At what point do you decide to turn around on a ride in the backcountry? Everyone has a different comfort level when it comes to getting lost. But after emerging from a drainage after four hard fought hours of bush whacking with my bike, I was wondering where that point was for me.

Was it after the 4th or 5th crack of thunder? Was it when the trail just petered out and became too over grown to follow? Was it the moment I decided to walk my bike down into the steep embankment into the abyss? Maybe.

Or was after crossing the 100th downed tree? Or maybe it was when my sunglasses were ripped off my head and lost in the creek? Or was it the rain and hail that accompanied me the whole way down? Or maybe, just maybe it was cliff that I ran into half way down. Hmm. I don't know exactly where that point was, but leaving the trail and bush whacking in the backcountry was an adventure.

Rugged mountains in these parts.

Rugged mountains in these parts (click to enlarge).​

I didn't die or even have to spend a night in the forest, but I took away some valuable lessons. Maybe you stick to the trails you know, but most likely everyone has a story of getting lost, or being in a situation where just getting home was the only goal. It's the feeling of being lucky because many things could have gone worse.

After starting my 3-hour tour just outside Durango close to the Purgatory ski resort, I encountered an intersection with no signage. Of course I guessed wrong. After figuring out that the trail I had chosen was heading the wrong direction I turned around. I ran into my wife who was hiking with our dogs. Maybe this should have been a sign. But I said goodbye again and continued westbound on my intended loop.

No roads to be seen.

No roads to be seen (click to enlarge).​

Finally I found some flow and was feeling pretty good. I saw some signs and figured I was back on course. With my short detour, I was an hour into the ride, ready to rip some downhill. Just another sweet weekend ride in Colorado. Then I heard the first crack of thunder. After the 2nd and 3rd crack of thunder I was pretty sure I was going to get wet. I had checked the weather before I left. They were calling for just a chance of T-storms. As it turns out the weather was the least of my worries.

Continue to page 2 for more tales from being lost in the backcountry »

The start of the deadfall.

The start of the deadfall (click to enlarge).​

Soon I was on a ridge descending down into a beautiful Aspen grove in light rain on a tacky trail. Awesome. There wasn't a soul on the trail except for my wife who by that point was probably back at the car heading to meet me in a few hours at my intended destination. The area was desolate even by Colorado standards. As the trail narrowed it became overgrown with wildflowers. This year with all the spring rain, it wasn't unusual to see this.

Mark is also known as the Honey Badger for his tenacious disposition.

Mark is also known as the Honey Badger for his tenacious disposition.​

Then the trail disappeared, so I backtracked to see if I missed a turn, but nothing. I guessed this must be the way it goes. Maybe it'll reappear down the hill, I thought. But soon I was riding on grass, no trail in sight. Weird. I pulled out my map and saw that the trail stays on the ridge before dumping off to the left into a creek drainage. Assuming I was on the right trail, I was now 10 miles to the nearest road over some pretty rugged terrain. As I dropped in making my own singletrack I fell on the wet grass after smacking a hidden log. My bike crashed on top of me. That's when I went into walk mode. At the bottom I saw the first few downed trees that I had to get around. At this point the terrain was steep on the sides with heavy vegetation. Riding was no longer an option, so I hoisted my bike over the trees with all their limbs. As I hit the creek I saw tons of deadfall to maneuver around. Maybe I should've turned around, but that would have meant going back over those big downed trees again, this time going up hill. I don't even think I could've scrambled back up that hillside it was so slick and steep.

More deadfall...

More deadfall...​

So was I past the point of not turning around? Probably. Years ago I was an adventure racer, so turning around was common, but that decision was always made as a group….usually by someone with more sense than me. My bull headedness and stubbornness got me into this predicament, but now it was my bull headedness and stubbornness that was going to get me out of here. Just keep moving, one downed obstacle after another, and pretty soon you'll run into a trail or something. How bad could it be?

Continue to page 3 for more tales from being lost in the backcountry »

The abyss I headed down off the trail into the drainage. Not a good decision.

The abyss I headed down off the trail into the drainage. Not a good decision (click to enlarge).​

Then it started to hail - and cell service vanished. Couldn't let the wife know I was going to be a little late at the pick up point. A Spot GPS gadget would've been a pretty cool thing to have at that point. After about 100 downed trees, and multiple falls trying to negotiate the hardest most dense creek bed I've ever been down before, I heard a sound. A sound I was hoping I wouldn't hear. There was a waterfall about 100 feet high with rock ledges on both sides. This was truly the point of no return, right?

This was the point where the seriousness of my situation hit me. But like I said my bull headedness will get me down this thing. It started to hail, as I tried to negotiate the steep rock out cropping and slide down to the creek or maybe it was more of a tumble down to the bottom. I saw my sunglasses fling off into the creek. But that was the least of my worries. I just wanted to get out of there.

This is the cliff area.  You can't see it, but there's a 100-foot waterfall in there that I was on top of.

This is the cliff area. You can't see it, but there's a 100-foot waterfall in there that I was on top of (click to enlarge).​

I continued down another mile in hopes of seeing something besides more downed trees. I saw a cave, which could have been shelter for the night. When you're solo, your thoughts start to take over and you start to wonder what the hell you were thinking. You start to consider the consequences of your situation. If I break my leg, no one will know to look up this dense creek bed. I doubt there's ever been a human being in this gulley.

I even considered ditching my beautiful Yeti carbon 5C. It was taking a beating being hucked through all the deadfall and heavy sticker bushes. It was like pulling a plow behind me. If only I'd had a buddy with me to hand the bike to over the big trees. I could've made way better time negotiating this vegetation and deadfall without it. But hell no, I wasn't leaving my beautiful bike out here.

A couple of hours later I saw that the creek I was following finally dumping into a larger river - and I saw the glorious trail I'd been looking for. I made it out alive. I looked back at the mouth of the creek I had come down and flipped it off. Thank God I didn't ditch my bike, because now I get to ride 15 miles on a beautiful trail.

The 'Lost Trail' is somewhere north of Durango, CO.

The 'Lost Trail' is somewhere north of Durango, CO.​

For some people the point of no return is at the beginning of the trailhead. We all have a story of something gone bad on a ride. We look back with 20/20 on things we could have done to avoid getting into that predicament. I down loaded my ride to Strava and saw where I went wrong. Sometimes you make mistakes and get past the point of no return. You just have to persevere to make it to your destination. Riding bikes is awesome. Bush whacking your bike can be awesome, too. Riding home on those last few miles of sweet single track I appreciated my surroundings even more. I saw another rider. I stopped to chat. He looked at me and my mangled legs and weeds hanging from my bike. It looks like you've been through a war, he said. I just smiled and pedaled on.