By Lukas Brinkerhoff — 5:30 PM is approaching fast.
I’m still at work and as these things tend to go, the boss pops in last minute and wants to talk. 4:30 turns to 4:37 and slowly churns to 4:48. He can tell I’m fidgety, but I’m not sure he fully recognizes why. I typically don’t leave until 6 except on Wednesdays when I’m sneaking off to sleep in the desert. As the clock approaches 5, I begin to gather my things. I close everything on my screen and shut the laptop. This cue is obvious, and he wraps up.
I pack up my bag, grab some water, shoving the reservoir into the frame bag on my AWOL and jump in the truck. I’ve now got 30 minutes to get to our starting point.
Several years ago, motivated by social media posts of people bragging about how many nights they had slept outside, I decided that skipping out of society a couple of times a month was not enough. I wondered if it would be possible to sneak in a quick, short bikepacking trip midweek. I pitched the idea to a few Mooseknuckler Alliance members and the following Wednesday, we went bikepacking. Leaving after work, we pedaled 15ish miles to a predetermined campsite, slept in the desert and then were back in time for work Thursday morning. It was amazing and when the weather permits, we try to keep the tradition going.
Rolling up a few minutes late, I park in front of the Planner’s house. He’s ready, outside with his bike packed. There’s some a conversation that ends with me jamming more water into my frame pack and finding ways to stash things that I probably don’t need. It’s easy to justify some luxuries when you are only gone for 15 hours. The one cup French press I had brought is suddenly a burden, but I rearrange, ending with bags bulging and we head south into NoZona.
The sun is settling into the evening casting long shadows and lighting the desert the way that only sunsets can. We pedal out of the neighborhood catching a dirt road, but soon we are rallying singletrack. It’s fast, moto-built singletrack. The woops catch me off guard a few times bouncing my rigid bike through the air. The Planner is on an MTB with a suspension fork and pulls away as we continue to head south into Arizona.
The dust, the lighting, the creosote, and the singletrack all are perfect. I feel sneaky like I’m getting away with something. I can imagine “responsible” adults lecturing me on how I should not be engaging in such frivolous activities like riding my bike out into the desert to sleep on the ground under the stars for one night when one could just stay home, watch some TV and sleep in a luxurious bed. You know, do “responsible” things. Things 40-year-olds do.
The golden light from the setting sun is catching the dust kicked up by the Planner’s tires. The singletrack winds its way through the creosote. The dust creates a snake through the gloaming. I want to stop and take a picture, but there’s no point. The Planner is already dropping me and if I stop, he’ll be gone, the moment lost, and I’ll just be that much farther behind. Instead, I smile enjoying the moment of guilty pleasure that my contemporaries may not understand and continue pedaling.
We take the long way to our campsite pedaling about ten miles. The last rays of sun are fading in the distance as we roll up on our spot. The Planner had planned and dropped some water and firewood that morning. Our ten-mile loop had landed us about 3 miles from where we started. With that luxurious bed not too far away, we do the sensible thing and start a fire, pop a couple of beers and ready our beds for a night sleeping under the stars.
With our bed rolls set, food in our bellies and beers in hand, we begin the dance that is sitting/standing around a campfire. There is a light breeze that keeps us guessing which way chaos is going to push the smoke. The conversation is what you would expect. Light at times, followed by deep thoughts, grunts of approval, all sprinkled with spaces of silence that let us enjoy the flames bouncing in front of us and the quiet that is nature.
The silence lingers longer and longer as 9 o’clock approaches. We are after all a group of aging men and as soon as the time clicks past, we are all in bed in a matter of minutes each tucked away in their chosen corner wrapped in down with nothing but clouds and light pollution to obscure the beauty of the desert’s night sky.
I for one fight back at the heavy eyelids trying to put me to sleep as I attempt to enjoy the stars, but within minutes I’m sawing logs.
Somewhere after 5, the Planner and I are both morning larks, he gets up and gets the fire going. I roll over and spark up the camp stove, boiling water before pouring it into my French press for my coffee. With my coffee prepped, I roll out of bed and join him by the fire.
The conversation is slow to start, but as the coffee awakens the synapses of our brains and the sun’s rays glow brighter on the horizon, it quickens. Soon we are laughing and philosophizing as we had the night before, revisiting some topics and introducing more. One cup turns to two, some breakfast is consumed before the third cup is brewed as we begin to reverse the process.
With our bikes packed back up, we pedal back into the desert taking the long way back to our starting point. It’s a few minutes before 8 am when I roll up in front of my house. My wife is just getting ready to leave for work and it’s time for me to begin to do the same. I pull my gear off the bike, quickly cleaning and stashing it for the next ride. I shower before hopping on my bike to pedal the short distance back to work.
Reentry complete.
