Friends in Cow-Pie Places: Field Notes from the WeedSac 140

Words and photos by Johnny Sullivan

A few months back, James and I sent postcards with our emails written on them to a P.O. box in Las Cruces, New Mexico. Soon after, we received a message from Matt Mason saying we’d made it in for the WeedSac 140. I was psyched. My riding buddy and long-time friend James was excited for the trip but skeptical of the challenge we’d set for ourselves. “I’d kinda been hoping my postcard got lost in the mail,” he told me.

Matt is the mind behind the Monumental Loop, and the WeedSac was a new route he and Phil Simpson put together out of Cloudcroft, the perfect place to escape the desert summer. Encompassing 140 miles and 14,000 feet of climbing through the Lincoln National Forest, it’s a collection of their favorite canyon descents strung together by long climbs to get to the top of the next slide. This includes a 27-mile continuous ascent midway through and a leg near the end that rises more than 2,100 feet in just seven miles. That final climb had us pretty worried. Matt dubbed the route Rollin’ and Tumblin’. The WeedSac was a non-competitive group ride in May, and the postcard entrance procedure set the tone.

• 
• 
• 

Day One

At 9:30 a.m. on May 19th, we rolled out of Cloudcroft with about 60 other riders. It was a late start time, another facet of Matt’s plan intended to set a laid-back tone. Race it if you want, but this was an opportunity for some relaxed riding. Savor it. Lean your bike down and take an herbal respite after a hard climb. Eat too many gummy worms. Find the perfect mountain meadow.

Soon enough, we were off to the woods, and then we were all off of our bikes—a train of riders pushing up and over the chunky stuff, faces revealing bewilderment that this was happening already, less than two miles in. Is this a sign of what the next 140 miles held in store? This was a Matt Mason route, after all. But then we were over a small rise and tearing down smooth doubletrack. This was the route writ small: there would be many climbs to come, each more gnarly than the last, followed by life-affirming descents. The kind of downhill plunges where the elements of speed, joy, and abandon intersect. Where you keep expecting the road to level and the breeze to slow and yet they do not, each turn revealing another dip that propels you ever faster. Where you’re keenly aware that you’re soaring, suspended on a few square inches of rubber. To me, one of the miracles of riding is that that feeling never goes away. The exhilaration doesn’t ebb with continued exposure.

• 
• 

• 
• 
• 

James and I have been friends for 12 years. We met when I was living in a three-story house in Austin with four others from my graduate program, and one of them asked if a couple of friends could crash with us for a bit. James and his wife Taylor were just getting back from living in Peru for seven months, and they needed a place to land. We all said sure, and they set up shop in the living room. The first thing I remember doing with them was riding bikes around to South By Southwest shows, looking for the best free stuff. We’ve had countless misadventures since then, including driving out to Big Bend in May in their beloved “adventure car,” a two-door Cavalier with no A/C, and unexpected snow camping in the Guadalupe Mountains.

James got into bikepacking because he saw the trips I was doing and wanted to join. I went out to Big Bend at the end of January a couple of years back. In February, I got a text from him: “I just got a gravel bike, so get ready to shred.” This was followed shortly after by some understandable befuddlement about wheel and tire standards. Another message: “How many mm is the best?” The eternal question. If only I knew. If only anyone knew. Our first bike tour was in the Valles Caldera, not all that far from Cloudcroft. Since then, we’ve ridden around Austin and more in New Mexico. When the WeedSac rolled around, I talked him into it, knowing it was outside his comfort zone but also knowing he could do it.

Those early miles on day one of the WeedSac were slow going but beautiful. We followed a meandering trail through the forest, bumping up and over (or lifting our bikes around) some deadfall. An initial high point led down into Zinker Canyon, at first steep, rutted, and muddy before leveling a bit and gifting us with flowing, rolling, mountain valley singletrack, dust clouds billowing from the rear tire ahead of me. The high country of New Mexico is a special place. We hit our first real climb at mile 25. We began grinding away, some chatting, others in the zone. I’d started a bit ahead of James and am typically a faster climber. As I approached the top, planning to wait, I heard a “whooooop!” from behind and he rocketed past, grinning in delight. He had found a “second wind” (he ate a GU) and rapidly closed the gap between us. A meadow stop soon followed.

The topography churned around us as we drifted up and down, climbing with renewed power, sweeping our eyes across the landscape on the downhills, admiring the blue and tan of the sky and scrub-dotted hills, clouds adding drama as they danced to the horizon. We hit pavement and were in Mayhill, our first resupply. Chicken tenders, a grilled cheese, and tots from the local cafe brought us back to life. Some more pavement out of town and a short dirt climb later, we rolled into a camp area already called home for the night by five or six cyclists and soon to house about 15 more. We picked a flat spot, kicked the cow pies out of the way, and set up our tent to dry in the late-afternoon sun and steady breeze. With a few hours of daylight left, a camp circle formed. Reclined on elbows or each other, people shared treats they’d brought along as we swapped stories. Nate produced an etch-a-sketch from a pannier. Idle hands stuck a handful of old cow bones into the dirt and James dubbed them Bonehenge: less impressive than its namesake but closer to home.

