The Sonoran Migration

I did NOT want to be the one to say I was cold. 

It was pre-dawn in Arizona’s Sonoran Desert, and my toes were rapidly losing feeling. In packing the bags I strapped to my bike the previous morning, I had left my thick wool sleeping socks in the hamper.

The weather report for the nearby town of Cave Creek called for a low of 45, the internet said, and I had promised the dozen riders on the trip of my design through my backyard the warmth and goodness of a winter escape to the Arizona desert. A Rodeo Migration, to put it more accurately. 

Fortunately for me, I wasn’t alone. Unbeknownst to me, Cade Reichenberger, another fellow rider on this outing, was in a similar scenario. And unlike me, Cade has finished fourth at the Tour Divide. He has experienced levels of cold far beyond our present situation. He is, as we say, seasoned. 

From that experience, Cade has become a man of constant motion. He used the freezing night as fuel to rummage through the Seven Springs dispersed camp group for firewood to burn. Under the early-morning moonlight, Cade gathered these sticks and other flammable things in front of the fire. He didn’t start the fire, but the message was clear. 

As the rest of the tents, bivvies, and sleeping bags began to rustle and open, the communal coldness was now out in the open. Everyone who went from processing their cold in the loneliness of a restless night could commiserate communally around a skimpy morning fire. 

In the next hour, as everyone in camp rotated by the small crackling fire to warm their shoulders, knees, and toes before scurrying off to complete all the small tasks that bikepack mornings require, the joy of backpacking rang clear – we had all gotten lost in the moment. 

But I am getting ahead of myself. Let’s go back for a second.

I envisioned the Sonoran Migration as the ultimate tour of my home turf around Phoenix, Arizona. Phoenix, for some, is one of the last places you might think of for a backcountry adventure. The city is notorious for its heat, sprawl, and car-centric identity. All of that is true, but it ignores the flip side of the coin: Phoenix is also a place of massive ecological diversity, tons of micro mountain ranges, public lands, and fantastic bike riding. 

What I wanted to show was the whole coin. The nature of the place would feel less special if we never had to ride through the city, or so the thinking went. Logistically, this placed parameters around the ride. Day one and day three would have a decent amount of road; day two would have almost none.

The other big hurdle for these kinds of trips is finding the right mix of terrain and distances to support the broad range of abilities that typically come from open invitations for these trips. The road-centric, long roll out of town was my solution for this, letting everyone take stock of their legs and who could be a potential new riding companion on the days ahead. It is a great way to create fast friendships off the bat. Fortunately, as soon as we were rolling from The Velo bike shop in downtown Phoenix, it was clear we had a group of well-trodden travellers. We had Silk Road alumni, Steve the Intern, a professional mountain bike coach, local adventures, and other longtime racers in our group. 

We also had Gabriel Fitzgerald, Stephen’s older brother, who brought down his fully loaded Ineos Grandier off-road rig to offer limited support. The spirit of this event was self supported, but it being an official Rodeo outing meant that we needed to have contingency plans in place. Did we also take advantage of the convenience of our vehicular fellow traveler? Yes. Were we spitting in the face of the bikepacking gods? Maybe. Do we feel bad about it? No, we do not. 

For all the traffic and lack of adventure that comes from a few hours on city pavement, it sure was a good way to get some miles in the legs. Phoenix is, for the most part, very flat, so we ticked through the miles as a unit quickly, rotating through different conversations as our new friends cycled through the 2×2 line we formed. Unfortunately, the massive street party that was the Waste Management Phoenix Open Golf Tournament occupied most of the good routes out of town, which added equal parts stress and annoyance. 

Popsicles at the general store a few miles from the trailhead got us back on track before the real adventure began at the Sonoran Desert Preserve. The Preserve is a huge expanse of public desert that tilts towards the New River Mountains to the north of Phoenix. With development pushing further and further to the north, consuming so much of the richest desert biomes that exist at that location and altitude, that preserve is a buttress of the deeper wilderness that lies in those mountains. 

It is also home to some of the best drop-bar singletrack in the country. We hit dirt, and immediately, the sound of the pea gravel rolling under weighted tires was sublime. The sun was getting lower and the shadows on the jagged desert plants of the Sonoran Desert outlined just how outlandish they are. The trails twisted, dipped, and careened through the washes that make up the microtopography of the desert. 

Therapeutic bike riding, as I like to say, quickly put the roads in the rear-view mirror. 

We continued to climb after the preserve up into the mountains on our way to the Seven Springs oasis that would be camp number one. We were keeping things manageable at 50 miles of total distance, but we still rolled into camp as the sun was setting, feeling pretty excited to be making our way to the destination and the freeze-dried food that we had all selected from our bikepacking pantries. Three in our ranks decided to take on a quick extra mountain climb, twisting their way up Humboldt Mountain in the dark, but for everyone, the day was a nice start to set up the main event: Sheep Bridge Saturday. 

This brings us back to the cold, cold morning and Cade gathering sticks.

What was supposed to be a low of 45 turned out to be actually more like 27 down in the narrow Seven Springs valley, where the natural water source and the extra vegetation lowers the temperatures significantly below what is expected. Normally, this is a blessing, providing a spring and fall camping area that is able to tolerate higher temperatures. Yet, February is not one of those times. 

