Dirt nap /d3:rt næp/ verb
A state of permanent rest, a state of death. (Informal) Involuntary unconsciousness due to inebriation or exhaustion.
Contents.
MAKING OF AN MVP
BRAIN DEAD BEGINNINGS
PICKING YOUR OWN GRAVE IN BOULDER
CAJOLING TO THE CANYON FOR A DIRT NAP
TAOS FILIBUSTERS
CORRESPONDENCE FROM THE SWISS TRAIL
PLANNING DON'TS AND DON'TS IN CAPULIN
Contributors of art, photos, and run on sentences: Tyler Rembold
For four years, as of 2022, this ever-changing group of brainless brutes has been pedaling off into the hills for nothing more than to lay in the dirt and suffer in good company. Good rolls of film have been wasted in documenting our foolish pursuits. Each exposure is a peak into the rapid brain death at the center of our burgeoning compulsion. Consider this glorified scrapbook of our formative years a cordial invite for you to join us on the next one. We’re always one short. - JL
Josh Lucero Produced by:
Paul Smith
Munsen’s MVP
Inverse relationships exist whereby increasing one variable has a direct, but opposite effect on the other variable. For example, the slower one walks, the more time it will take to get to the destination. But there are more subtle examples of this. There are distinct natural phenomena where the more effort one puts into something, the less likely they are to achieve the desired result. As one increases effort into attaining happiness, the less likely one is to experience it. Happiness can be the result of partaking in activities one enjoys, or spending time with those you find pleasurable or entertaining. Directly striving for happiness does not bring happiness. The same concept applies to having fun or finding love. These processes cannot be diluted or forced, as there is a certain type of genuineness to them that must happen naturally, organically, if you will. And I won’t, but I said it anyway. Every time we go bike camping, there is someone who brings this unfiltered authenticity with them on the trip. It is not in the form of pedaling fastest or bringing a costly method for brewing the world’s most artisanal hand-crafted cold brew. It materializes by complete accident. The result is that they cause themselves more suffering on an already insufferable adventure. No one tries to get two flats before turning off the street we departed from, or three flats on a dangerously busy road in New Mexico with no shoulder and no spare tubes. Again, it just happens naturally, organically. It should go without saying, but since I’ve already said what I didn’t want to say I might as well say it. The additional suffering has a reward. It brings with it an extra experience that the others on the trip don’t get. Something is gained from the unpreparedness and lack of forethought. We do not wish this extra baggage and turmoil upon anyone, nor do we want it to occur. But there is no denying that it is accompanied by a mental fortitude and an ability to adapt to a rather piss-poor situation. It is impressive to endure the sad and suffering situation without complaint and without making others aware of your follies.
After the trip is said and done, this perseverance without protest, brought upon completely by themselves, is something to be acknowledged. A characteristic our society could use more of. And why in our group, our microcosm of what society wishes it will never be, we recognize this genuine, un-efforted happenstance of additional weight bearing by referring to this individual as the MVP, most voracious person, of the trip. This is no reference to competitive sportsing or to serve as a feel-good golden star for whomever did not finish the ride. There is no physical prize or award, just a head nod from your fellow comrades, which is sometimes worth more than a White Claw tall can itself. The MVP did what everyone else did but brought a bike built mostly from parts purchased directly from www.amazon.com 42 hours before the trip. And to not interrupt the flow of the ride, they brought along a 20lb toolkit in case said www.amazon.com parts failed. Or rushed out of the house to meet us on time but forgot a tent and sleeping pad, but did remember a toothbrush, but ended up too drunk to use it. Or maybe we warned them to not bring a backpack, but they insisted on bringing a backpacking backpack in 100-degree heat to wear it bareback for 40 miles causing permanent chafe marks on their shoulders that will be seen for the rest of their lives. No one plans on riding up 13% grades with a single speed geared for a trip to the local pub. It just takes an attitude of “ahhh, fuck it” that gets you there, and attitude of “ahh fuck” that gets you through it. It’s cool to be well prepared and have the proper style of bicycle or gold standard waterproof tent for the bad weather, but it’s cooler to just run the www.amazon.com parts or the single speed or the non-waterproof bivy and get the full experience of sleeping wet under Kyle’s hammock. We value and commend minimalism. In the end, we could just drive to go camping or better yet, not go camping at all. Sleep in our warm beds with our jersey knit sheets and stuffed animals. Doesn’t that sound nice? But for those who enjoy napping in the dirt or sleeping on a nine-day old’s grave, we place high value and respect on doing the most with the least. Even it comes as a result of incompetence and inversely related to the effort we put in. - p. munsen
P ARAD E
If you’re reading this, it’s likely you know the coping mechanism I’m writing about. But if you are new to the concept of suffering for entertainment, I implore you to look at the idiotic smiles gracing our faces and tell me you don’t want to see what the fuss is about. Illequipped and running the gamut of barely in shape to “why did you think you could do this,” we began our outings as annual endeavor. As you’ll find, that slowly progressed into multiple trips each summer and is currently starting to bleed into spring and fall. These first few pages document our striking stupidity as we slowly progressed from cycling neanderthals to modern day half-wits looking for our next dirt nap.
