WE'LL TAKE YOU THERE

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RUN WITH THE SLED DOGSIN ALASKA’S WHITE MOUNTAINS

KLUNKEDONE YEAR OF LOW-TECH FUN

CHANGING PERCEPTIONSONE BAMBOO BIKE AT A TIME

THE SOUL SEGMENT120 MILES THE RIGHT WAY

GRIT, GUTS ANDDETERMINATION“

L E A D V I L L E S E R I E S . C O M

IT’S GONNA HURT, BUT THE REWARD IS WHEN YOU CROSS THAT FINISH LINE.”KEN CHLOUBER

Founder of the Leadville Trail 100

©20

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At 10,200 feet above sanity, achieving new extremes takes more than strength and training — it takes belief. Because when you believe in yourself, you can’t fail. So show the world what you’re made of by challenging yourself at one of America’s highest endurance events at the 2015 Leadville Race Series.

March 28 Austin RattlerJune 7 Wilmington WhitefaceJuly 1-4 Camp of Champions 1July 5-8 Camp of Champions 2

July 11 Silver Rush 50July 18 Tahoe TrailAugust 15 Leadville Trail 100September 5 Barn Burner

Your legend starts here.

GRIT, GUTS ANDDETERMINATION“

L E A D V I L L E S E R I E S . C O M

IT’S GONNA HURT, BUT THE REWARD IS WHEN YOU CROSS THAT FINISH LINE.”KEN CHLOUBER

Founder of the Leadville Trail 100

©20

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At 10,200 feet above sanity, achieving new extremes takes more than strength and training — it takes belief. Because when you believe in yourself, you can’t fail. So show the world what you’re made of by challenging yourself at one of America’s highest endurance events at the 2015 Leadville Race Series.

March 28 Austin RattlerJune 7 Wilmington WhitefaceJuly 1-4 Camp of Champions 1July 5-8 Camp of Champions 2

July 11 Silver Rush 50July 18 Tahoe TrailAugust 15 Leadville Trail 100September 5 Barn Burner

Your legend starts here.

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Nature is fickle in Colorado, with the warm days of summer often yielding suddenly to the sting of winter. Such was the case when photographer Joey Schusler spent eight days in the Elk Mountains with friends Shawn Neer (pictured here), Rudy Unrau and Michael Larsen. The front end of the week was warm and sunny, while the tail end was spent battling the elements.

Joey Schusler

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Photographer Mike Schirf had seen this wooden bridge a few miles outside of Telluride on a ride the previous year. He says, “I was thinking how cool it would be to get a shot of somebody riding across it. I had started to look for a shot where I could incorporate the bridge into the background when Jamie rode across. We walked away with one of my favorite shots to date.”

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Mike Schirf

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Ross Schnell finds the smooth line through the air on Moab’s Captain Ahab Trail while filming aerial footage with Big Mountain Enduro.

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Devon Balet

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Alex Grant and photographer Mike Schirf headed to St. George, Utah, last November for one last desert riding fix before transitioning to full winter mode. Says Schirf: “We were quite surprised when we rolled into St. George to find it covered in white. I was bummed the riding wasn’t going to be great, but part of me was excited to see what we could get as far as photos. It’s not often you get a chance to shoot desert biking in the snow.”

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Mike Schirf

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Editor/Publisher Brian Rieperiepe@mountainflyer.comPublisher Steve Mabrysteve@mountainflyer.comArt Director Chris Hannachris@mountainflyer.comAssociate Publisher Scott Leonardscott@mountainflyer.comManaging Editor Trina Ortegatrina@mountainflyer.comCopy Editor Charlie Wertheimcharlie@mountainflyer.comSpecial Ops Dylan Stuckidylan@mountainflyer.comSpecial Ops Zach Whitezach@mountainflyer.com

Publisher Secret Agent Publishing, LLC

Mountain Flyer P.O. Box 272 Gunnison, CO 81230970-387-8806adsales@mountainflyer.comsubscriptions@mountainflyer.comwww.mountainflyer.com

Advertising Sales:Scott Leonard scott@mountainflyer.comJason Gibb jason@mountainflyer.com

Send your letters to:editor@mountainflyer.comSubscribe Online at www.mountainflyer.com or mail subscription card to: Mountain Flyer Magazine, P.O. Box 272 Gunnison, CO 81230

Moving? Send address change to:addresschange@mountainflyer.com

Mountain Flyer magazine is published bi-monthly and is available nationwide through select locations, as well as fine bike shops and coffee stores throughout the Rocky Mountain region. When you’re finished reading, pass it on!

