This time I'll keep my mouth shut. Two days ago, my rash decision in Palm Springs landed us in a mess and we were 12 miles deep in no-man's land. Now I want someone else to make the decision. The turn-off ahead. The right-hand descent leads into a dark valley, but the rough direction could be right. On the left, the trail branches away from the edge of our mountain towards civilisation (we can see lights!), but it could also be a wooden path that gets lost in the thicket. You can imagine which path we choose.
"Let it be the hollow alley!" proclaims Richie with his typical "I've eaten cleverness with spoons" facial expression. So let's go! The trail in front of me seems to disappear into nothingness in the grass. Clever as we are, only two of us four idiots are wearing headlamps. I open my eyes, switch to night vision and try to escape the blinding cone of light from Schley. Admittedly, everything seems to be rushing in the right direction. Well, gravity isn't always right. But after we pass the second candle-lit wooden hut and the path simply fizzles out in the darkness, I realise: I shouldn't have kept my mouth shut after all!
"Dude, we're so fucked!" I bleat, powerless and discouraged. "You're not fucking serious," replies Schley, annoyed. Gully and Riga swallow their anger and say nothing more, turn round wordlessly and push their bikes back up. That's a damn 500 metres of altitude we've lost. The only positive thing: the cool, fresh air. We've had a long, hot day on Mount Wilson. Below us, the metropolis of L.A. glows like lava. The view distracts us from the exertions of the ascent. Schley is still grumbling - presumably because we are now missing the party at his favourite bar "The Rooftop" in Laguna Beach, Schley's favourite hunting ground for plump-chested blondes.
Richie Schley originally organised the tour. It's the second year of exploration for us Canadians in the USA. My buddies from Canada are along for the ride: photographer Margus Riga and my good mate Rocky Mountain Rider Geoff Gulevich. Schley's plan seemed simple: ride to as many epic spots as possible, all of which can be reached by car from his adopted home of Laguna Beach in a day or less.
Palm Canyon Epic Supertrail
We brought our appetite for new hunting grounds with us from Canada and so our first tour started in Palm Springs, about 100 miles from Laguna Beach. Old people love Palm Springs because it's always nice and warm. It's very different to back home, so the heat caught us on the wrong foot. "Palm Canyon Epic" is the name of the super trail that is said to exist here. Google revealed more: "The trail requires stamina and a sense of direction. You should definitely let yourself be guided the first time," recommended mountainbikebill.com. We laughed together: "Who needs a guide!" After all, we saw ourselves as outdoor experts with a whole series of daring adventures under our belts. Photographer Margus Riga in particular does nothing else. On cue, he interjected: "Ever been properly rigged?" And again, we laughed our heads off.
Was it the sun or the jumping around for Margus' camera? Suddenly I couldn't remember all the right and left turns (strangely enough, I was responsible for finding my way again). I also had to keep reminding myself that the internet advice was: "Better with a guide!" After 30 tough miles, the "Palm Canyon Epic" suddenly wasn't so epic anymore. We were about 12 miles further north than planned. My fault, okay. Schley let me feel it until nightfall: "Because of you Honk, we're missing the beer and the girls!" But then we found a redemptive tarmac road back to Palm Springs and got our after-work beer at the infamous Ace Hotel.
The hotel pool was already buzzing when I woke up the next morning - brunch party. We jumped into the baby blue water and enjoyed the Coachella Music Festival that was being celebrated here. Cheers to California! Stress is a foreign word here. Our next destination was just 45 miles from Palm Springs. "What are we supposed to do there now, with this shitty light," Margus convinced us.
Palm Springs - Idyllwild Trails
Leaving the desert of Palm Spings and entering the San Jacinto wilderness is a stark contrast. Huge pine trees and mountain peaks - the Californians must have been so enchanted by this that they called the region Idyllwild for short. To make the idyll perfect for themselves, the Americans also shot the last grizzly in California here. The new savages with bear paws are bikers. In a bike shop, we picked up the best tips for a beary descent. As promised by the photographer, the light was getting better and better. We had finally done everything right and were humming along the trails in the golden light of Idyllwild - on the hunt for style instead of looking for ways out on the wrong track.
Mount Wilson is the most prominent peak in the San Gabriel Mountains north-east of LA. The more Richie drank that evening after the Idyllwild Ride beer, the more fantastic his stories about Mount Wilson sounded: "The most beautiful view in California", "the longest MTB descent in the whole country, almost 2 kilometres", three climate zones", "awesome!". So Mount Wilson was booked. In the morning, we called the "Mount Wilson MTB Adventure Shuttle" and were chauffeured for over an hour along the winding road to the trailhead.
The beginning of the day had more to do with water sports and can be summarised in one sentence: "Surfing fucking yeah!!!" And that was exactly the problem. We ran out of time with all the "fucking yeah", surf-style turns and photo sessions. Richie's buddy Toni, who had come along on this run, had fucked off - he had probably got fed up with the constant stop & go that a ride with a photographer inevitably mutates into. And now the sun was setting and all the endorphins that had been released must have caused a kind of Alzheimer's in Schley's head. In any case, he suddenly no longer knew the way, even though the trail was one of his favourite laps. I better not say anything as we stood rubbing our chins again at a junction, looking in one direction and then the other - with a big question mark on our foreheads.
We slithered into the car park late at night, completely exhausted but in one piece, where Tony was waiting by the truck in worry, muttering with relief: "Man, I almost called the mountain rescue service if you weren't such outdoor professionals!" In the evening, we washed down our scouting frustrations in a substitute pub called the "Dirty Bird". Only in the USA can you feel like you're in the Alaskan wilderness a few kilometres from a multimillion metropolis as the crow flies. And the more the cool, yellow water tantalised our spirits, the more tempting the idea of venturing out for one last, early ride: the Dirty Birds became the Early Birds. But with a hangover, the early worm catches the dirty bird and not the other way round.
Fortunately, the trails of San Juan and the "Chiquita" trail network are free of bird-eating worms at this time of year. Our hangover was quickly forgotten with the technical delicacies of the trail. Only Riga, our photographer, threw up due to the harsh midday light and had a bad temper (although I blame this more on the crash the night before). But the Californian sun also meant well for him: she loosened her reins and his expression relaxed - as we all know, downturned corners of the mouth have nothing to do with gravity. And so, like wild cowboys, we four gringos rode down the dusty trail into the golden Californian light, drunk with happiness.
