Not To Be Shared: A Decade of Untold Bikepacking Stories

The first article I ever submitted to BIKEPACKING.com was a route guide for Ontario’s first official bikepacking route, the Central Ontario Loop Trail, or COLT for short. Although I was just getting started, I fell in love with the process of researching, documenting, and ground-truthing the route, then presenting it in a way that inspired other riders. I gave the desk job a shot after university, but knew it wasn’t for me, so I started peppering Logan with ideas. Most of them didn’t stick, but a few did.

I published the route guide for the COLT in October 2016, which was not only the first route guide in Ontario, but the first for all of eastern/central Canada. I take immense pride in that, especially because the COLT was actually a forgotten tourism project that lost steam. From there, I slowly took on more and more responsibilities, eventually landing a full-time editor position. Much has changed, but I’m still obsessed with creating routes, I’m still a total gear nerd, and inspiring our readers is the best part of what I do.

Although I’ve shared many stories over the years, and like to think I’m pretty open with our online community, there are a few I’ve kept more guarded. To celebrate a decade of writing for this website, I thought it was about time to unearth some untold tales. Below, you’ll find a mix of embarrassing moments and silly situations I’ve found myself in, usually while trying to prove myself. Enjoy!

Cutting Corners on the Kokopelli

April 2016

Having been diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease in my final year of university, I opted to remain a student to stay on my mom’s benefits a little longer. With a degree under my belt, I turned to Algonquin College’s Outdoor Adventure Program for a refreshing change of pace.

Our final project—if you can even call it that—was to plan and carry out an expedition as if we were guides. This meant thinking through all the logistics, creating an emergency response plan, developing backup trips, and making it happen. I had recently seen modern bikepacking bags for the first time, purchased a Moonlit Swamp Surly Krampus, and wanted a challenge to wrap up my final days as a student. My friends and I landed on the Kokopelli Trail, partly because it was rideable in the spring, but mostly because other groups at Algonquin College had attempted it and failed.

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We were in way over our heads from the get-go. Our flight to Grand Junction was canceled, so we rented a car and drove through one of the most heinous snowstorms I’ve seen to stay on track. I was the only person old enough to drive the rental car, and I white-knuckled the entire way, dodging transport trucks that slid into ditches. On day one, my friend Scott threw up all over the place, blaming the McDonald’s we planned for our first breakfast because it was cheap and calorie-dense. On one particularly loose doubletrack descent, I went over my bars and tried to blame the rider behind me.

The chaos peaked during our climb up and over the La Sal Mountains. One of our peers was struggling to breathe, we were way behind schedule, and the college’s one rule was that we weren’t allowed to travel at night. We decided to switch off our Garmin inReach tracker and push on into the dark, walking up and over the high point of the route. Once we decided we’d had enough, we set up a makeshift camp in a ditch, engulfed by unfamiliar darkness and small patches of snow.

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Safely back in Moab the next day, we celebrated with a delicious Mexican meal downtown before getting cleaned up for our trip home. If I remember correctly, our flight was delayed once again, and we were put in a hotel, which is when things really started to explode…out of our backsides. Whether it was the Mexican food or the questionable water we drank the night before, we’ll never know.

AAA to the Rescue

July 2019

During one of our road trips, Emily and I stopped by Sklar’s old workshop in Bozeman, Montana, to say hello. We were thinking about getting out on an overnighter, and Adam shared a route with us, and before we knew it, we were on our way, cruising scenic gravel roads away from town.

We both forgot how much the temperature fluctuated in the foothills, and as we were setting up our floorless tent, we realized we’d likely be freezing. For some reason, we had only one sleeping bag between us, and we weren’t prepared for cold nights in the mountains. The sign reminding us of bears and cougars in the area didn’t exactly lull us to sleep, and our floorless tent seemed to be inviting mice inside. I got up to pee and nearly fell back onto the tent, surrounded by dozens of glowing eyes. Damn cows!