Nothing in this publication can be copied or reproduced without prior written permission of the publisher. All material and images are compiled from sources believed to be reliable, but published without responsibility for errors or omissions. Secret Agent Publishing assumes no responsibility for unsolicited manuscripts or images. But we’ll sure consider them.

Devon BaletMichele BauerRob Bauer Trent BonaChad Brown Eddie Clark

PhotographersAgnes HageMatt HageDave KozlowskiBrian LeddyShawn LortieScott Morris

John SchillingMike SchirfJoey SchuslerJen See

Ryan FrankIllustration

WritersRob BauerTrent BonaChristopher CogleyAgnes Hage

Matt HageBrian LeddyKain LeonardDan Loftus

Hilary OliverJen SeeZach White

your year round bike shop!

105 Edwards Village Blvd. Edwards, Co. 81632(970) 926-4516 | moontimecyclery.com

EXTREME WINTER CYCLING GLOVES

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32 SUB-ARCTIC SNOW BIKING IN ALASKA’S WHITE MOUNTAINS

by Matt and Agnes Hage

With more than 200 miles of maintained trails connecting 12 backcountry huts under the Northern Lights, Alaska’s White Mountains could be the best place in the world to ride a fat bike.

46 ONE YEAR ON THE ORIGINAL MOUNTAIN BIKE

by Rob Bauer

High-tech carbon, the latest shock technology, dropper seatposts and electronic drivetrains … take a step back to see what matters. All you really need is a $550 klunker, a little grit, well, a lot of grit, and a winding slice of singletrack.

52 THE SOUL SEGMENT: 120 MILES THE RIGHT WAY

by Trent Bona

Photographer Trent Bona shows us how to properly ride Moab’s White Rim by exploring slot canyons, playing bocce ball, swimming in the Green and, of course, taking in the views along the 120-mile route through picturesque canyon country.

84 CHANGING PERCEPTIONS ONE BAMBOO BIKE AT A TIME

by Christopher Cogley

In an industry that’s made up of so many opinionated enthusiasts, affecting change isn’t easy. Nick Frey at Boo Bicycles knows the only way you can start shifting people’s perceptions is to begin with the truth.

COVER PHOTO: MATT HAGEThe wood-heated cabins in White Mountains National Recreation Area are key to multi-day trips in Alaska’s interior, where it routinely drops to 40 below or colder at night.

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KNOW YOU CANWORTH THE LIGHTER WEIGHT We believe braking power and performance shouldn’t come with a weight penalty. Which is why guide RSC puts the pure stopping power of a four-piston caliper in a brake set that beats its two-piston competition by 92 grams. That’s a quarter pound of weight savings in a package that offers precise control and consistent, fade-free braking on any type of terrain. Steep-line confidence. Deep-corner dominance. Ride every trail like you own it. KNOW YOU CAN.

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TOOL-FREE REACH ADJUST / POLISHED SILVER ANO OR BLACK ANO

Photos: Adrian Marcoux © 2014 SRAM LLC SRAM.COM/GUIDERSC

MtnFlyer_1412_SRAM_MTB_Guide_SNGL_en_v01.indd 1 11/10/14 1:30 PM

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Mountain Flyer Magazine is produced and printed in Colorado.

6 Gallery

20 Ed’s Note

22 Profile: Nat Ross

26 Advocacy: Give and Take in Santa Barbara by Jen See

60 In the Heart of the Navajo Nation by Brian Leddy

64 Diamondback Mission Pro

68 Borealis Echo

72 Trek Fuel EX 9.8 27.5

76 Spot Wazee

78 Of Bikes and Beer with Dan Loftus

80 Paraphernalia

90 Tailwind: Coming Home by Hilary Oliver

the rest

Nate Hills leads the charge on the Moab Brands Trail with Ross Schnell, Alex

Petitdemange and Sarah Rawley chasing up his heels in the fading daylight.

Devon Balet

USPS publisher’s statement: Mountain Flyer Magazine (ISSN 1944-6101) January/February 2015 is published bimonthly by Secret Agent Publishing, LLC, 121 W Virginia Ave, Gunnison, Colo 81230. Periodicals postage paid in Gunnison CO and additional mailing offices. Postmaster: Send address changes to Mountain Flyer, PO Box 272, Gunnison, CO 81230

FLOW IS LETTING GO OF FEAR.AND THE BRAKES.

