Thanksgiving Snow Biking

I took my mountain bike up North over the holiday to do some snow biking. The roads were a mess and there's not really a close trail, so I thought my in-laws' cabin might be the best option. I drove out there on Thanksgiving morning, bundled up and set off down the access road from their cabin. The access road had been plowed out thanks to Uncle Red and didn't pose much of a challenge. The riding was practically as easy as riding on pavement.

When I saw the cutoff for Potts Lake, I decided to take it since it hadn't been plowed and I thought it might be a bit more work. That was quite an understatement. The snow was deep, and when the tire tracks ended, I found it hard to keep riding. There aren't really too many hills, but any slight incline was close to impossible for me to ride up. I definitely need more practice.

My reward for reaching the lake was this view, but I was already dreading the uphill I'd have to ride to get out of there.

On the way back to the access road, I tried to stay in my tracks to make it easier, but I kept getting off track. I swear I don't know how Alaska Jill can spend hours and hours at a time riding snow-covered trails, because it's hard. She's definitely a lot tougher than I am.

As long as I kept my momentum, I did okay, but if I slowed down too much or stopped, it seemed close to impossible to get moving again. When I got back out the access road, I decided to ride out to the road rather than heading back to the cabin. Though I had gotten in quite a workout, I hadn't been out for very long, so I thought I'd do a little more easy riding.

Luckily, I wasn't trespassing, because I didn't have enough energy left to dodge bullets.

The dirt road was actually in better condition than the road our cabin is on, which is paved.
I did, however, crash on the road just as I was turning into the access road, because my ride wouldn't have been complete without it.

Here are some random photos of the return trip. This one is the entrance to the access road, as evidenced by the sign and gate.

This is the lovely Gilchrist Creek.

The creek crossing that many before me driven their cars off. Luckily, I have never done that, either with my car or my bike.

Back at the cabin. The cabin, by the way, is always referred to as "the creek," as in "we're staying out at the creek this weekend." During my first trip up there several years ago, I was told that it's pronounced like "crick." Though I subsequently tried to pronounce it as "creek," I eventually caved to the pressure. I justify it to myself by pretending it's just a made up name for the cabin and has nothing to do with the actual word "creek." That's the only way I can handle it, because English majors are inherently bothered by mispronounciations.

Later that night, at our club, I felt that I'd been the recipient of a beating, between the hard riding and my crash, but I was strongly discouraged from whining about it.