Due to the uncertain nature of where I was riding, what I might encounter, and a desire to take serious photographs, I decided to take a small riding backpack, which is not what I usually would carry on a ride of this type. It probably weighed somewhere between five and ten pounds, as I carried extra food, my DSLR, an additional ‘tall’ bottle, a spare tube, a multi-tool, tire levers, a pump, my wallet, and my keys.

After a quick change and couple of glances across the deserted highway, I’d made it to Cottonwood Canyon road. I knew after ceasing to be pavement in half a mile, it would take me directly to the summit of the mountain 7,000 feet above me.

So, with the usual last deep breath and glance toward the summit, I clipped in, winced a little when my left leg made its first full pedalstroke, and I started moving.

Since I was rolling through something of a neighborhood, there were a few people out and about. Most didn’t notice me, but the one guy who did seemed surprised I was there. I smiled and waved, he looked at me funny, and waved back. Although my single data point is in no way scientific, I can’t say the locals are unfriendly.

Everything was going great, or so I thought. About 500 vertical feet above where I started, I found a large and unmarked yellow gate blocking the road. Now, as someone native to California, crossing large unmarked gates is something I’m absolutely used to. Many gates are placed near trailheads or across dirt roads in popular mountain bike areas to prevent use by motorcycles or unauthorized cars. Naturally, when I saw this gate, I assumed it was no different. On the other side of the gate were two signs. One stated that it was military land and that it was a terrible idea to venture off designated roads because of unexploded munitions and the like. The other offered some brief information about the ecosystems in the area.

Not seeing anything about trespassing, or having to return with a permit, I ventured further. I just figured all I’d have to do was stay on the existing road and I’d successfully avoid all trouble.

So I did just that, and kept going up the unrelenting grade. According to Strava, it’s an average of 9% for the first five miles and 2300 feet, although I can confirm that it was probably closer to 11-12% for the first 2-2.5 miles. I got incredibly lucky in that the previous night’s rains had made the road very smooth and grippy, far from the dusty and rough mess I thought it would be

After riding through arid desert from 4000 to 5600’, I began to notice that the lonely cottonwoods alongside the road were joined by the occasional pinyon pine tree. By 6,000 feet, it had turned into a woodland, and by 7,000 feet, it was a forest. The broad canopies of the cottonwood trees had given way to thin and quaking aspens, which almost shimmered in the late morning breeze. The dirt road seemed to broaden and narrow a bit, but the quality never seemed to degrade. I’m going to attribute that to the fact that it’s very regularly patrolled by the US Army, and was built with federal tax dollars.

Anyway, I rode by a Cabin nestled in the aspen grove next to the road. I noted its location so I’d be able to further investigate it on the return trip. Clouds were beginning to swirl around the summit, so I knew I’d have to hustle if I wanted to reach the summit before it began to storm.

After one more furtive glance upward I started pedaling uphill again. Before I knew it, I’d ridden out of the forest and back into a treeless landscape. At 8,000-ish feet, the landscape started to become increasingly barren, save for a few small Mormon-Tea plants and shrinking sagebrush bushes. The thinning air and dropping temperatures were certainly becoming more noticeable at this point.

The summit was still 3,000 feet above me, so I kept going. The only changes I noticed going up towards the top were a steady drop in covering vegetation and increasing rockiness on the road.

Then, I spotted something weird. I was approaching 10,000 feet, and off in the distanced I watched a small pickup truck* coming down the road. It was also the kind of vehicle I wouldn’t have expected to be that far up a mountain of this type.

As I was in a very specific and remote area, this out-of-the-ordinary truck made me put my guard up a little bit. So, when I passed it a few minutes later, I did my best to smile and give a friendly wave to the driver. It was not reciprocated, but he didn’t stop or react in any way, so I figured he was just a little peeved to see someone interrupt his solitude.

After that, it was a little bit of a slog to the top. It was blissfully uneventful, albeit bumpy. I ascended the gently switchbacking road into the swirling clouds. My view of the town of Hawthorne and Walker Lake was blocked, as well as my view of the attached army depot. But looking east, it was incredible. I could see a distant mountain range I’d ascended as a dry run for Mt. Grant. When I do a blurb about it I’ll edit this into a link.

I ditched my bike just beneath the summit and walked the last 100 or so feet to the very top. I think I’ll let the pictures do the talking.