You know you’ve found it when your mind shuts off and your spidersenses kick in. Suddenly, you see the trail in a whole new way. F i n d t h e g e a r fo r yo u r r i d e a t s h o p . p e a r l i z u m i . co m .

PearlIzumi_MountainFlyer_0115.indd 1 11/24/14 3:19 PM

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Issue Number 40. Ten Years. I’m not much for milestones, benchmarks or anniversaries. I’d rather focus on what’s ahead than what’s behind. “Go forward” (but not necessarily straight), as our Publisher Steve Mabry likes to say. But for a ground-up print publication, making it to 10 years is worth celebrating. Or at least it’s a great time to stop and look back at what we’ve done. So as we wrapped up this issue, I took some time to pick up our first few issues and dig back into them. I hadn’t looked at those first issues in a long time, and as soon as I picked them up I couldn’t stop reading—I read Issue Number 1 cover to cover. What surprised me was how great the articles were. Maybe I was afraid they were going to stink or something but a few of them really pulled me in. I’m not just saying that to pat myself on the back, either, and honestly it’s more of a compliment to our first writers than it is to myself. Our first few issues had some gems like full coverage of the 2004 Montezuma’s Revenge titled “The World’s Worst Race” by Paige Miller. (Josh Tostado won the race by riding 140 miles, climbing 30,895 feet in 23 hours and 59 minutes). It also contained a solid tech article by Dan Crean titled “Are You Ready To Meet Stan?” with a detailed guide to using liquid latex to set up standard tires and rims as tubeless. (What a nutty idea.) Issue Number 2 had end-to-end coverage of the Kokopelli Trail Race. I remember photographing that event. I slept in the parking lot at the Slickrock Trailhead. There was frost on my sleeping bag when I awoke at 3 a.m. for the start. For the next 14 hours, I followed my friend, Jon Brown, as he piloted his Surly singlespeed to win the 130-mile self-supported event and set a new singlespeed record. When he finished in Fruita, he drank a full six-pack of Vitaminwater and collapsed. One of my favorites is a journal entry by Jefe Branham about one of his 100-mile singlespeed adventures. That was a precursor to Jefe’s calling as an endurance racer. Since then, we’ve featured him many times in the pages of Mountain Flyer for his exploits, as he’s won the Colorado Trail Race and the Great Divide Race. All of those first feature articles are things we would still publish today, and reading them was a great way for me to remember our roots. We had advocacy and tech articles, an interview with downhill racer Lisa Myklak, and cross country, cyclocross and underground endurance racing coverage. Thumbing through those pages it also struck me that so many of our first few advertisers supported the first issues not because of our circulation numbers

Straight Forwardor short-term ROI but because they knew sustaining journalism in cycling would have a long-term benefit. Moots, Orange Peel Bicycle Service, Absolute Bikes, Big Agnes, Over The Edge Sports, Honey Stinger, Moontime Cyclery, First Endurance, New Belgium Brewery— they’ve all stayed with us as long-term supporters. Before we even printed our first issue, and way before digital media came into play, another publisher sat down with me at Interbike and told me flat out, “It’s not going to work.” He was probably right. It shouldn’t have worked. Especially considering the digital revolution that was set to disrupt the publishing industry over the next 10 years. But it did work, and when I read through those first few issues or any other back issue I pick up, I recognize why. It’s not because of my killer business instinct. (I ride too much and strategize too little to have maximized profit.) We set out to focus on quality, and we’ve never waivered from that. It works because what defines a publication are the integrity, passion and experiences of its contributors and staff. Mountain Flyer is a journal. Our writers and photographers built it. We just give them a medium to tell their stories. And we’ll go forward with that.