At some point during the night, we woke to what I’ve since learned was a mountain lion screech, sending us running down the grassy hill back toward our bikes, cramming gear into bags, and hurrying down the narrow gravel track toward civilization. In this case, a farmer’s ditch gave us comfort, where we tried to catch up on some sleep. Curled together, me in my emergency blanket and Emily in her sleeping bag, it was perhaps one of the longest nights I’ve endured.

Embarrassed and tired, we decided we weren’t equipped to head higher into the mountains for night two, so we made the easy decision to ride the highway back to town. Our struggles weren’t quite over yet. We hit an incredibly windy section of narrow highway that barely permitted forward progress. After an hour and little progress, we called AAA and said we needed a ride to Bozeman. Before long, a massive flatbed truck arrived, and the driver strapped our bikes down for the trip back to the van. With our tails between our legs, I asked the truck driver to drop us off a block away from where the van was parked, so we wouldn’t embarrass ourselves further.

I’ve told this story a few times, but this will be the first time Adam has heard it, if he’s reading. He was surprised to see us back so early, and I think I said something about needing to get some work done. Coincidentally, I cannot locate any photos from this trip beyond this shot leaving town. How strange…

Winning the Julian Bikepack Challenge, Barely

October 2018

I’ve only participated in one bikepacking race, and my riding partner and I managed to win because we were the only ones to finish. While updating the bikepacking events calendar in 2018, I came across the Julian Bikepack Challenge and the 315-mile Big Friggin’ Loop. Having spent little time riding in coastal California, I found the BFL’s wildly diverse terrain appealing. The route started and ended in the small mountain town of Julian, but made its way to the coast, back into the mountains, and down into the desert to the east.

With next to no preparation or training, I thought it would be impressive for me to tackle the route on the Bearclaw Thunderhawk drop-bar monstercross bike I was testing. I packed only the essentials, carrying a small saddle bag from Rockgeist, a half frame bag, and a paper-thin foam sleeping pad strapped to my bars.

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Looking back, I frankly don’t know how I survived the ride, but it wasn’t because of my doing. On our second night at Lake Cuyamaca, one of the ride’s high points, it hovered just above freezing, and my minimalist camping setup wasn’t cutting it. Thankfully, Mack brought enough gear for both of us and lent me their bivvy so I wouldn’t freeze. In the desert, Mack had extra sunscreen, and although I don’t remember, I’m sure they probably kept me moving with extra snacks along the way.

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One particularly memorable night was near Mine Canyon in the Pinion Mountains, where I shaped the sand beneath me into a recliner-inspired shape, placed my thin foam pad on top, and attempted to sleep. It wasn’t the worst night of camping I had, but I think it was probably one of the last times I cowboy camped, and definitely the last time I’d leave the inflatable sleeping pad at home.

Ultimately, I’m not sure who I was trying to prove what to, but I like to think Mack and I share a special connection from that trip. Oh, the things you’ll do in your 20s.

Between Two Trees

December 2020

Five years ago, I came up with the genius idea to try a few hammock styles and put together an introduction to bikepacking with a hammock. The gear was exciting. I really enjoy nerding out about fabrics and designs, and it was fun to learn about accessories like suspension, underquilts, and hammock-specific tarps. I tested some great gear and had a few really cozy sleeps, but more often than not, I was uncomfortable and cold.

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Part of this job means using gear even when we might not want to, and nothing exemplified that more than our final campout of 2020 as part of our annual Good Night Campout challenge. With cold and rainy conditions forecasted, Emily and I set our sights on one of the closer huts on the Sunshine Coast Trail, a popular 180-kilometer hiking route in the area. The hut isn’t insulated and doesn’t have a stove, but I figured it would be enough to keep us at least somewhat comfortable. At the time, I was testing out hammock systems, so we packed a one-person tent for Emily, and I planned to set the hammock up inside the hut out of the elements.

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This was early in the hammock-testing process, and I didn’t fully realize how cold a hammock can be without the right gear, especially when the air around it is cold. It didn’t take long to realize that I’d freeze if I tried to stay in the hammock, and I did what any loving partner would do in this situation: crawled sheepishly into Emily’s tent in search of warmth. We didn’t sleep much, and I remember lighting a tiny tea candle, hoping it would warm us up. It didn’t.

