By Peta Owens-Liston

Originally published Jun 01 2000

Some 2,000 miles from the Statue of Liberty and not an Ivy League school in sight, this is one of the last places I expected to hear an East Coast accent — and from a local no less. But Jim Ryan, a Long Island transplant and now owner of Road Runner Shuttle Services in Moab, is talking a blue streak about the trials and tribulations of making a living in a town that comes to life with tourism from March through October and then slumbers off into hibernation for the winter months, leaving businesses idle.

"Some days I'll make five to six trips up to Porcupine Rim Trail, other days none," says Ryan, who made more than 300 trips to the trailhead last year. "It's feast or famine."
Ryan, like many in the southern Utah resort town, leaves in the winters to find work elsewhere. "I have to so I can afford to come back here."
I can see why people come and why they find ways to stay. As we climb and rattle up Sand Flats Road (something of a misnomer), I catch glimpses through the van's windows of the La Sal Mountains, still deep in snow, and the surrounding red sea of rock, jutting up in places to form strange anthropomorphous shapes. About 25 minutes from our pick-up point, one of the local bike shops, we arrive at our destination — the Porcupine Rim Trailhead.
A mecca for avid mountain bikers, this trail is rated as one of the most difficult in the Moab area. On a scale from one to four, with four being the most difficult, local authorities label it a four.
"We tell our customers that it's the best ride in the area — but it isn't for beginners," emphasizes Eric Confer, who works at the Poison Spider bike shop.
It's our first ride of the season and both my riding companion, Debbie, and I know we are about to send our winter-slacked muscles into a state of shock. Let's face it, nothing prepares one for mountain biking but the sport itself. Before the day ends, we know that our rusty technique will resurface along with a few cuts and bruises — souvenirs picked up along the way. Our bikes, freshly tuned up the day before in Moab, stand at attention, Debbie's with Judy Rock Shocks and a 24-pound frame, mine the antithesis: heavier with shocks long since frozen in a state of absorption.
Goose bumps crawl up our legs from the chill of the early morning air as we read the sign posted at the trail head; a printed mix of warnings, strong suggestions, and - between the lines — some "don't be stupid" insinuations:

Bring plenty of high energy food … A gallon of water per person recommended … Summer temperatures often climb to above 100 degrees … There is no water on the trail … Eating at intervals provides you with an opportunity to rest and gives you needed energy … Riding on Moab trails puts maximum stress on frames and components … Frequent bike inspections reduce possibility of injury … Allow enough time. The trail takes all day … Carry an extra layer, temperatures and weather conditions can change quickly … Wear a helmet.
Grand County often has the highest incidence of search and rescues in Utah. Last year, four or five rescues were made on Porcupine Rim Trail.
"These are the lowest numbers we've had in years," says Rex Tanner, who heads the county's search and rescue team. "We've had up to a dozen rescues in this area before the BLM went in and installed better signage."
Entailing three hours to get in and three to get out, injured people can't expect a quick fix. But they can expect to pick up the tab as the rescued party.
But we're prepared. Besides 70 ounces of water, our Camelpaks are stuffed with energy bars, GORP, dried fruit, Jolly Ranchers, patch kits, tubes, and a few minuscule tools. We're both wearing well-insulated windbreakers. It's early April, so we're more concerned about encountering snow than searing temperatures. Our early start assures us a full day to complete the ride — we're estimating it will take us a leisurely four hours, and we are in no hurry. While some avid spinners finish the 14.4-mile trail in two hours, we are allowing ourselves the entire day. The trail will eventually spill out onto Hwy. 128, six miles from Moab. This last leg on pavement is scenic and easy, mainly because riders are craving anything smooth, and it follows the gentle descent of the Colorado River. Some hardcore nuts forego a shuttle service or car drop and ride the entire 30.8-mile loop, starting from Moab and pedaling up Sand Flats Road (this section is 10.4 miles) to the trailhead.

The terrain varies along the Porcupine, but the trail is always rocky, always challenging.

Porcupine Rim Trail has something of everything: singletrack, doubletrack, slickrock, sand, rutted, ledgy roads, dropoffs, and plenty of opportunities to walk or carry our bikes. Within the first mile of climbing (almost all of the climbing is within the first 3.5 miles), we're breaking a sweat and shed our windbreakers even though remnants of snow still cling to the north side of the pinyon-covered mountain. The trail itself is dry. Tread imprints from motorcycles and Jeeps appear here and there, but no motorized vehicles are seen or heard. Ledges brush by on the peripheral, but my attention is focused on finding a line through the rock garden thriving beneath my tires. I especially want to avoid the thorny stone roses threatening to draw air from my tires.

