I reserve the right to change my mind.

It is after all the primary benefit of riding bikes by oneself: permission to unapologetically go off-script. Go ahead. Alter the plan, who is going to complain? Certainly not me. To be honest I’ve never been a particularly hard rider. When it hurts, I usually back off. When it’s raining, I tend to stay inside. Racing was invariably an exercise in frustration. The noble suffering and sacrifice were never really my strong suit. I have historically found the good-timing grasshopper more relatable than the industrious ants. It might sound like I’m setting up an elaborate pretext for semi-committal riding.

I say if it feels right, go with it. If not, don’t.

All of this brings me to a solo trip a year or so back in north-central Washington’s Okanogan National Forest. I was without much of an overarching plan. More or less a handful of days carved out for solitary exploring. A recent crash had sent me off with some bruised ribs, not necessarily a dealbreaker. I could ride, but would need to keep it reined in. This particular day was in late September, the idea being to set out from Loup Loup Pass, east of Twisp to investigate a curiously marked ‘China Wall’ feature of the Okanogan, a remote-ish complex of 19th-century granite wall structures seemingly in the middle of nowhere. A cursory rundown of four-wheel drive and motorcycle forums hinted at a range of expectations anywhere from that of mildly interesting local curiosity to a harrowing death-trap of collapsing mine shafts.

Oh, and rats. I guess there was supposed to be rats.

The ride was a 39 mile loop. Nothing crazy. 5000 feet of climbing give or take. All well within reason.

The climb out of Loup Loup was dreamy, gently crunching up lazy forest roads, through patchy shifting sunbreaks, lilting, rhythmic curves and radiant fall understory glowing in the diffused morning light. The ribs seemed to be holding steady. A little tender. Breathing was shallow but manageable. I climbed for a while, rested a bit then climbed some more, very much lost in my own head. A muted engine sputtered in the distance, pulling me back to the moment. An ancient dirt bike rattled up in a cloud of dust, the rider resembling Kris Kristofferson in grimy denim, a small rifle lashed to the bars.

“Road’s washed out up the way.”

Cocking his head in the direction from which he arrived.

“Ain’t been all the way down to see how bad it is. Gated off. Maybe get through on that mountain bike.”

He seemed a little shaky. Possibly drunk. Did it matter that I wasn’t on a mountain bike? Splitting hairs over bar shape and headtube angles didn’t seem to be his bag, so I thanked him and moved along. As expected, a couple miles up the road I hit the gate. A USFS notice and laminated map confirmed the entire upper section of my route was closed. This perimeter also marked the transition into an immense burned-out valley, beyond which the road narrowed to a much more rudimentary affair, dropping steeply through a recent burn into a ghost forest.

Aesthetically speaking, this was the eureka lode. Easily 12 stars out of 10. What’s more, I’d have it all to myself. Typically undeterred by gates or closures, I felt a twinge of hesitation. I am usually with a group. In this case I was alone and there is certainly something to be said for toning things down a bit when exploring solo. Despite my uneasiness I decided to keep rolling. Dropping into the valley, an icy wind kicked up. The road switched back on itself multiple times, diving steeper and deeper, an accelerating sense of commitment looming the lower I dropped. After a while I checked my progress via GPS and was deflated to discover I was not even a quarter of the way into the first leg of the loop. I wasn’t feeling great and it was colder than anticipated, but didn’t a lot of solid days start that way? Besides it looked so goddamn cool! I pushed on, winding through the charred spires, descending for several more miles until I felt the first raindrop. At first just a few specks on the glasses. Then a pointillistic patter developed, rising into a roar.

Goddammit.

I fumbled with my rain jacket and and a second set of gloves.

Definitely not what I had hoped for today.

The weather continued to ramp up, a barrage of precipitation was now rebounding from the forest floor. Okay. It was officially hailing. The chorus of hailstones felt like a cruel taunt, shaming my lack of commitment, pelting my helmet, pinging my bike like cartoon bullets, accumulating along the edges of the road. My summerweight bibs soaked through in minutes, the rain filling my shoes like sloshing buckets. Shivering, I reassessed. It was dumping rain and hail. 45 degrees. I was thoroughly drenched. My ribs were starting to throb from the trembling in my core and I was barely a quarter of the way into a ‘closed’ area with no idea about the condition of the road ahead.

Fuck it. I think I’m out.

I grumbled and turned around. This adventure would have to wait. The climb out was a slog. A retreat of shame. I had failed. What kind of pathetic rider was I that couldn’t handle a 39-mile loop in a bit of weather? Soaked and dispirited, I found myself back where I started. As the weather began to lift, I somehow talked myself into approaching at least some of the route backward. Certainly something could be salvaged from the day.

Reversing course, I set off down a sizable paved descent. A bigger drop than I expected. Imagine a wide secondary highway coming down a mountain pass. Not bad but not terribly compelling. Now imagine just enough high-speed traffic to dispel any notion of solitude. My swelling pessimism nagging that every foot of elevation dropped was a foot which would need to be re-climbed when this didn’t pan out. Again, I stopped. Bikes are great up to a point. Riding was theoretically fun until it wasn’t. Didn’t pizza, beer and a hot bath sound like a better game plan at this stage?

Resigned to my second pitiful withdrawal in so many hours, I labored back up the thankless grade. Soon I began to notice a curious sequence of smaller forest roads leading off to either side. One particular sign read ‘State Land’. What was it? Where did it go? At this point my plan was that I had no plan, so I nudged up the road to have a quick peek. It looked promising, so I kept at it. Around each curve the scenery kept getting better, the road carved elegant lines through golden meadows and perfectly-spaced pines.

These idyllic new surroundings were looking up. The sun was now intermittently shining, I was drying out and had no idea where I was and that was okay. Bike-riding was officially sort of fun again! The breadcrumb effect of the out-and-back scenario does create a certain perception of security when you are by yourself, something I hadn’t really given much thought until now. The area looked amazing and it was making me feel better so I kept climbing. Up around tight switchbacks, toward distant ridge lines through otherworldly stands of red alder, slender trunks arched in unison over the roadbed, leaves rattling as if to underscore the seasonal shift well underway.

Without much warning I crossed back into another patchwork of recent burn, the hillsides bristling with angry stubble. A lonely lookout tower on an adjacent peak was now visible and seemed within reasonable range. I figured it could be a destination of sorts, if not something merely tangible to aim for.

I had a new plan. This one seemed at least as compelling as the original idea if not better. The roadbed pitched up from here, tracing the backbone of the ridge, I began to realize that from my vantage point I could see into the burned valley where I had just been. The gate, the switchbacks, the valley, all of it seemed fairly benign from this perspective. Forging ahead with climbing gears maxed, the gradient dictated a position somewhere between seated and standing. The lingering presence of ash, rock, smoke and scorched earth was overwhelming. I focused upward, navigating the final corkscrew to the base of the tower.

The peak, as I understand now, is called Buck Mountain. Windswept, barren and slightly foreboding, the empty tower stood watch over 360 degrees of undulating mountain range draped in a gentle blue haze. A bird’s wing lay at my feet, disembodied and without context. Carved into this raw landscape, the harsh and desolate beauty of the reveal felt that much sweeter because it was so unexpected. I won’t frame this as anything particularly profound. Sometimes you just get lucky. Sometimes you can turn it around and salvage the day from resignation and defeat to finish on a high note. I will always chalk that up as a win. All of this said, I have little-to-no recollection of the descent. I imagine coming back down was probably great but nothing sticks out in particular beyond an overall sense of contentedness. All the decisions made had been the right ones and yes, pizza, beer and a hot bath still sounded like a pretty great idea.