A gateway drug to suffering, bike camping has perverted my view of fun to an almost comically unrecognizable irony. The early days of our outings always guaranteed a level of discomfort one either succumbed to or began to acquire a taste for.
First fully-loaded outing. August 2019
We didn’t know any better
Outings remained a once-a-year affair at this point. Despite infrequent exposure to crank-powered delinquency, symptoms of brainrot had begun to show as we became accustomed to nightly dirt naps and poor nutrition.
The simple act of riding from Denver into the foothills of the Rocky Mountains for drug and alcohol-aided camping was thrilling on it’s own, at first. But as with all addictions, the need for something more became overwhelming for a few of us. We began to expand our routes into new territory with mountains of elevation just to feel a fraction of the rush our first forays brought. Our contemporary outings have a rotating cast, some well-versed in long form loonacy, and some just getting their first taste of suffering in the name of a good time. While the campsites have become more legal and the bikes more capable, one thing remains the same; we are a spectacle of foolishness in over our heads who wouldn’t have it any other way.
IN LOVING MEMORY
2490 feet climbed
65 miles ridden
32 cold limbs
8 derelict cretans
3 rounds at the bar
2 graves desecrated
Roster: Josh B. Paul S. Derek C
Ted W. Zimmy
Kyle R.
Josh L.
Anton Z.
FIVE EASY STEPS TO CHOOSING THE RIGHT GRAVE
Dirt Nap Field Correspondent: Josh Lucero
1. Enter into a dirt nap pact to spend the night under the stars in Boulder’s most luxurious 5-star graveyard.
2. Grab a days worth of beer to sustain your two-wheeled travels into the land of the dead.
3. Partake in the local fare to restore your strength. You will need it when setting camp on the damp, cold, and uneven soil.
4. Consume the remainder of the day’s beers and visit a local tavern to solidify your buzz. This may be the most important step in helping you find the perfect plot for your rest.
5. With a heavy buzz and torched legs, find the softest patch of ground before too much moisture can accumulate. Quickly rip your supplies from your bicycle and mad dash onto the patch you selected in the dark of night. If there is no time to set camp due to precipitation all one must do is cover themselves with their most water resistant luggage and wait to wake in the morning only to find you shared a bed with a young mother deceased since 1908.
