Thank for the lovely writeup and breathtaking images. It kept me on tenterhooks.
Jim On Sunday, December 14, 2025 at 2:30:08 PM UTC-5 West Coast Jeff wrote: In the morning I clambered down the rough 4x4 track blasted into the side of the mountain slope and reached the portion of road crossing an alluvial fan which the most recent updates indicated was still impassible for cars. I found it freshly graded, and crossed the fan to the South Pass road far faster than I anticipated. The road into Saline Valley was equally smooth. Except for some rocky sections and some sandy sections it was easily rideable. While walking my bike downhill through a sandy stretch, a wiggly little black speck appeared on the road. Another bicyclist, walking his bike through the sand in my direction. I don't remember his name, unfortunately. He was a mostly deaf, probably Greek, allegedly 61 year old man I had guessed to be in his late 30's. It was the lean face protruding from a jet black beard thicker than lambs wool. He spoke in a high pitched warble about his bike (2 inch or so tires on a department store frame, no racks) and gear (Coleman sleeping bag bunjie-corded to the bike, a plastic gallon of water lashed in a similar fashion), explaining all the gear was borrowed from a friend in Bishop, since he had left his own bike and gear at home on some Greek island, not planning on taking a bike trip. He was aiming to cross Lippencott Pass tonight so carried on. I continued to Warm Springs. At the bottom of Saline Valley, Salt Lake rippled. I crossed no streams but muddy sections and passed plenty of cow pies. I hunkered in the shade of a creosote bush for lunch. At the springs, I was too hot for a soak. I claimed the shadiest spot I could find and read the afternoon away. I planned to take a rest day here, soaking and reading, but overheard a conversation from some of the spring's occupants that weather would be blowing in. I joined the conversation to grab some details. Everyone was naked except for me. A man in the 30s or 40s was telling a woman in her 70s, who had embraced the talents of California's best licensed plastic surgeons that winds over 50 mph were forecasted to blow over South Pass into the Saline Valley the day after tomorrow. I was heading that way, 50 miles back out to my car on the other side of South Pass. This meant I had to do the ride tomorrow, and could not take a rest day. The slowest portion would be the 5,000 foot climb from the southern end of Saline Valley to South Pass. From memory the distance is 10 or 11 miles. I woke up before dawn the next day to pack up camp and head out. The sun wasn't up yet when I had made it a few miles from Warm Springs and the cable for my rear derailleur snapped. Easy fix. I pulled out a spare cable, threaded it through the shifters, down the tube and stays and…it stopped a few inches short of the derailleur. The chain stays were too long. The cable had been cut too short. Here is how I fixed it: first, I rode in high gear over the 20 miles of valley floor, pushing harder and faster than I would have if I had the freedom to switch gears. As the climb started and gradually steepened, I had to alternate sprinting on my bike and walking. Eventually, I cut a cable to less that a foot in length, stuck the stopper (the part that normally sits in the shifter) in the cable router braze on at the back of the chainstay, thread the cable into the derailleur and cranked it to the lowest gear I could attain with the tension I was able to manage with this trail-side fix. It was enough that I was able to pedal, rather than walk, most of the remaining climb. I finished my water at the top of the longest stretch of climb, before the road drops across Grapevine Canyon and climbs again. This was earlier than I had hoped to finish my water. However, I bottomed out in Grapevine Valley with the wash surging full of clear, cold water. Except for a debris flow years earlier and a distant view of a (very rare) shining wet Mojave River the year before, I had never seen running water in the Mojave desert. The water was clean and pleasant, light shimmering on the canyon wall. The black and white photo of my bike leaning on an outcrop beside a stream is from this stop. I pulled my filter, stove, and tin cup out for an afternoon coffee. On the final ascent I chatted with another 4x4 driver who was excited to hear about my trip and get updates on the road conditions. I got an update about my car parked at the highway (still there, not towed, not broken into, not ticketed, not burned up or flipped over by some joy-rider). I reached South Pass and got back on the road I began my trip on. This slowly blended back from sand to chip seal, and reached my car 12 hours after leaving Warm Springs. Gear stuff if you are into that: I had 2 or 2.2 inch tires but I don't remember which ones, nothing too knobby, the same 2x9 set up with Microshift & Shimano deraillers I have always run (an OM derailleur would have been an absolute saving grace on this ride but I would have likely gone slower than 12 hours the final day), Albatross bars, whatever Shimano V-brakes I have on the bike, a Nitto front rack, Wald basket, Tumbleweed rear rack, a mix of Wizard Works, RandiJo, Fairweather, and homemade bags, and all the water I could carry (11 litres... it wasn't enough). On Sunday, December 14, 2025 at 12:22:49 PM UTC-5 West Coast Jeff wrote: In April 2024 I took my 59 cm Atlantis (built in 2020) on a 200 mile trip in Death Valley National Park, aiming for dirt roads. [image: 12.jpg] More photos here: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1pc_ohyckJGzs7IEk10lRw9Yg7Sbx1Pa3?usp=drive_link The goal wasn't necessarily Death Valley, and only a few miles of the route passed into Death Valley itself. Collectively, I'd spent a few months of the last few years up on the Darwin Plateau, between Owens Valley and Panamint Valley. I was mapping the geology and daydreaming of loading up a bike with all the water I could squeeze on it and riding off into them desert ranges. Through stories and worn maps I'd become infatuated with some canyons, passes, peaks and valleys out there, and I put together a few route ideas to visit as many places as possible and allow for active rerouting based on road conditions and water. I spent a wet northwest winter going on my usual rainy commutes and soaked weekend woodland trips, while trying out different ways to carry gear so that I could maximize water (I managed to pack on 11 litres). In