The First Bike Ride of Spring

It’s been warm for ages now. It’s not Spring yet, we know that – and there will be plenty more cold days to come before winter lets go but right now, for day after glorious day, it’s been sunny and mild. Willows are turning red, green shoots are appearing and the geese are choosing mates. Not only that, but it isn’t turning cold on Friday afternoon and warming back up on Monday morning like usual, this warm spell is something special. The stars are in alignment and magic is in the air. It’s time to bring out my bicycle.

My friend Raven and I have cycled together before, and while she’s in seriously better shape than me, she’s equally rusty when it comes to two-wheeling so we make good partners. I was at her house in Buffalo Creek only a few minutes late, as the sun was just appearing above the canyon walls. With his back seats folded down, Angus the 4Runner makes a good bike rack and in no time, both steeds were bungee-corded to the roll bar and we were on our way.

The North Fork of the South Platte River winds its way from South Park through Bailey to Buffalo Creek and beyond before dropping into Waterton Canyon where a series of reservoirs provide water for the thirsty lawns of Denver. Once upon a time the Denver and South Park Railway ran on a narrow gauge track where the road now lies, transporting ice from the lakes which were once near my house, to the dairy, which was once near my office. Buffalo Creek Post Office has been owned by the Green family for generations and the story goes that in his dotage, the patriarch, old John Green would walk outside with his stopwatch to await the arrival of the train; even though the trains stopped running long before John Green did.

The South Platte Hotel hasn’t seen business for many a year, probably not since the railroad was torn up and today it’s a semi-derelict shack with plywood windows and holes in the roof. A sign informs us that this is now the property of the Denver Water Board and that they’re considering a renovation project. Nothing is stored inside, so please resist the urge to try and enter. We resisted the urge, entranced as we were with the beauty of this spot where the North and South Forks of the South Platte converge in a grove of cottonwoods. They weren’t too imaginative when it came to naming rivers in these parts but perhaps the early explorers were like us, simply captivated by the scenery.

Soaring cliffs towered above us, while the river, green-white with ice melt tumbled along below. Pine trees stretched to the porcelain blue sky while the occasional cotton wool cloud appeared, just to make the whole vista too perfect to be believable. What did we do to be so lucky?

Angus was soon tucked under a tree and we were rolling our way down a smooth dirt track deep into the ravine. Sadly, we didn’t get too far before the trail disappeared under a layer of thick, blue ice reaching out onto the water. It wasn’t until I was home and reviewing a map that I saw that this was as far as it went; the real trailhead was some distance away, and didn’t rejoin the river for several miles. Maybe we’ll try that one another day. For now though, we didn’t care; it was worth a short ride just to experience the exquisite magnificence of this canyon. I haven’t made it to Alaska yet, but Raven tells me that when I get there, I’ll find it to be a lot like this.

We were still only a dozen or so miles from Raven’s house, so leaving Angus where he was, we set off back up the banks of the river, following the gentle grade as it meandered towards home. Other than a handful of climbers, hikers anglers, and of course, cyclists, few people come down this way and the small number of houses we passed had an air of charming neglect, relaxing little by little with each passing year as the earth gradually reclaims them.

On through the metropolis of Foxton; half a dozen cabins with the old railway station, its log walls sagging and derelict. Raven is a veteran of 3 wild fires and too many flash floods to count so she knew all the people who’d had to be rescued, or who had lost part of their property. She also had names for each of the rock formations so even though I’d driven this way many times; I was seeing the landscape through her eyes, as if seeing it for the first time.

As we rounded a bend, an eagle flapped his way up from the riverbed. A juvenile, but still unrealistically big, his wings flashing brown, white and gold in the sunlight as he headed into the trees. Coming level we saw his breakfast, a dead goat, lying against a river rock, held fast by the current. Its belly slit open, entrails red in the sunshine. In a nearby tree sat a large black crow, waiting his turn to feast. Mother Nature’s recycling program working as designed.

For reasons best known to themselves, the county has spent some time re-grading the road in stretches but it was smoother in the parts they’d left untouched. Still, the deeper gravel gave our legs a bit more of a workout than the gentle slope would have done. Still not too taxing, this is the first run of the year after all, but enough to feel as if we were getting some exercise. Even so, twelve miles go by fast when you’re surrounded by scenery such as this and we were happy to take things slowly.

But, all good things must come to end and too soon Buffalo Creek hove into view. The church parking lot was empty now, the parishioners home for their lunch and the weekend’s chores. They’d spent Sunday morning at their place of worship; we’d spent it in ours. Back to the house and cool water from the fridge, and a sit on the front deck listening to the breeze in the forest and the creek babbling below.

No, the ride wasn’t long enough, and yes, snow is forecast for next weekend. And we may have to rely on the memories of today to last us through weeks of office-bound servitude. But we had our first bike ride of the season, and if any of our future ones are as good as this, 2006 will be a very good year.