• 
• 

Day Two

We awoke in a cloud and packed up quickly, eager to get on the bikes and get warm. Ten miles later, we were at the Weed Store in Weed, NM. They knew we were coming and brewed extra hot coffee. A crew of riders gathered at the picnic table outside, making breakfast, swapping plans for water on route, and hoping the sun might come out. The next section promised that 27-mile climb we’d seen on the elevation profile. In preparing for the trip, a few sections had looked particularly daunting. This was the first. And yet it was largely a breeze. Rather than heading up without relent, the road sprinkled in occasional flats. The sun arrived and it was my turn for a second wind (I probably ate a GU and don’t remember).

We caught Chris and Brian on a break and rode with them the rest of the way up. I’d noticed their bikes at the group start but hadn’t connected with their riders until we camped near them on the first night. Chris was on a custom Bantam all-road and Brian pedaled a Crust Scapegoat with three-inch rubber. We stopped with them for a long lunch at the end of that climb. Chris lives in North Texas, Brian in Utah, but their history of bike touring together was long. It was apparent from their stories, but also from their interactions and the ease with which they navigated the rhythms of the day: when to stop, when to push on, whether to take the time for a trailside coffee.

• 
• 
• 

We hit some rougher stuff after lunch: a bit of hike-a-bike, a two-plug puncture, and a stretch of hail. Just when we needed a break, our tires found the ripping descent down Will’s Canyon. We stopped to filter water and decided to camp at Bluff Springs, just seven miles up a relatively easy grade from the bottom of the canyon. James played a compilation of old-time fiddle tunes from his phone—the one album he had downloaded—and we took in the sights as the valley settled into golden hour. Horses grazed. A sign read, “SLOW DOWN Children, Pets, Livestock, Old Guys.” Bluff Springs welcomed us with a waterfall worthy of the location’s local fame. The real find lay above it, up a flight of cut log stairs: an open meadow dotted with tall pines and divided by a mountain stream.

Matt invited us over for another dinner circle, this time lit in the center by the artificial fire of a backpacking lantern. We ate our meals and took spoonfuls of passed-around chocolate pudding as we checked in on the day. This route was incredible. Every person was having fun, both despite and because of the difficulty. Just as someone mentioned the gnarly climbs that lay ahead, once far-off lightning breached the nearby ridge and dispersed us to our tents and tarps. We ducked in just before a deluge.

Day Three

The last day kicked our asses. It began with a five-mile climb up to Benson Ridge that took more than an hour and a half. We pushed our bikes up the wet slope, tires and shoes caked with mud and rocks like cookie batter. After a while, we just had to laugh at the ridiculousness. “I never go for a walk without my bike,” as it goes. Lucas Canyon waited on the other side, and it was steep, slick, and chunky. This descent was thrilling on my drop-bar bike. There’s nothing like riding right at your skill limit, all focus attuned to your balance and body position, picking lines as you push the speed.

• 
• 

The next section took us up again before hurtling us down Karr Canyon, by far the fastest plummet of the route, and delivering us into the town of High Rolls. The route notes promised a general store with “all the things including pizza and burgers,” but when we arrived, they had none of the things. There had been a supply snafu, and they’d run out of hot, salty food. The Rolls may have been High but the vibes were not. It was 3 p.m., getting warmer, and the 2,100-foot climb back to Cloudcroft loomed. This was our low point.

After 12 years in Austin, my fiancé and I are moving to Vermont this August. Although we’re excited for the change, it was tough deciding to leave our community behind. I was initially nervous to deliver this news to James but was surprised when he urged us on, stoked for us and the opportunity. Knowing I’d soon be living across the country, we were both more dedicated to training. A pattern formed. Early morning cortados at Epoch Coffee followed by hilly rides, in the rain, in the heat. Texts flying back and forth the rest of the day about tire choice, packing setups, what we’d need, and what we could spare. James upgraded his drivetrain and wheelset. When May rolled around, we were ready to shred. Or at least survive, hopefully.

• 
• 
• 

As we sat outside the High Rolls General, a few riders who’d arrived earlier to a still-provisioned store offered leftovers. Phil stopped by in his car, having already finished the route. He threw out some time estimates for the final stretch: three hours if we were riding hard, five if we took it easy. We stocked up on snacks and rolled out.

Four hours later, we finished the WeedSac 140. That last climb was not triumphant. It was a slog. There was more shade as we rose higher. We took breaks and walked a few of the steeper sections. As we turned onto the last bit of singletrack up to the campground, it began to hit us that we did it. The two of us rode the whole route together. We kept each other going, and I don’t think either of us would’ve finished without the other.

• 
• 
• 

We have plenty more bikepacking trips in our future, despite my cross-country move. I’m already trying to talk James into the Green Mountain Gravel Growler, a longtime bucket list trip that will soon be about an hour from my house. “No,” he joked, in the car on the way back from New Mexico. When I brought it up again, a few days after we got back, he noted that it has, “Nearly as much climbing per mile as WeedSac, but punchier, and is more than 100 miles longer.” He was coming around.

Weedsac 140 Route

Related Content

Make sure to dig into these related articles for more info...