Ultimately, the fire was all we needed to nurse the group back from a tough night’s sleep. During bike pack trips, the assumption is that you won’t sleep well; solid shut-eye is a luxury. It did set us back an hour on our departure, however, and with 80 miles of hard backcountry riding on deck. The daylight clock started ticking. Nevertheless, why focus on the clock when the surroundings beg you to stay awhile? 

The terrain beyond Seven Springs was the whole reason why I built the trip the way I did. It is quite simply some of my all-time favorite terrain. It is extremely wild, with a narrow ribbon of dirt winding through massive vistas that each contain a different mix of plants and color compared to the last. On the higher mountains and ridgelines, the surroundings are grassy, with shrub oak, ponderosa, prickly pear, and agave coloring between the lines. Lower in elevation, they are replaced by rich saguaro forests, with giant saguaro forests providing the undeniable geographic fingerprint. 

All of it is a tapestry of the dynamic world that seems gloriously out of reach of the constant march of urbanism that is just a mountain range away. 

These roads are rocky and the climbs are hard. The group split right away as we climbed to the route’s high point at over 5,000 feet. The climb was welcome, nonetheless, as it warmed us up right away. In the self-generated heat of the climb, the morning’s frigid misery quickly faded into the type-two fun tapestry we were weaving over the weekend. 

The star of the show is at the bottom of the biggest terrain. In a way, it is the whole point – what drew us out to the wilds of the Tonto National Forest and what carved, over millions of years, the land we ride through. The Verde River and the metal suspension bridge made for sheep that gives the route its name.

At the river, the mountains rise from all sides, and the water stays green, deep, and cold. It is fed from higher lands, greener lands, and is on its way to where water goes to dry. But on its way at Sheep Bridge, it is an anomaly. 

We regrouped at the Bridge, 4 hours after we started, not quite halfway done with the overall distance. Everyone was happy to see the water, happy to see that big Ineos Grenadier, and a break from the grind. Briefly, we considered the clock, but we were moving quickly towards a point where the choice of arriving in the light or in the dark would be made for us. Still, nothing could have stopped us from taking a dip in the hot springs tucked into the reeds or dunking in the deep, cool water of the river. 

The afternoon on the other side of the bridge was where the route really bears its teeth. The road gets rough, the punchy hills get steeper albeit shorter, and there is no escaping the sun – not in the summer, not in the spring, not in the fall, and not in the winter. But at this point, it could have been anything, the objective for me was quickly becoming a Circle K, which was our first fill-up since the general store at mile 30 of day one. 

The back side of the Horseshoe Reservoir, however, was only the start of the real suffering of the day, the climb from the dam back to the front country of the preserve. Road work turned the road to sand, the afternoon sun turned the mild day brutally hot, and we were 24-hours removed from real food. Just as in the morning, on one hand, this was suffering. On the other hand, it is a feeling of great presence. Not contrived through a race, but done out of necessity of churning the pedals on a one-way mission to a destination. 

And even still, with the Circle K driving us forward, we still found type one fun along the way, too. 

After we crested the climb, we returned to the preserve and its gravelly ASMR, its hypnotic twists, and its one-of-one plants. Type one fun all the way to gas station, where the roller hot dogs, cheap reheated pizza, and chips were as delicious as a perfectly home-cooked meal. With a full belly, all that was left was a roll down to the McDowell Mountain Park, a bath in the sunset light, and a few more twists and turns before it was time to cast the tarps down, inflate the pads, and consider all of the types of fun we just had. 

Day Three: Bagel Quest 

Night two was mercifully warmer, and the coyotes only howled more, concerned about the other packs of dogs rather than the people sleeping on the ground. All the riding left to do was also merciful, with a shallow climb to start up towards the McDowell mountains before the trails carried us down to the town of Fountain Hills.

 After a quick bagel pit stop in town, it was over Adero Canyon and through Scottsdale for one last dirty romp across the Phoenix Mountain Preserve. Then, back to Velo, and we all find our way to the next thing. Throughout the last day, it felt a bit like we were already looking back on the trip as a memory. Maybe that was on me, with my route planning with a full crescendo on day two, but then again, was it wrong? Or was it refreshing to celebrate the trip at the same time as we are all still together doing the dang thing?

That is not to say nothing happened on the last day. Nils, a new friend from Flagstaff, lost his GoPro on the bumpy backdoor exit of McDowell. Doug, who was celebrating a last hurrah before heading back to in-office work after a few years of living the remote life, was nursing a very wobbly wheel after he broke a spoke. I had a pesky leak in my front tire.  And, out of fear of too much pavement, added the rockiest riding of the trip in the final hour of the route. 

Yet, I was already reflecting on the trip, wondering why I don’t do more and when my next one might be. 

I have found that the final day feeling, the mix of accomplishment and the excitement of what’s next, is far too fleeting. We spend this time out in the wild, suffering over climbs, struggling with heat and cold, eating garbage, and loving it all. Then I go on with my life, and I don’t end up doing it as much as I should. I am caught up with everything else I have going on.

I feel like this time, it might be different, though. This time, I think I have crystallized a feeling that I can hold onto, one that I know will be there in the cold, the heat, and the suffering of future trips: presence. 

Thank you to everyone for coming along to the Sonoran Migration, thank you to those curious enough to read through this recap, and remember, go ride your bike somewhere new and perhaps strap a couple of bags on while you’re at it.