A Fool on The Fool’s Loop

November 2017

Early on, most of my bikepacking exploits were at least partially fueled by a desire to prove my abilities to others. This showed up in many ways, but it peaked during my 2017 scouting trip on the Fool’s Loop in Arizona.

Although some locals helped, the ground-truthing and scouting mission was a solo affair. Not fully understanding the terrain, I decided to ride the gravel bike I was reviewing at the time, crammed it into a box, and set off on my first desert bikepacking trip.

My confidence was mostly due to me being blissfully unaware of what lay ahead, and over the next five days, I got one of the biggest, most unexpected ass-whoopings of my life. It started with a long day riding north from downtown Phoenix to Brown’s Ranch Trailhead, dodging cars, finding bike paths, and baking in the city’s paved heat. By my first night, I was pretty much cracked, but I still thought my bike choice was reasonable.

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Everything started to unravel on Bloody Basin Road on my long push to Cordes Junction, the first major resupply point on the route. Some off-roaders topped up my water during the heat of the day, and I pushed my way up steep climbs and started to wonder if a gravel bike was the right choice. I rolled up to a 24/7 McDonald’s late that night, severely dehydrated and unsure what my next move would be. I snagged a room at a local motel and didn’t emerge again until late the following morning. How much harder could it get?

I’ve never dug deeper than when I rode a gravel bike down the Black Canyon Trail, the last leg of the Fool’s Loop. It was full of near-misses, crashes, mechanicals, and stupid decisions. A cowboy flashed his pistol at me near a ranch, I came across two black SUVs and men in suits in the middle of the desert, and I limped my way back into Phoenix to wrap up a trip I’ll never forget. If you’re thinking about tackling the Fool’s Loop, you should; it’s beautiful. Just don’t do it on a gravel bike.

High Elevation Hallucinations

September 2018

During one of our van trips, Emily and I met up with Logan in Salida, Colorado. Logan and I jumped on the opportunity to scout a bikepacking version of the 125-mile Vapor Trail mountain bike race. It was a fun ride on all accounts, featuring a stunning mix of singletrack, doubletrack, big views, and historic rail grades.

We tackled the route in three days, wringing out every last bit of daylight, riding into the early evening, and setting up camp just before dark. After exploring the Alpine Tunnel ghost town, we dropped down into Brittle Silver Basin to camp near Middle Quartz Creek. The descent was fast and mostly smooth. On the way down, I caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye, and it still gives me the chills thinking about it. Tucked in the dense pine forest was some sort of large cabin or lodge, and although it was late in the day and the light was fading, I could have sworn I saw a black figure standing eerily still, looking out toward us.

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Not long after, we found a spot to pitch our tents, surrounded by trees, and I ventured off into the darkness to filter water from the nearby creek. I found it, but got a little turned around and had to call out to Logan to find my way back to camp. By then, I was pretty sure the mysterious figure was coming for us, and I didn’t sleep much that night.

See You in Ten Days

June 2017

My first taste of an organized bikepacking grand depart was at the second annual BC Epic 1000. The 1,000-kilometer event follows the BC Trail route between Merritt and Fernie, and I thought it would be fun to take 10 days and enjoy it at a slightly more leisurely pace. I’ve already shared most of my experience here (https://bikepacking.com/plog/first-bikepacking-race/), but to summarize, I got caught up in the race and finished in half the time I allotted myself.

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I was the youngest rider by a decade, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that age doesn’t have much to do with bikepacking or ultra-endurance events. My trip report shares some of the things that worked for me, but what it doesn’t share is just how messed up my body was during and after the event. On the final push to Fernie, my knee completely gave up on me, and I was forced to ride for several hours with one leg, my injured leg dangling beside the bike. I briefly considered quitting, but I was so close to the finish, and my competitive edge pushed me along.

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I hobbled to the finish at Fernie’s City Hall, and I distinctly remember having one heck of a time walking or pedaling anywhere over the next day and a half while I waited for a ride back to the start. I haven’t tackled such long days back-to-back since. The best part was that my planned pickup in Fernie wasn’t expecting me to be done for several more days, so I ended up hitching a ride with some other racers back west.