Roster:
Trip Stats:
1200 feet climbed
45 miles ridden
14 brainless bastards
3 Tubes
2 Tupperware/Pyrex containers of pasta eaten
1 standard issue sticker tire boot
1 thirty four-year-old road bike
1 major downpour endured
1 small fire started for good measure
1 pair of sick Nike Dunks
1 bottle of barrel aged cabernet sauvignon brought and consumed
Jacob
When Paul plots a route you always get more than you bargained for. Waterton was no different, and I should have known. In May of 2022, fourteen of us, the largest group to date, headed south down the grime-ridden Platte River for a Saturday night dirt nap in the sky. Setting out on a well-travelled route had morale at an all-time high, even for those fresh to the concept of pedaling out to sleep in the dirt. As he does, Paul had a fun surprise up his sleeve for everyone unfamiliar with the Colorado Trail. Upon pedaling twenty-two miles from home, up dirt roads and rocky trails, we came to what looked like a brush-covered dead end. Following our brainless leader, we bushwhacked our way uphill seeing traces of a path, but never enough to be convincing. We emerged at the top, one by one, onto a grassy plateau complete with log furniture and a well worn fire pit. Worth the drudgery after all. Fire restrictions deprived us of a warm fire (Editors note: Paul eventually got a short-lived fire rolling despite protest from most of the group) but with the aid of adult beverages we managed. Of course, we couldn’t get off too easy after a solid night in the hills. The rocky descent from camp caused flat tires and a hunger that had to be satiated as soon as we returned to civilization. Coffee and sandwiches were had along the path home but, soon after, we were facing a growing storm that began dumping rain on our little parade. Phil and Kid bore the brunt of the deluge which I suspect had a hand in Phil’s swearing off of ever bike camping again. But, despite the grueling and laborious cards that Paul and mother nature had dealt us, our band of bumbling bicycle banditos had arrived home in one piece with an entertaining story of stupidity and perseverance. Phil B, having done the entire affair straight from nearly sea level to 7,000 feet up on a loaner road bike from 1987, took home the trip MVP title. Overcoming every obstacle to spend a night talking shit with the boys on top of a hill, after having rode bmx for a week, is a feat many wouldn’t think to attempt. But, Phil pushed through to become one of the few, the proud, the Munsen’s MVP.
Trip Stats:
10,089 feet climbed
131 miles ridden
8 ignorant fools
3 costipated colons
3 tubes dispatched
2 emergency hotel room acquisitions
2 patches used
2 campfires initiated
2 fully clipped layovers
1 trashed tire
1 airbnb
1 soggy Typical Enlisted Dude
1 flash flood crossed
1 hailstorm fjorded
Disenchanted Loop
July 1 - July 4, 2022
Taos Filibuster
Filibuster
Day 0 - Munsens converge at Paul’s Bike Bunker. We toss gear and bikes haphazardly at vehicles until we’re ready to roll out, only to stop immediately in Colorado Springs for a taste of its rich culture by way of Chipotle “Mexican” Grill. A quick and dreary exit of Colorado commenced after our guts were stuffed and soon we stumbled upon our Airbnb in Taos. The sleeping arrangements were tight, but little did we know this would be the most comfortable night of the trip.
Roster:
Josh B. Drew B.
Amy S.
Derek C.
Josh L.
Paul S.
Kyle R.
Ted W.
Day 1After ditching the vehicles in a seedy Walmart parking lot and hoping for the best, eight munsens pedaled out of Taos blissfully unaware of the trials ahead. The miles ticked by slowly as repeated flats took their toll on morale. Having learned my lesson about bald tires and Kyle coming to my aid, we managed to get the convoy moving again. As one problem began to fade into the rearview another was only beginning to reveal its icy head. Hail and torrential rains pelted us for miles as we rode through fast flowing red rivers of run-off before taking refuge under the smallest tree we could find. Finding ourselves thoroughly
soaked, we made our way into Eagle Nest to dry out. A local establishment provided us with cold beer and warm food despite the angry glares we earned by turning their patio into a clothesline for our soiled garments. Rejuvenated and with partially dry attire, we set out to make our push over Bobcat Pass and into Red River, only to be soaked again on our ascent. As a consolation, Red River greeted us with gorgeous cotton candy clouds hanging on glistening peaks as we rolled into town on the verge of hypothermia.
After a short discussion and some Googling with spotty internet, we decided to grab a hotel and avoid setting up camp in the damp darkness of Red River.
Day 2
The hotel on the first day did feel a bit like dirty cheating. Maybe it was the hot tub, cushy bed, and warm shower, but shame tinged the air as we moseyed out Saturday morning.