Spinning Sense into Me
On the downhill my focus intensifies, commanding my full attention. My decisions are instantaneous as I pick a line over bumps and ruts that truly make me feel like I'm riding the back of a short-studded porcupine. My thoughts earnestly coach me along. "Think like water. Flow. Take the path of least resistance. Hug the sides of the trail. Follow the path of other tires." Some sage advice from a veteran rider slips from my memory into the forefront of my mind, "Always look to where you want to go." Advice worth using off the trail as well as on it. The ride is proving to be more of a workout for my arms than my legs, as I constantly find myself yanking on my handlebars to lift my front tire over rock obstacles.
Spinning downward, with my vision limited to the view just beyond my front tire, my other senses perk up and drink in the surroundings. The caw of crows overhead either heckle or cheer me on. A cacophony of bike parts creak and cringe as I steer them over slickrock rubble. On my lips, I can taste a mix of dust, salt, and strawberry Chapstick. A dull ache reverberates in my hands from all the reflex braking.
At our occasional standstills we are truly able to take it all in, undistracted. Stopping and listening reveals an extensive silence — like an ocean it seems to go on forever, slipping over the horizon. The swish of wings brush up against the silence and two crows ascend from the sagebrush to dodge and dive into currents above. The buzz of the occasional insect sounds surprisingly like the sound of an oncoming rider, of which we will see only 10 — not a soul for the first two hours. At one point, while waiting for Debbie, I yell for her, only to have my voice returned as it echoes off unseen canyon walls.
Tucked between rocks or tenaciously gripping into the arid soil are droplets of purple and yellow blossoms. In only a few weeks, I'm sure the cacti will wear the deep colors of their blossoms like jewels. Off the trail, the delicate veins of cryptobiotic soil lay like a thin black veil over the ground. Cryptobiotic soils are the building blocks of the desert and take years to recover once disturbed. Signs — like bread crumbs leading riders along the route — come in the form of rock cairns, carsonite posts, and occasionally as white stripes painted on slickrock. The Bureau of Land Management has improved the signage on this trail dramatically in the last few years.

A Deadly and Beautiful Vertigo
Between 2.5 and 7 miles in, the trail parallels Castle Valley, thousands of feet below. Several times, we leave our bikes to sit or stand at the brink of this panoramic view. It looks like something out of an IMAX film, except the edge of our seat is the ledge of a cliff. The houses scattered below seem Chiclet-size and the monoliths — Castle Rock, Priest and Nuns, Sister Superior, to name a few — seem dwarfed from our vantage point. Red and a newborn blanket of green covers the valley; a river weaves through it with the fresh spring run-off from the La Sals. Merely a few steps away from us is a beautiful and deadly vertigo.
Every turn in the trail seems to reveal another view. At one point, early on in the ride when the trail bends north, we can see westward across Negro Bill Canyon, and we spot Moab nestled below, a green oasis tucked into a bed of red rock. The Moab Rim — a spine of red rock — runs along the town's west side. Every 360-degree scan of our surroundings reveals the La Sals somewhere in the picture. These mountains were originally thought to be mountains of salt (hence the name) by early Spanish explorers who may not have believed the white caps were snow in the midst of a desert range. The La Sal range is Utah's second highest, after the Uintas. Mount Peale, at 12,721 feet dominates the range.
The Porcupine Rim Trail peaks out at about 6,800 feet in elevation and delivers plenty of downhill with a 4,000-foot descent to the Colorado River. For some 11 miles we were kicking up dust and holding on tight. At an especially speedy moment, my right foot came to an abrupt stop — as did my bike — when my shoelace came undone, weaving itself neatly into the spokes of my back tire. At this point I embraced gravity in a bear hug of sorts and picked up a few of those souvenirs I told you about.
Near the end of the ride in an area appropriately named Jackass Canyon, we were hoisting our bikes over boulders and through rock openings more suitable to hikers or mountain goats. All the while, we were trying not to focus too much on the wide-open exposure to steep slopes and cliffs on our right. Below, the flat and smooth-flowing Colorado River egged us on, assuring us that if we could just reach it, we would hit pavement and begin our smooth six-mile ride into town.
As we made our final, and at last obstacle-free, descent onto Hwy. 128, I caught a glimpse of something colorful — a man in a sombrero, underneath a checkered umbrella. He stood up to take our picture, then settled back down into his lawn chair. His van, parked on the road, informed us that we could buy the photo later in town. I was dirt-smeared and worn out, but I think I was smiling.