early April I careened across the central valley with too much enthusiasm and, bike strapped to the back, got a ticket in Bakersfield. I was going 5 over but the officer clocked me at 15 over. This gave me something to think about during desert nights on my sleeping pad. California had stormy and wet winters from '22 - '24. This brought a lot of water east of the Sierra, filling springs and pools and damaging roads. I parked on the Darwin Plateau as the lake in Badwater Basin finished drying up and the road crews completed clearing and regrading most of the park's back roads. I did not get to ride over Steele Pass as this road was still under construction and, based on insider info, was entirely unrideable by bike at the time. I hope to return someday to ride that road. I took off from the highway riding the South Pass Road through the Talc City Hills and the "Joshua tree forest," a dense growth of Joshua trees, though I saw the density of Joshua trees surpassed last month on a 3 day ride through the Mojave National Preserve, I'll share photos from that another time. At South Pass, peeking into my final destination of the Saline Valley, I headed up hill, climbing Hunter Mountain. Hunter Mountain stands at the north end of Panamint Valley. When you drive into the park from the west and stop at the Crowley overlook, Hunter Mountain looms dark and green above the sun blighted valley. It is 7,000 tall, lush with pinyon and juniper, littered with cattle fences and water tanks. Ranchers summer their cattle on the mountain. Before the park, drovers herded the cattle over land to the Owens valley in winter, likely by the route I was now pushing my bike up. The steep climb, along with foot-deep mud and clinging remnants of snow forced me to walk. I was pounding through my water. Hunter's summit is wide and plateau-like. After the hard climb it was a gentle roll through dwarf pine forest and iced up springs. Leaving the lee of a small hill, the forest abruptly stopped, spitting me back into open desert. I rode to the edge of the summit plateau, aiming to refill my water at a trickle a mile downhill that, I had on good authority, was running. Checking my dwindling water reserves, I decided not to risk the descent, and turn around to refill at known cattle tanks back in the trees. Retracing my tracks for a mile or two, I was passed by an old Chevy Blazer that had seen better days. Those days were probably in the 90's. A dad and son got out to chat about my ride and their own trip, and offering water which I gladly accepted. Replenished, I turned back downhill. The descent was steep and switchbacked. I hit one sand trap at a good speed. I swear my front wheel turned a full 90 degrees left and then right, but I managed to put a foot down and catch myself. The trickle I had been assured of was really more of a seep. It wasn't something I could fill my water filter in and I was immensely grateful that I had taken the cautious approach to backtrack for more reliable water. This dropped me into the Hidden Valley. High and lonesome, rimmed by red & yellow dust painted peaks on all sides. I camped at the bottom of an alluvial fan pouring from Lost Burro Canyon, home of the Lost Burro Mine. I saw one vehicle across the valley and some old VW bus drove up the road to the Lost Burro Mine as I boiled my rice and beans. The downside to taking this trip on a bike is the inability to explore side roads or canyons or summits, due to the tight water constraints. I didn't take as much water as I could from the friendly strangers earlier, I only took enough to get me through to water taps in Death Valley proper the next day. So down the dusty road the next day and past Teakettle Junction and onto 15 miles of washboard on the Racetrack Valley road, heading toward Ubehebe, pavement, and water. Bouncing and vibrating and clattering along the washboards, those I talked to said this was the best they had ever seen the road. This was, additionally, the busiest stretch of dirt I would see. A handful of trucks with all the bells and whistles and lights would blow past me every hour. Every fourth or fifth car would ask if I was good on water--this would save me the next day. One lone motorcyclist stopped to tell me I was his hero. I stiffly dismounted my bike at Ubehebe, in the paved parking lot and crowd of tourists. Ubehebe is a volcanic crater, not an impact crater as I had hoped for. As a geologist I have seen enough basalt for one life, so I stayed on the edge and tried to appreciate the scale. I flew down 8 miles of paved road to the water spigot at Mesquite Springs, where I would camp for the night. It was a short day and I found a shady spot to read the rest of the afternoon before another dinner of rice and beans. Day three, I backtracked the 8 miles of pavement and 15 washboarded miles of climbing to Teakettle Junction. At lunch I forgot my camera (OM-1 from the early 80s, responsible for the black and white shots) and unstrapped all the bags and water from my bike to backtrack a few miles and grab it. This was the big day for water: I would camp dry that night at Lippencott pass, ride down the rough road to the Saline Valley the next day, and cross the entire valley before reaching (hot, hard) water at warm springs. I drink a lot of water. Doing the math in my head as I pedaled, still not out to the Racetrack Valley Playa, I determined I would run out of water by breakfast. This meant I needed to ask for water or turn around. Fortunately, the next car to pass offered water before I could ask. He was traveling alone, late 60s, walking up sharp peaks, scrambling off trail, going places none of the other car traffic cared to go. Again I felt constrained by the water enforced limits of desert bike travel. I passed across the playa, the road hard pan in places and pools of sand in others. I checked out the grooved cut by windblown rocks out on the playa. At Lippencott pass I was entirely alone for the night, and Lippencott was the peak of my trip. Here the hills to the south rose immense and inviting, the peaks falling away west over the pass are sharp, jagged, layered. The road spiraled out beneath me in the setting sun. At night the only sound was the whine of blood in my ears. (continued in reply) -- You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups "RBW Owners Bunch" group. To unsubscribe from this group and stop receiving emails from it, send an email to [email protected]. 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