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As a teenager growing up in the Fraser River Valley of central Colorado, Nat Ross was the quintessential mountain athlete. He skied, ran track and cycled a lot—26 miles daily, in fact. But to say he was passionate about cycling at that time would be misleading. He had other motives in high school. “I was road riding but only because my father was a school teacher and wanted me to do homework, so I got a road bike and rode back and forth to school the 13 miles so I wouldn’t get badgered to do homework and have to listen to NPR,” Ross says. His human-powered commute turned out to be good training for ski racing, and Ross did enjoy the “down time” pedaling on the road. The time on the bike paid off on many fronts: His skiing prowess garnered him state championships, All-American status, and a full-ride scholarship to Western State College. Given a chance to chase an Olympic bid, Ross didn’t pursue it so as not to destroy his love for the sport. Instead, Ross went on to be one of the biggest names in endurance mountain bike racing, stacking up national and global wins in 24 Hour solos, marathons and 100-milers. As the longest-standing member of the Subaru-Gary Fisher team, he helped Gary Fisher, Bontrager and other companies develop equipment and accessories that changed the face of the sport. Ross is in the Mountain Bike Hall of Fame and has introduced major European brands (fi’zi:k and POC) to the U.S. cycling market. He has owned a fit studio where he dialed in the likes of Georgia Gould for her Olympic run. Ross met his wife, Aimee, through the sport; coaches a high school mountain bike team; and has a fulfilling job as brand manager with the family-owned Italian company KASK. He’s gotten as much from mountain biking as he’s given back, and through it all, mountain biking has largely been about exploration. Ross is especially good in bad conditions. Riding at night, sleep deprivation, dealing with mechanicals, riding unknown terrain, surviving rain and cold? “Bring it,” he says of the MTB discipline that he is best known for: solo endurance racing. “In 1998, I jumped into Montezuma’s Revenge. And that was the true expression of my strengths because you’re mountaineering, you’re exploring, you’re pioneering, and it’s a bike race but it’s more than that,” Ross said of the unique ultra-endurance mountain bike race that included climbing 14,272-foot Gray’s Peak. “It wasn’t just going around in circles. It was chaos to mayhem to complete bewilderment of ‘Do I want to drop out of this thing? Can I finish this thing? What am I doing?’ You’re hallucinating because you’re on top of a 14er in the middle of the race.” That experience put what is now called endurance racing on the map for Ross. It also saved his job on the Gary Fisher team, which later became the Subaru-Gary Fisher team. With Subaru-Gary Fisher, Ross had a steady salary, heady teammates including Ryder Hesjedal, Paola Pezzo and Liam Kileen and a chance to help drive innovation in mountain biking. At that time, Ross was a brewmaster at Breckenridge Brewery (he even has a medal in that—from the Great American Beer Festival for his mountain wheat brew), and he was teaching high school biology, chemistry and physics, along with racing bikes. “But it got to the point where Gary Fisher said, ‘You need to focus on racing bikes so quit your teaching job. We’ll pay you more money, or whatever you think you need.’ So at that point in time, I got completely serious about it and stopped working at the brewery, stopped everything, and pretty much went for it.… Which was great, I needed to hear that kind of pressure, and I needed the focus.”

He raced triathlons and winter triathlons, cyclocross, Xterras, road (including racing and twice winning the Race Across America on a four-person team) and was offered a contract to be on the Discovery Team in 2005. “The salary was huge, more money than I was making mountain biking but it was a one-year contract. At that point in time, doping was so prevalent and I’m very avid about anti-doping. That to me was like, well, great, I could have a bunch of money for a year, but I’m not gonna be on the team next year because I don’t dope.” As a well-rounded cyclist, Ross had the fitness, drive and competitiveness (only when a number plate is tacked on, though) to succeed. He attributes his ability to survive long hours in the saddle

under gnarly conditions to his early days as a junior ski racer. “You would be all on your own in Lycra in the woods pushing yourself for over an hour or practicing in the dark when it’s freezing cold and you shouldn’t even be outside. You’re learning your boundaries and finding your personal quest,” he says. His upbringing in Hot Sulphur Springs in central Colorado provided a rugged setting that Ross’ parents sought out, and they started venturing outdoors with their two kids (Ross and his sister, Niki, who he claims is the better athlete) when they were toddlers. The rural mountain landscape was a natural environment for individual sports, and Ross’ three “main” pursuits were skiing (both alpine and Nordic), track and cycling. He skied Nordic Combined, which he says was great because you could “scare the living crap out of yourself ski jumping.” Spending hours in the woods also forced Ross to become intimately connected with his equipment, and he brought that same meticulousness to MTB marathon racing. From bikes and componentry to lights and nutrition, Ross took ownership of as much as he could. He called himself the “Spreadsheet King,” recording tire pressures, trail conditions, calorie intake and more. He wasn’t always the favorite of team mechanics because of his “hands-on” nature, but his inquisitiveness about gear was helpful on the team; Gary Fisher and Keith Bontrager looked to their athletes for product feedback. Ross loved that part of the job, even the scary ventures, such as testing the first lightweight carbon wheels. “Travis [Brown] and I, when we skied together in high school, we’d play chess, and we were the nerds. We read books. We were the outcasts. But 10 years later, we’re working with engineers. We’re collaborating with the designers. We’re involved in the company