Instead of scrounging up a lovely Red River breakfast, most opted to playcamp and popped out stoves to cook outside the rooms. Still, we stopped at a grocery store to cram in a few more “supplies” and attempted to find a few tubes in case one of us (me really, just me) got another flat. Before we knew it we were on the road again, late, but in hindsight, perfectly on time as the sun had dried out the wet mess we had slogged through the day before.
Day two was off to a promising start. Fewer miles, a lot less climbing and the Rio Grande River to look forward to. As it happened, it was also our lucky day. As we bombed into Questa we were immediately harassed by a local store owner. Something to the effect of, “You pussies won’t come have a beer!” Which of course are drinking words in New Mexico.
The shouts came from a Mexican gentleman named Mark who owned a bar-slashrestaurant just off Questa’s main drag. Mark treated us all to beers and stories about the local folk. He had served as mayor for the past eight years and had plenty of insight into the local sentiment on tourists. Mayor Mark filled us in on the land we were traversing before we had to get back on the road with nearly a full day ahead.
We set off to the next town where Mark said his cousin owned another small bodega where we might find ourselves hooked up with snacks and beverages. With bubbles and carbs on the brain we arrived at an almost identical establishment, only to
find Mark’s cousin was not as generous as he was. Still, he didn’t mind us posting outside his storefront to shoot the shit while we woofed down microwaved burritos and Little Debbies.
Within an hour of pedaling we were met by the banks the Rio Grande. A nice, easy descent to the waters edge. After gawking for a short time, Paul informed us that the surrounding cliff edges were to be our campsite for the night. Just some light fullyloaded climbing and we were home free to set up camp... Only to turn back around to descend what we had just climbed to partake in the day’s main attraction.
The final descent to the hot springs was a hike-a-bike affair that resulted in leaving the bikes in the bushes. An exercise in trust as we surveyed the crowd inhabiting the warm pools of spring water. We were greeted by a Native American fella whom we had already run into when we arrived at the river, but now he was even more drunk and pissed at anyone that didn’t look local. This time though, there were tourists other than us for him to badger. Nonetheless, we could hear his ranting get louder as his gulps of vodka grew larger. The springs were hot at least, and they attracted an entertaining crowd that included outand-proud boob-job college mom, a talkative MMA fighting tattoo artist from Amarillo, postgraduate PhD students looking for a good time, and a drunk rodeo clown in full make up. After getting a solid enough buzz to smooth out hiking and biking back to camp it was time to say goodbye to the hot spring party hounds. Overcome with hunger, we trudged back to camp to cook and watch Kyle keep a sage fire roaring into the night until we slowly succumbed to exhaustion.
Bottom left page: The former mayor of Questa, Mark Gallegos, in all his glory. God bless this kind man. He blessed us with beers and a cool place to rest while regaling us with stories of the Taos Ski Valley’s political and social landscape that he contended with during his reign. This page: The hot springs were filled to the brim with warm waters and drunk kooks. Ourselves amongst them. Still worth the climb back to camp.
Day 3
With the smell of burnt sage brush still in our nostrils, we crawled from our tents and packed up camp in-between hits of weed and coffee. A quick photo shoot to document our uncouth demeanor and one last puff on the cliffs edge over looking the Rio Grande to set us on our way.
A quick pedal put us on breakfasts doorstep; a quaint, very New Mexico, gas station with burritos almost as good as the people watching. Against his better instincts, Paul found himself interacting with the local population to get the real dirt on the area. What started as a passing comment to a seemingly normal looking Toa-sian woman (photo right center) became a full lecture on the dangers of Zika virus falling from the sky, funded by Bill Gates himself with help from other various celebrities. According to this Taos scholar, celebrities are set on experimenting on the local population via chem trails and 5g for some yet-to-be-revealed global domination new world government plan. That’s not all. She also claims these celebrities, including the likes of Donald J Trump, are actually trans individuals. Upon further research, this lady, Nancy Red Star, has appeared
on podcasts, the History Channel’s uber-factual show Ancient Aliens, and she has pubished books. Books!