Fasting on Salt Spring

July 2018

Emily has found the joy of bikepacking, and riding in general, on her own. I was there to help her along the way, providing gear and advice, but I never meant to push her into something she had no interest in. However, when we decided to tackle an overnight bike ride (Emily’s first bikepacking trip) to Salt Spring Island here in BC, it could easily have been her last.

Salt Spring Island is a popular destination for folks from the city because of its relaxed, carefree lifestyle. It feels like the entire island is full of artisans, farm stands brimming with local goods, and French Canadians hanging out in skate parks. It’s the kind of place you spend time in and wonder to yourself why you live in a condo in Vancouver and why you don’t own more linen. Picturing fresh-baked bread and treats at every farm stand, we packed next to no food and set off on our merry way.

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It turns out that this particular day on Salt Spring wasn’t the day to rely on farm stands, and we got to camp with only a smattering of blackberries, goat cheese, and crackers. After a lackluster night at Ruckle Provincial Park, we rushed to the nearest bakery in the morning to satisfy our hunger. Let’s just say Emily usually plans our trip food now.

Don’t Worry, Joe

September 2019

During the 2019 Bikepacking Summit, co-organized by our very own Neil Beltchenko, I finally got to meet Joe Cruz in person. Looking back, I met quite a few big names in the bikepacking sphere, including Lael Wilcox, Rue Kaladyte, Karlos Bernart, and others. So when Joe invited me to join a route-scouting trip in Arkansas after the event, I beelined for Bentonville.

The night before our departure, Bentonville got hit with a serious downpour, forcing us to get creative riding through town. The water-covered paths and overflowing spillways should have dissuaded us, but we pushed on. Thankfully, the route was much drier the further we rode away from town. Everything was going smoothly, and so far I hadn’t embarrassed myself in front of Joe or his friend Jack.

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Late one evening, with the darkness of night settling around us, we pushed on with the goal of reaching a McDonald’s for dinner. At this point, we weren’t especially far from civilization, but one unexpected hurdle stood in our way: a massive rushing river that had swollen with all the recent rain. In the darkness, we could barely see the other side, probably about 50 feet away. We had no idea how deep it was, although we soon would, and there was a touch of hesitation from the group, aside from Jack. Within seconds, he disappeared into the night, the sound of the river completely engulfing any attempts to communicate with him.

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Nervous about being left alone in the dark, I followed Jack, leaving Joe to fend for himself. Perhaps it was the weight of the philosophy department weighing him down, but his crossing was slow and on the brink of complete disaster. I can’t recall whether he asked for help or I just assumed, but I eventually yelled, “Don’t worry, Joe, I did a swift water rescue course once!” and splashed back into the swollen river like a modern-day superhero. You’re welcome, Joe.

Sausage Water

June 2018

The Sausage Water story goes back to my early days of product testing and bikepacking. Being the only Canadian editor on the team, it’s no surprise that some of the first bikepacking bags I used were from Scott and the team at Porcelain Rocket. All my early setups used their bags, so I’ll always have a soft spot for the small collection of vintage Porcelain Rocket bags I still own.

So, in 2018, when Emily and I were road-tripping back to Ontario to visit family, I couldn’t pass up the chance to go on a short bikepacking trip with the folks who, at the time, designed and made these bags. We drove out to Cypress Hills with plans for leisurely riding and a resupply point on day two, but death mud stopped us in our tracks, so our plans pivoted. This is where things got tricky. Relying on the resupply, I hadn’t packed much food beyond some leftovers: a chunk of focaccia and a few sausages, to be specific.

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Our new plan meant no resupply, so I decided to stretch my minimalist food plan out over two days, and most importantly, not admit to anyone that I was literally running on fumes. To stretch it as far as I could, I boiled the sausages in water, drank the sausage water, and ate the sausages for dinner. It was a tough couple of days, and pretty dumb on my part, but it’s also a good reminder that all you really need is focaccia and a few sausages for a weekend bikepacking trip.

I want to hear from you! Do you have a story that you’ve kept mostly to yourself or an embarrassing moment you learned something from? I invite you to share it in the conversation below.

Further Reading

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