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Handmade in Germany.

enough to not just be a bike racer but have a little bit of say in the platforms,” he says. In one case in 1999, Fisher went to Brown and Ross and showed them a bike with a 29-inch wheel up front and 26-inch in the rear. Yes, a 69er in ’99. “It wasn’t named. It wasn’t logoed. It was just a standard one-off, handmade frame. Travis and I rode it. Travis liked it. I liked it but it wasn’t all for me,” he says. “I wasn’t quite as tall as either one of them so the bike didn’t quite function for me.” The next bike Fisher presented to Ross was a complete two-niner, and he was sold. “It was, at that point in time for me, because I rode motos, it felt more like a motorcycle at speed but more like a race bike that is fun to ride. It was like you were almost not racing it when you were riding it.” Fisher’s prototype came with some drawbacks. It was heavy and there was only one tire manufacturer making MTB treads that fit the rims, which Keith Bontrager was making in his garage in Santa Cruz. Ross was ridiculed for using “wagon wheels.” The UCI didn’t allow the bike in World Cups, but Ross was allowed to race most NORBA events on it. Fisher urged Ross to stick with the wheel size; “If you believe in this, don’t worry about anything, pursue your passion, follow your dreams, ride this bike and maybe you just focus on the endurance stuff.” The story not only speaks to the grassroots style of the company’s product development, but also to Fisher’s habit of taking some athletes, including Ross, under his wing. The two originally bonded while snow biking and drinking beers, which gave Fisher a chance to see that Ross thought outside the box. “I rocked a ponytail. In mountain biking you could have your

own flavor and flair in your expression. And you kinda needed to anyways because the sport, it stood for something back then, it was a movement, you were pioneering something that had a lot of momentum but you could drive it and you could totally express yourself,” he says. The 29er was only one of several projects Ross helped refine for public consumption. He experimented with suspension seatposts, bar ends, lights (Keith Bontrager engineered lights for Ross that ran off laptop batteries at one point), tires, pedals, cranks, rims, shoes, tubeless setups and suspension. And he never shied away from those who were on the cutting edge. Ross recalls working with Gary Erickson on some of the first Clif Bar products. Erickson’s original Clif Shot was in a toothpaste container. “You’re exploring and you don’t know how it’s going to turn out. Who knew what Clif Bar was going to be back then because back then I was squeezing it and it was conglomerated and we were testing different flavors and I’d say, ‘Gary, this tastes like ass’ or this one has too many sugar crystals, and ‘Is this peanut butter or what is this?’” Helping develop new products was Ross’ way of supporting passionate people and a way to give back (perhaps another trait adopted from his community-minded parents). These days, that desire to give back means Ross volunteers with wife Aimee to coach the Aspen High School mountain bike team. In fact, they are both deeply committed to the National Interscholastic Cycling League. While Aimee serves on the Colorado league board, Ross is an honorary NICA board member. Ross also viewed product exploration and hands-on knowledge of gear as an “insurance policy.” He never took his position on the Fisher

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Handmade in Germany.

team for granted and always has maintained a strong work ethic. Ross knows success isn’t handed to you. That philosophy keeps him humble, as well. “There’s a few of us out there that still have a place in the industry, who love what we do because it’s a gift and something that we are very fortunate to have had the opportunity to do,” he says. “Racing’s selfish—it’s that personal quest for improvement and besting yourself and everyone else. But you’re not racing with a number plate your entire life, every day and every second.”