Despite finding maddening revelations about Taos, we were compelled to continue through the Zika infested air, not knowing what lie ahead. Dark skies loomed around our convoy most of the day, but luck was on our side in the form of a narrow strip of blue sky that guided us into Taos Ski Valley. We hit the resort mid-day with just enough left in the tank to grab food and fuel up.
After the typical munsen dinner table banter, we shuffled off back down the road we had just climbed in search of shelter, still blissfully unawareof the watery horrors that awaited us. It was after a debate about two sites that we came to a majority rule on the river-front property over the tight quarters up the hill. In hindsight, tight quarters might not have been so bad.
A mad search for wood was underway. But as soon as the tents popped up and a fire began to take shape the first drops of rain began to fall. Dinner was quickly forgotten as we rounded up camp in a mad rush. Some of us made it in dry but a few fell victim to soggy sleeping arrangements as our riverside camp became a flash flood zone.
Middle: Paul fixing his bullshit, over-priced salad with some avocado he brought along for just such an occasion.
Next page: Setting up at Camp Rainsallnight.
Bottom left: My feet can be seen with the bowl I was using to catch the leaks I found during the threehour long torrential downpour.
Bottom Right: Ted can be seen in his final resting place under the cover of Kyle’s hammock tent.
Managing a few brief hours of sleep, we rolled out of our soggy plots and immediately got breakfast rolling on the double. Last day, easy day. It was going to be only a short 20-ish mile day with a descending itinerary. Getting going was no rush and a good chunk of the morning was spent drying out gear scattered on trees and smoking enough to make packing it up a journey of its own.
Loaded up and pointed towards Taos, we
ripped out of camp and sped down fast enough to have ears pop as we coasted down winding mountain roads into town. Walmart had managed to keep the cars safe and after a quick tear down of the bikes, it was off to a local dining establishment for a peek at everyone else’s Fourth of July weekend. Most of them blissfully unaware of the Bill Gates Zika virus permeating the air as we sat down to rehash the journey through New Mexico’s most contaminated enchanted peaks.
You are now leaving NEW MEXICO
Trip Stats:
6,200 feet climbed
95 miles ridden
7 mouth breathers
1 river beer break
1 successful fully-packed drop in 1 near death fully-packed drop in
Roster:
Drew B.
Justin B.
Derek C.
Josh L.
Kyle R.
Paul S
Chase C.
In late August 2022, an ill-fated expeditionary brigade headed northwest from the heart of Denver, CO to explore the hills of Boulder using only bicycles and marijuana. Word of a Swiss paradise had made it’s way down the Munsen trail and persuaded the most foolish of us to commit our efforts into finding the holy land. Contained within the following pages is correspondence providing a first-hand account of the struggles, triumphs, and pure American gumption that willed this expedition of morons to successes that are still unremarkable today.
To President Thomas Jeffermunsen,
I write you from the western city of Denver after the triumphant return of our expeditionary unit. Our detachment, sanctioned by the 5th Congress of the United Munsen Territories, has claimed an official outpost off of the, as of yet, uncharted Switzerland Trail. As directed by legislation passed several months ago, I gathered a company consisting of six stout, healthy, unmarried young men accustomed to mechanical horseback, and capable of bearing a considerable degree of bodily fatigue. Together our exploratory force has ascended the treacherous rocky hills of this new territory and established routes of commerce to resupply settlers from the Coloradan colonies.
The journey was not without its setbacks, however. Steep grades began sapping the men’s reserves immediately as we crossed into the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. For several miles we were aided by the flowing waters of Boulder Creek, but the carriageway soon forked, forcing us up an unforgiving incline that slowed progress considerably. The pockmarked slope finally gave way more than a mile above sea level to a settlement named Gold Hill. The small outpost had since been taken over by traders that, fortunately for us, were willing to barter with our government-issued currency, rightly anticipating the rush of new settlers upon completion of our undertaking.
