times, only to find Egan waiting patiently
for me at the end of the half-hour ride.
"Nice little warm-up, huh?" said the Maniac. "It's
just the tip of the iceberg."
He should know. He's probably skied one.
I followed him up one of the umpteen hills we would climb to reach
the Sugar Trail. This set of rutted doubletracks is part of the
state-long cross-country ski corridor known as the Catamount, a
280-mile route that stretches from Readsboro, in the south, to North
Troy, on the Canadian border. Climbing onto the slopes of Waitsfield's
Sugarbush South, we passed under tall pines and beeches, where the
claw marks of black bears were etched into the bark. At last, we
reached a vista just beyond a small grove of maples. In every direction,
waves of color illuminated the hills, as if we just biked into a
Jackson Pollock painting.
The Soft Passage
The previous day, I'd ridden with Jeff Hale, a seasoned Vermont
trail hound. East Burke is located in the Northeast Kingdom, a large
tract of land wedged between the borders of Canada and New Hampshire.
It's Vermont's most authentically rural region, and it doesn't put
on any airs in order to attract tourists. There are no whitewashed
B&B's, just a few inconspicuous inns and lots of Holsteins.
Hale's golden retriever, Quincy, led the way as we cruised past
century-old barns on a plush carpet of freshly fallen leaves. Soon
we were out in fields, circling the boundaries of a vast farm. Small,
dilapidated sugar shacks seemed lost in the countryside. Several
white-tailed deer sprinted by, giving the dog (and us) a thrill,
before we crossed Darling Ridge Road and entered an area of woods
known as the Darion Ridge.
The trail became a soft forest passageway, dusted with pine needles.
Hale-with the help of John Worth, the owner of East Burke Sports,
and other dedicated locals-handcrafted this path and hundreds of
other gems just like it. Working with the Kingdom Trails Association,
an East Burke biking group, they plan to link more than 150 miles
of singletracks and dirt roads by the end of this month.
We cycled up and down the serpentine route, banking hard around
corners, all within an arm's length of spruces and firs. As we cruised
closer to the east branch of the Passumpsic River, maples and birches
replaced the evergreens, and piles of leaves covered the trail.
This created an interesting dilemma when we suddenly found ourselves
stuck in an unseen mud bog. An excited Quincy ripped a small branch
off a tree and started barking; he thought we'd stopped to play
fetch.
Into the Mud
The final day I rode with Paul Rea, the owner of Randolph's Slab
City Bike Store. No other person has done more to change the course
of mountain biking in Vermont. After opening Slab City in 1994,
Rea founded the White River Valley Trails Association, which connected
more than 350 miles of bike loops on both public and private lands.
Still, Rea wasn't satisfied. He wanted "flatlanders" to
know about his backcountry trails. So he created the New England
Mountain Biking Festival, now entering its third-and biggest-year
(September 26 to 28; call 802-484-5737 for information).
Rea took me on the 12-mile Mud Pond Loop, a perfect Vermont ride
past rows of yellow corn stalks waiting to be reaped and farmland
so fertile you felt like jumping off the bike and digging your hands
into the rich soil. Most of the riding was on grassy doubletracks
and dirt roads, the perfect antidote for my Egan-ambushed body.
From Rea's store, we veered left and then right onto Brigham Hill
Road, climbing high in the hills above Randolph, along a ridge where
we could see the spine of the Greens in the distance. We continued
on doubletracks through a dark forest, finally reaching Mud Pond,
a hidden watering hole where bikers often see deer and moose.
Soon we were on dirt roads again, passing small-town churches and
farmsteads. I took my last deep breaths of crisp Vermont air, a
symphony of scents ranging from the pungent smell of manure to the
sweet smelling maple leaves that crunched under my wheels. Within
hours, I'd be on four wheels, driving to Boston. At least I'd be
leaving with an invigorated body splattered with Vermont's finest
souvenir: mud.
|