IN THE WORDS OF AIMEE ROSSIt sounds like a mountain biker’s fairytale: They met on a snowy weekend in 2010 at the insider trade show Frostbike. She was sales operstion manager at crankbrothers, and he was with fi’zi:k. When they’d finish working the event, they spent late nights at the hotel bar getting to know each other. Friends insisted he wasn’t her type, but Nat Ross was adamant about finding out more about Aimee Rocheleau, and he did. He proposed to her a year later while on a snowmobile outing in the woods outside Crested Butte. Today, they are raising a puppy in their Golden, Colo., home. They are both still geeks when it comes to cycling gear and the latest products and technologies and they coach the Aspen High School MTB team together. Aimee, now the advocacy manager at IMBA, lends a little more insight into her husband, the MTB King of Pain Nat Ross.

On becoming acquainted with Nat: “Being in the industry, I’ve had other friends that are professional cyclists, so it was never anything

that enamored me. I remember [at Frostbike], these kids came up and said, ‘Can I have your autograph?’ to Nat. I remember looking at my crankbrothers colleague like, ‘Why the heck would they want the fi’zi:k guy’s autograph? I put two and two together.… But that actually was better for Nat because I didn’t do the whole drool all over him kinda thing.”

On Nat’s snowshoe racing stint: “Let’s be clear, Nat will not touch a pair of snowshoes.” (They’re too big, too loud, too clappy, too slow.)

On Nat growing up in a strict Presbyterian household: “For us, it’s probably better that neither of us are super religious [now]. Our religion is being outside and spending time with each other. He’s always looking to be the best version of himself day in and day out.… Maybe not every day [she laughs] but you try. Maybe I’m judging now.”

On the Ross family trip to Zion National Park with Nat’s parents to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary: “We were all super sore. His mom and dad wanted to go some more.… I just can’t believe that they made it as far as they did. I think that’s something that’s instilled in both Nat and his sister.”

On their relationship: “Everything we do is a partnership. We’ve always been a team. I feel like that kinda has been like that since we’ve known each other.”

On Nat’s competitive but fun attitude at the start line: “Yeah, he may be taking this kinda serious right now but when he’s done he’s gonna be the first one with a beer in his hand, celebrating everybody else.”

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DECADES OF WORK

KEEP SANTA BARBARA

TRAILS OPEN

GIVE AND TAKE

Words & Images by Jen See

During the late 1980s, a wave of trail closures sent a chill rippling through the mountain bike community. Officials in places like Marin County in California, and Boulder, Colo., closed or sharply restricted mountain bike access to local trails. Remarkably, trails in one populated area stayed open. Better still, they have remained that way, and if you’ve ever been lucky enough to ride the rollercoaster singletrack of Santa Barbara, Calif., you can thank local mountain bike advocates for helping to make it possible. Downtown Santa Barbara sits cradled in the floodplain of a seasonal river, now dammed and channeled, which flows from the coastal mountains to the sea. As it approaches Point Conception, the California coastline curves, and south-facing Santa Barbara basks in year-round sun. The city is bordered by the Pacific to the south and the wide open spaces of the Los Padres National Forest to the north. Mountain biking, surfing, climbing, hiking, backpacking, road riding, trail running—whatever your recreational pleasure, Santa Barbara is an unparalleled outdoor playground.

Draw a straight line from the coast and it’s not much more than three miles from the water’s edge to the mountains’ summit. Several long, technical singletrack descents drop from the crestline to town, and this “front range” land is the favored stomping ground of hikers, trail runners and equestrians, making it a hotbed for advocacy issues over the years. That the trails in Santa Barbara have stayed open to mountain bikes was by no means a foregone conclusion. They stayed open because of the work of local advocates, especially the Santa Barbara Mountain Bike Trail Volunteers (SBMTV). Founded in 1988, the SBMTV has worked doggedly to organize and educate local riders and to build a close relationship with the U.S. Forest Service and other local agencies. The majority of Santa Barbara’s trails run over Forest Service land, and any decisions about trail use required Forest Service agreement. Because the Forest Service moved more slowly than local officials in places like Marin and Boulder, there was more time for local mountain bike advocates

Sondra Williamson descends Tunnel Trail with panoramic views of downtown Santa Barbara and the distant Channel Islands.