After hearty resupply of our food stores and a warm meal, we pushed on in search of a Swiss camp. A tall chimney beckoned to us in the distance, prompting a scouting mission swiftly carried out before nightfall. The ruins we discovered proved functional enough to build a roaring fire. We seized the opportunity to celebrate our success in finding suitable residence along the Swiss passageway and took full advantage of the land’s bountiful resources. The camp is even more magnificent than had been rumored and, should I pass before this finds you, I wish to lay claim to it as my government allotment so future generations can rest here for their final dirt nap in the sky.
Reluctantly, we bid farewell to the Swiss paradise and began our journey back to civilization the following morning. Knowing the most crucial part of our expedition was just over the horizon, we began our descent of the Switzerland Passage. The trail, a former artery for commerce, had declined to such a state that our gear-laden mechanical contraptions nearly rattled to pieces.
It was with a keen eye that second lieutenant Andrew J. Barrett of the Expeditionary Warfare Battalion identified an observation post set upon a loose cliff side. Barrett rounded up a small scouting party to investigate the vantage point’s viability for future exploration. His return journey was not as advantageous as it nearly cost him his life. His mechanical horse bucked him off during as he commenced his lighting quick descent. If not for an artful dismount at the last possible second his body would have remained on the cliff side, as staging any retrieval would have cost the expedition dearly. Not far behind, Captain CJ second class cranked over the bluff and let gravity take him. CJ remained steadfast as he careened down the sheer drop. Looking both in and out of control as his heavily laden cycle flexed beneath him, he was able to tame the monstrous descent, giving a morale-boosting show for the weary among us. I recommend these two men for the Medal of Honor in recognition of their commitment to sending it forthwith.
The remainder of our descent grew increasingly rugged and soon I was toppled from atop my contraption into to the jagged rocks that littered our path. It is truly by divine grace that I am able to write you today. How I have missed the soft comforts of civilized society.
I am honored to report that this most foolhardy mission to find adequate lodgings and resupply for generations to come has been fulfilled. I have written this account so as that it may be used as a resource in the further expansion of Munsen territory. It is with new renewed hope for manifest destiny that I send this correspondence.
- Lt. Colonel Bojangles II
This page: Undaunted by loose bits and a front heavy load, Second Lieutenant Barrett of the Expeditionary Warfare Battalion attempted to slay the swiss drop in, narrowly avoiding going end over end with a quick frontal dismount. Left: Captain CJ Second Class conquering the swiss beast on a fully-packed rig.
6,060 feet climbed
14 wild turkeys almost hit
2 stoked park rangers
2 campsites at cost
1 ghost town hotel w/ 4 beds
miles ridden 9 degenerates 1 tube patched
1 ride into town and back
1 volcano climbed
Roster: Chris A.
Paul S.
Josh B.
Typical Enlisted Dude W.
Matt W.
Ben L.
Kyle R.
Josh L.
Anton Z.
Our routes for the past year, halfbaked as they were, had been handled by minds far more capable than mine. To relieve the planning committee of such a burden, I took it upon myself to plot a course through the volcanic fields of northern New Mexico. Going on nothing more than wanting to ride up Capulin Volcano, I began planning our demise.
Though common convention when building routes may be to utilize the internet and it’s vast wealth of bikepacking articles, I decided to dive head first into plotting our journey with little to no preparation. Using the route planning app RideWithGPS and a poor working knowledge of Google Maps I began constructing what I thought was going to be a walk in the park. I was almost immediately reminded of my small brain capacity as I cross referenced the route with Google Maps. The back roads I had been using on RWGPS were shown to be private roads? Maybe? Thanks to technological advancements, that was not evident. To ensure safe passage I knew I had to gather intelligence through other means. Using local resources, forums, and out-of-date maps, I attempted to confirm if the course would be possible by bicycle. Data gaps in local records, missing state park information, and vague guidelines from county websites diminished my confidence in finding a viable route.
Nearly back at square one, I began cold-calling and emailing any locals I could muster. I called anyone I thought might have information on the local roads and our planned campsites. I needed boots-on-the-ground intel. City offices and county officials were the first assets to be contacted. Finding only wasted tax dollars on the other end of the line, I was still lacking anything concrete to confirm the legality of our desired route.
