Annie Ersinghaus joined a group of strangers rolling out of Las Cruces, New Mexico, to take on the Dangerbird 2025 in reverse. Over three days and 125 miles, they forged bonds of friendship in the desert on a bikepacking journey. Join Team Back Asswards for a transformative journey…
This journey started with 20 strangers. I didn’t know any of their names; only later would we introduce ourselves. We took off from the downtown plaza as a swarm, regrouped as a smaller crew, and hit the road. We were going backwards on the south loop. Bikes packed with enough water for the day and enough food for the trip; all that we needed was being pushed by our pedals.
Day 1: Las Cruces to Kilbourne Hole. 50 miles, 1,013 feet of ascent. 5 hours moving, a 9 hour day.
We moved together in the dirt and gravel. Strangers, headed somewhere important.
Only the whir of our bikes and the tires against the dirt filled our minds. The open horizon, always straight ahead, drowned out the rest. We crossed cattle guards and train tracks. Saw creature prints in the sand and crows overhead.
Deep sand sucks in the tires; we must go quickly or sink in. Any turns and we might get pulled away. Sand in our shoes, a truck of ghosts that needed a push, and feelings of being barefoot on the beach nowhere near water. Lunch sitting in the shade of a Yucca, the only “tall tree” on the trail. We shared the thin line of a growing shadow. What mountains are those? Roads I’ve never been on before. Are we still strangers? When did the shift happen? At what point in the endless day did we turn into friends? Was it the sharing of this endless freedom?
Before the slow and endless grind to the first aid station, before the sun had gone down and the sky fell dark, we were consumed by color. The sky was glowing with green on one horizon and blue on the other. Clashing and meshing, continually changing and evolving before eventually fading off. We sipped up every bit of what was being offered to us. Absorbed every shade and hue. Like hunger, like thirst, the beauty fed us. The cool air greeted us as we flew under the sky.
To experience the abundance of this land is all anyone can ask for.
The paradise of hot food and a cold drink. The gratitude of exhaustion. The moon rises to greet us. Stars and sleep.
Day 2: Kilbourne Hole > Bishop’s Cap, 9:15 am – 5:30 pm, 45 miles, 722 feet of ascent, 4 hours moving, an 8 hour day.
We woke, strangers no longer. The sun illuminated the shrouded landscape from last night and warmed the cold desert night away. The moon was still in the sky, standing watch. We packed, drank, ate, and stretched in a circle. “Butts on bikes!” had become our new phrase. Another day of dirt, dust, and racing desert trains. We hit our first bit of pavement since leaving Las Cruces and the expansive mountains.
We rolled out as one, matching stride and shadow. Sharing our hunger and thirst as we did with the shade. Tired, but very much alive and moving. This continual movement together – there is nothing better. Next stop: barefoot, sunburnt, and hungry. Always hungry for more. We took whiskey shots before the last uphill stretch to our camp, played bike tag, and crossed Interstate 10.
Racing the sun as she approached the horizon, could we get to camp before she dropped out of view?
Life is play. Tired, exhausting, and satisfying play.
The rest of us trickled in and set up camp. Beauty everywhere. I looked at the stars that night and remembered that they are all worlds, as big and expansive as ours. I’d forgotten to look behind the pinprick to see the grandeur. Truth is always hiding away like that. So many little worlds, so very far away – and we’d experienced just the tiniest fraction of ours today.
The sun was long gone and the cold took her place. We gathered around, red lights glowing from headlamps and not a fire. What warmed us was each other. We ate dinner together, shared food, talked. There were less of us now, but the future felt just as promising.
The moon rose. We were waiting for her before we went to bed. Cowboy camping under the wide sky, tucked beneath the stars, I smiled and whispered, “Thank you.” Peaceful quiet. Coyotes in the distance. The rustling of friends in sleeping bags.
Then, wind.
The restless night began.
Loud and harsh, fine sand peppered our sleeping bags and made small dunes against our bikes. The cold seeped in. Tents screamed in the wind, they seemed so close to being ripped from the ground and thrown out and into the endless night sky. I tossed and turned. Restlessly waiting for day, waiting for the moon to lower in the sky, waiting for the sun and heat it would bring. The wind would surely die down. I remember being okay with this discomfort because it was a sort of communal suffering. It felt as though each person was thinking the same thing – trying to dream, trying to find warmth, knowing the day would come.
Day 3: Bishop’s Cap > Las Cruces, 7:50 am – 2:00 pm, 27 miles, 1,734 feet of ascent, 3 hours moving, a 6 hour day.
The sun rose. The wind did not let up. Neither did the cold.
The wind licked our hair and the sand stung our legs. If we weren’t careful, it took our things and shot them out onto the horizon. The desert was showing us what it could do, how powerful it was. Dirt everywhere. We were being baptized. True desert rats, dusty, tired, and cold. We packed in silence, no coffee, no breakfast; we needed to get moving. We needed our blood to flow, to get the cold out of our veins. We needed to move with the wind, instead of stand in its way.
Time to start the slow grind to home and to a warm shower. Tired mind and tired legs. Together.
Later on, we talked about how we all knew we were experiencing that same restlessness the previous night. In and out of dreams, tossing and turning in the cold and the wind, anxiety about what was being blown away. Waiting for morning. Communal discomfort.
Alone, a struggle seems bigger. Together, it feels like nothing. Riding through the night, seeking the aid station, alone, tired, and scared. Together we ride. Together there is hope. Together, pain is less, fear is less, and struggle means more.
On the last day, the group split up. Six of us took the singletrack up into the mountains, the rest took the power line road home. At each intersection, at each turn, we knew we’d see each other again at some point in the future.
I think humans are meant to live this way. To struggle together, because then it doesn’t feel like a struggle. We are simply on the move to somewhere important and beautiful. Thorn bushes kissed our legs, creosote brushed away worries, and barrel cactus greeted us around every corner. Climbing, climbing, climbing. Falling, falling, falling. Every slope ended at the bottom of an arroyo and went right back up the other side. Riding wave after wave. Finally, we reached the top. Descent, as fast as the wind that tormented us last night. Flowing down the mountains like the water in an arroyo. So close to home. So close to warmth, food, and rest. Washing the dirt from our bodies, stinging our cut-up and bruised legs.
Endings. Always endings. Sadness and joy. A good burger and beer. Hugs and rest.
South loop completed. 125 miles in 3 days.
Writing this at the end of an adventure and at the start of many more. Meaning was multiplied by each person in our group. We started as strangers and ended as friends.
Many thanks,
Annie