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to brainstorm possible solutions to trail conflicts. Throughout the early 1990s, a tenuous peace held among mountain bikers, equestrians and hikers, and local officials did not immediately intervene. “In Boulder, all the trails are controlled by basically city agencies and county agencies, and those agencies, because they were local and nimble, they closed all the trails,” said Chuck Anderson, a former president of SBMTV. “In Santa Barbara, the Forest Service, it’s big and slow and federal, so the trails stayed open.” When the wider mountain bike community discovered Santa Barbara in the late 1990s, the Forest Service began to have second thoughts. New, longer travel bikes turned Santa Barbara’s technical terrain into rippable singletrack. Glowing write-ups appeared in magazines, and word quickly spread of the playground hiding in plain sight. Bike industry brands traveled to Santa Barbara to test new products. If there were any secrets left, “Real Simple,” one of the first freeride videos, blew them right open with a segment depicting a downhill shred session on Tunnel Trail, one of Santa Barbara’s most intense descents. Cut into the side of the coastal

mountains, Tunnel Trail drops more than 3,000 feet in five miles. Long sections follow the fall line and plunge straight down toward the distant sea. Pushed and shoved by California’s hyperactive geology, sandstone boulders form massive drops of the sort that haunt downhill course designers’ dreams. To ride down Tunnel is to thread between Scylla and Charybdis. On one side, the rock-studded mountainside rises skyward; on the other, the trail falls away suddenly into thin air. “I would say our trails are comparable in technicality to the black diamonds or double black diamonds at Whistler or at North Star in Tahoe,” said Chris Orr, a former downhill racer and longtime trail advocate. “We have downhillers from San Diego or Santa Cruz and they’re like, ‘We ride burly trails,’ and then they ride Tunnel and they’re like, ‘Holy shit! That was gnarly!’” Thanks to the freeride hype, more mountain bikers were riding Santa Barbara trails and riding them faster than ever before, but few of the outsiders realized that the trails they had come to ride were in fact open to other users, not just bikes. Though Tunnel is the diva of the Santa Barbara trail scene, the other front country descents—Cold Springs, San Ysidro and Romero Canyon—

also saw increased use from mountain bikers. The hiking and equestrian communities reacted with predictable concern. “Those trails didn’t traditionally have anyone out there who were on bikes,” Anderson said. “And those who were out there [in the early days], if you’re riding a hardtail down Tunnel, you’re not going very fast. You’re not coming down the rock sections at full speed on an eight-inch travel bike. And you know, there’s some poor schlepp walking up around the corner.” The rumblings of discontent among trail users reached Forest Service trail manager Kerry Kellogg. Hikers and equestrians wanted the trails closed to bikes immediately. “If there was an easy way of banning downhill bikes, we might have done it,” Anderson recalled. Short of sending the Forest Service a list of mountain bike models each year, there was no way to ban a specific type of bike from the trails. The Los Padres National Forest, originally known as the Santa Barbara National Forest, covers 1.9 million acres and runs from Santa Barbara in the south to Monterey in the north. Charged with managing this vast acreage, Forest Service officials certainly did not have the manpower to set up bike checks at the trailheads.

California’s drama queen geology means steep, rock-strewn terrain.

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At the same time, it was obvious that the laissez-faire approach was no longer working. Contrary to expectations, the crisis point came not on Tunnel Trail, but on a local favorite known as Snyder Trail or “Knapp’s.” Named for the ruined Knapp’s Castle near the top, the trail winds down the north side of the coastal mountains to the banks of the Santa Ynez River. Less technically demanding than the trails on the ocean side of the mountains, Knapp’s is a fast and furious romp. At the time, a section of Knapp’s ran straight downslope in a ski jump-style thrill ride. Hikers and equestrians complained—with some reason—of sudden encounters with riders who were screaming down the trail with images of Mammoth’s famous Kamikaze dancing in their heads. In 2001, the Forest Service threatened to shut down Knapp’s; many riders believed that decision would open the way to closing the remaining front range trails. As the president of the mountain bike advocacy group, Anderson was a lightning rod for criticism, and Kellogg came to him with the escalating complaints. Anderson called Orr, who was then an active member

of the trail volunteers. Orr raced downhill and was tightly connected with the gravity community, more so than Anderson, who at the time was skeptical about riders who didn’t ride uphill as well as down. Orr and the downhill crew congregated regularly at a local shop to banter, the way riders do the world over. Orr recalls sitting around with friends Tosh Bulger and John Bell talking about the potential trail closures. Hanging near the pit, the shop had bear bells intended for backcountry hikers. The guys began to bounce around the idea of somehow using them on their bikes to alert hikers. Someone suggested thumb-dinger bike bells, but on a technical downhill run, most riders don’t have a thumb to spare. In the midst of this discussion, pro downhiller Shaums March wandered into the shop. March had grown up riding the trails in Santa Barbara and had fast made a name for himself on the race circuit. When the other riders told him about their dilemma, he mentioned that he had begun attaching a cow bell to his bars. He had picked up the bell at a race and used zip ties to secure it. He’d gotten the idea from a friend, who kept a bell tied to his dog’s collar.