Next up: local businesses. Here, I got more mixed results. One paranoid New Mexican business owner even went as far as telling me that our group was likely to be shot for trespassing. She refused to divulge any useful information and proceeded to dodge any further inquiries about our route's safety.
My research had ultimately left me confused. In lieu of the quiet dirt roads I had envisioned, I patched together roads that looked a little more official to mitigate the risk of a flying bullets from trigger-happy ranchers. Still, we thought parts of our cobbled together route could be possible so it was left to me to scout the original paths the night before we were set to ride. I found the most promising double-track gated with aggressively worded custom trespassing signs. Too late now though, it was time to see how well nine simpletons could improvise.
After relaying my findings to the group, I set up shop at the M&M Hotel in Des Moines and waited for their arrival. In typical fashion they arrived with little time to spare. Bicycles and gear quickly filled our rooms, spilling over into the bathroom and causing an impromptu bike shower for one unlucky munsen as we rushed to get to bed. In order to adhere to the strict pedestrian hours at the volcano, we had to make the ten-minute drive to our start point in the dark, early morning hours or risk missing out on the attraction the entire trip was planned around.
With a few hours of sleep, our morning departure tore us from the comforts of the M&M and straight into a Capulin parking lot loaned to us by the owners of the local general store. The pedal to the volcano’s base was a cold, dark slog. Soon we were hopping the gate and circumnavigating our way to the top. Views of the region's massive volcanic fields held our attention for the entire climb, each turn holding arresting vistas and a glimpse of the route we would be following for the next eight hours. At 8 am sharp the park ranger arrived at the top to shoo us off the volcano so motorized traffic could begin. After a quick descent and a short intermission at the visitors center we were on to our next poorly planned
stop: Folsom.
What was supposed to be a food stop turned out to be ghost town with only a post office to its name. The Folsom General Merchandise Store, our planned resupply, had been closed since 1959.
As luck would have it, we left empty-handed out of Folsom and found ourselves up against a relentless rolling climb through New Mexico's wind-whipped desert landscape. The caravan’s resolve never wavered in spite of the many easily foreseeable but unaccounted for hurdles the day provided us. After cresting false peak after peak, finding only more wind and rolling hills, we were saved by a 19th century church. This historic religious sanctuary served as a base to regroup and a refuge from the harsh New Mexican landscape.
We managed to squeeze a few more miles out of the tank as we descended, albeit with a headwind, into Sugarite Canyon. Being an ever resourceful group of bogans, a select few talked their way into getting a truck ride from the camp caretakers into town for the essentials, food and booze. With supplies secured, beers made their rounds. It wasn't long after that each one of us fell into the comfortable unconscious purgatory of a dirt nap.
With the mid-morning sun too hot to stay inside our tents, we but toned up camp and got on our way. Reanimated morning legs and freshly digested energy bars fueled our low-wattage ramble into Raton. Finally, a part of the plan had lined up with the shoddy recon I per formed in the preceding weeks.
During our morning feast in a grocery store parking lot we decided it wise to take a peak at the day's forecast. Much to our dismay it said we would be cranking into 25-35mph winds for the entire day.
but scenic route. We pedaled into the dustfilled wind with a storm looming just over the mountains, threatening to add rain and lightning to our already unfavorable conditions.
With sanity on the line, half of us decided it best to take the straight shot back to the cars, cutting out unnecessary miles in exchange for heavier traffic. The rest of us chose to take the less hospitable,
As a consequence of faulty intel, we were forced make an improvised detour due to a menacing no trespassing sign just over halfway into the days route. Finally, with the wind at our backs and Capulin Volcano in our sights, we began to spot traces of civilization signaling the end to our arduous journey. Thanks to our hollow skulls and numb asses, all nine of us had endured the journey. We headed back to Denver with another success in the books. A success owed to an unfaltering group of undesirables willing to follow a fool into the desert and help him find his way back out.
And the wind whispered softly... "dirt nap."