Our journey began in a flurry of barely-contained madness, which is normal for me. In the span of a weekend, I had moved out of my apartment, packed for our bike trip, and finished three lingering work assignments. I ran around the house, shoving things into boxes. By Sunday the car was packed, and we peeled out of the driveway in the direction of Mexico.
We ran a few errands south of the border, then headed back north towards our bikepacking route. It was March — normally a great time to bikepack in southern Arizona — but unfortunately, our trip coincided with a massive heat wave. The meteorologist called it a heat dome and said we’d be trapped inside it for at least a week while temperatures soared to 100 degrees. Our current route would take us through open fields and desert, with little or no shade.
Instead, we pulled over at a river to eat lunch and contemplate our fate. Finally, we decided on a Plan B: Instead of staying in southern Arizona, we’d drive to Globe, east of Phoenix, and explore some dirt roads at a higher elevation. That area had more trees and would probably be a lot cooler. If we kept driving, we’d be there in just a few hours.
Arriving after dark, we turned onto a steep, winding forest road. At the top we found a beautiful, rustic campsite. We set up the tent in a grove of pines, snuggled into our sleeping bags, and fell asleep to the sound of wind slipping through the trees. As I drifted off, it occurred to me that I needed more weekend bikepacking trips like this. It had been too long since I’d slept in the comfort of the forest. The sound of wind in the pines felt like food for my soul.
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In the morning, we indulged in a long coffee chat from our sleeping bags. As the sun rose, the tent grew warmer, and finally we got up and packed our gear. Most of it was mine — stuffed in a heap in the back of the car — so there was a lot to divvy up and figure out. We also had to choose our route.
Climbing a rough Arizona doubletrack
Laura Killingbeck
On the way to Globe, I’d marked potential multi-day tours on Ride with GPS and Gaia GPS. The roads I’d chosen looked like gravel, but there was no way to know their condition. The real problem was water. Gaia GPS showed a bunch of springs, but who knew if they were accessible or even running?
I am a safety-first kind of person, but I still like adventure. So I proposed that we would “manage the risk” of not finding water by carrying a gallon apiece, refilling at every spring, and then only riding far enough that we could always return to the last known water source. It was only a two- or three-day trip, depending on which roads we took. Nick agreed because he likes to live on the edge.
By 11 AM, the bikes were packed, the route plotted, and we stood next to each other for a happy photo. That’s when I heard the hissing sound. I bent down and felt a stream of air shooting out of Nick’s tubeless tire.
“RIDE, RIDE, RIDE,” I screamed.
Nick jumped on his bike, did a few manic laps in the parking lot, and soon the hole closed itself with sealant and dirt. I got on my bike and followed him out to the road. Our journey had officially begun.
After about half a mile, we reached an overlook, where we stopped to catch our breath. Behind us, the road descended into shady pine forest. Before us, it wound along the edge of the mountain and disappeared into desert. Not as hot as it would have been on our previous route, but still, it did feel like a heat dome.
We sailed down a beautiful mountain pass and quickly came to our first major turn. Up to that point, the road had been smooth-packed gravel. Here, it became rougher. The trees were also gone, replaced with earth and desert scrub. We pedaled on.
After about an hour, we arrived at the place where my map showed the first spring. It was a barren, sand-filled arroyo. But there were cow prints in the sand, and we saw some green bushes. We dropped our bikes and walked up the arroyo until we reached mud, and then a few small puddles covered in algae. Water! By then the sun was high, and we were baking. We took off our shirts, dunked them in a puddle, and put them on again, dripping.
From there, the road continued to deteriorate until it was mostly just piles of loose rocks. We got off the bikes and started pushing. At one point, it merged with another arroyo. Then it disappeared completely into a rocky chasm. We carried the bikes around the edge and whooped when we found more road on the other side. After that, the road often disappeared into holes or off cliff edges, and part of me wondered if it would eventually just end in the middle of the desert.
Enjoying the kind of view you can get on a weekend bikepacking trip
Laura Killingbeck
Although the desert was dry and dusty and the road barely passable, water was oddly plentiful. Each spring had something to offer, if we looked hard enough. The water mostly appeared as tiny puddles muddled with cow poo and algae, but a couple times we ran into water tanks left by ranchers. It was easy to keep our bottles full.
Every now and then we were able to bike, but mostly we walked. I’m a happy walker who tends to lock in and keep moving at one steady pace. Nick prefers to pedal hard in dramatic spurts, sometimes while screaming. Together, we created an interesting rhythm.
We were pushing our bikes up a steep, rocky incline when the sun began to set. The hills around us lit up orange, dark blue, and then black. We put our headlamps on and kept walking. On the edges of the road, moon-like datura flowers opened wide under cover of darkness. Stout, wide-eyed birds called night jars flitted on the trail ahead of us.
Eventually, we came to a flat patch of earth overlooking the mountains. It looked like a beautiful place to camp. We had come less than 20 miles, but we had hiked through some gnarly stretches, found plenty of water, fixed things that were broken, and still liked each other. It was the perfect time to call it a day. We set up camp, cooked big bowls of couscous, and settled in for the night.
In the morning, we hike-a-biked a few more miles up a rocky hill until we came to a warped sign full of bullet holes that said “NOT SUITABLE FOR PASSENGER CARS.” Just beyond that sign was beautiful, smooth gravel.
We spent the rest of the day coasting down one side of a mountain and pedaling back up the other until we looped back to the car. It wasn’t the exact loop we’d intended, but it was a great adventure despite its brevity. We hugged and ate the rest of our snacks.
As we drove home later that afternoon, we sang songs and rehashed the journey. I felt tired and happy. My mind was clearer than it was before the ride, and my body felt better too. Sometimes a weekend away is all you need.