“Knowing we’d scared plenty of hikers, I took that idea and did it for a while. I passed the idea to Chris and it slowly took off,” March said. Orr organized a pair of meetings that brought together a who’s who of local riders. When Orr presented the bell idea, some riders were not entirely enthusiastic. “Most of the crew that came to those two meetings were like, I don’t like bells, but I’ll use them,” Orr recalled. Cross country racers, in particular, tended to be resistant, in the belief that downhillers were the problem, not them. In 2001, SBMTV received permission from the Forest Service to put bell boxes at the trailheads of the most popular trails. The group also convinced local bike shops to stock the bells, which came with cards explaining trail use etiquette. The bells came from a Native American company that made them for ceremonial dances. Conflict on the trails soon began to fall steadily as fewer hikers were surprised by oncoming mountain bikes. The threatened closure of Knapp’s also led SBMTV to redouble its commitment to trail maintenance. Thanks to efforts from Chris King, local mountain bikers already had an established tradition of participating in

Chris Orr threads through sandstone boulders and burned-out manzanita branches on Jesusita Trail.

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Steve Messer

trail work days. Doing trail work simply made sense: It meant better riding and it served to strengthen the relationship with Forest Service officials who had the authority to close the trails. With the hope of defusing the conflict over Knapp’s, local mountain bikers turned out in force for a Forest Service work day on the embattled trail. They built switchbacks into the steep, fall-line section that had not only caused tension among trail users but also suffered badly from erosion. Not everyone was happy with the new trail route: the switchbacks meant an end to the free-fall descent, which many riders had loved. “Every trail work day, complaints come in,” Orr said. “Like, they destroyed my trail! They cut that brush back, they destroyed my trail! [People think] the trails are here, you don’t need to do anything. The trails are here because we’ve been doing this for 20 years.” Local riders, meanwhile, began watching the online forums where mountain bikers congregated. “We’d see posts on MTBR, and they’d be like, ‘We’re going to Santa Barbara for the weekend with 20 people,’” Orr said. “And we’d be like … ‘Oh.’” Local riders would hang out at the trailheads of the most popular

descents. They’d explain the bell program and try to impart at least a modicum of etiquette to the visitors. Eventually, the trail volunteers received permission from the Forest Service to hang laminated signs with trail etiquette information at the trailheads. How many downhillers actually read the signs is an open question. All the same, conflict on the trails slowly declined. In the meantime, local officials tried to develop an overall plan for trail management, but it proved impossible. A series of public meetings led to noisy food fights among the disparate user groups but few solutions. That local agencies also had limited resources to devote to trail management additionally hamstrung the process. “At every step, the nay-sayers were loud and got their way most of the time,” Orr said. “This is my trail, I don’t want bikes, I don’t want horses, I don’t want hikers, whatever. And they shot down every great solution and every great event.” Through the entwined efforts to keep the trails open to bikes, Orr became the common thread. “The greatest thing I ever did for mountain bike advocacy in Santa Barbara was

getting Chris involved,” Anderson said. Orr attended IMBA events, learned trail-building, and showed up to ride with out-of-towners who weren’t aware of the fraught situation on the trails. Orr now divides his time between IMBA’s Trail Solutions and a local government position in Santa Barbara, where he works with city, county and Forest Service officials to develop trail use policies. The SBMTV continues to do trail maintenance, and Orr’s bell program is alive and well. He currently has his sights set on better signage and maps for the trail system. Orr also hopes to implement more consistent training of local officials in trail-building techniques, so more officials can lead trail maintenance events. Even with recent spikes in trail use conflict—due in part to POV videos and Strava in Orr’s opinion—it’s unlikely that Santa Barbara’s trails will be closed to mountain bikes any time soon. And for that, riders from all over the world can thank the efforts of local riders, who when faced with the prospect of trail closures, rallied to create their own rules and encourage good, clean fun for everyone.

SBMTV members put their muscles into trail maintenance and keep the bell boxes stocked at Santa Barbara trailheads.

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