A Lesson in Preparation

Near Miss: an unplanned event that has the potential to cause, but does not actually result in human injury

You’ll hear them talked about by safety professionals in many disciplines, including the outdoors. Accidents happen. Sometimes they come close to happening but don’t. Rather than just thanking your lucky stars and moving along in these instances, the idea is to analyze the event to better understand what led to the possibility of disaster and what lessons can be gleaned to avoid a repeat in the future. Was it a freak accident, or could it happen again? Did something unexpectedly go wrong? Was it human error? How can it be prevented in the future?

I like to think that, had I been doing this ride on my own, I’d have grabbed my light and probably the small survival kit I often throw in my hiking bag. But that feeling of only having myself to rely on is stunted in a group setting. If nobody else is worried about it, why should I be? We’ll get through it together. Safety in numbers, right? More like stupidity in numbers.

I was getting ready to mountain bike with a group of fellow van-people I’d recently met in Moab. We’d decided to shuttle ourselves to a one-way, mostly downhill trail known as Mag 7 for the seven magnificent sections it links together. At 22 miles, it’s a serious ride to begin with, and after some discussion we decided to add on about 6 extra miles of the Poison Spider jeep road in order to skip a particularly extreme section at the end (like, people die on it extreme).

By the time we’d gotten ready, worked out the logistics of shuttling cars, and driven up to the start of the ride, it was after 2 PM. Sunset was about 6:30. In retrospect, not exactly a generous amount of time to knock out 28 miles of technical unfamiliar trail. We joked about our late start, but generally felt pretty confident that we’d be able to make it back without much issue, even if it meant cruising the last few miles around dusk. After all, the trail was all downhill – er, mostly.

The ride started out with some fun flowy trail, and spirits were high. We worked our way down the interlinked sections of singletrack, learning each other’s riding styles, taking in the view, and enjoying the company of a group of strong riders.

As we got ready for a change of pace with some climbing, we noted that even though we’d been on what should have been the faster sections, we hadn’t really been making great time. There was a little over two hours of daylight left, and were still under halfway through the ride. “We should keep moving” started to be a common refrain after stopping to regroup. In retrospect, this would have been an opportune time to stop and actually assess the situation.

The climbing was slow going, with some difficult ledges that often required walking up or down. After a number of quick rests and one broken chain repair (not mine again, thankfully), we reached the rim which marked the top of the climb. The sun was low. There was no denying we were in trouble.

The rim, however, didn’t disappoint. At least not for those of us comfortable riding a bike a few feet away from several-hundred-foot drops. The Gold Bar Rim trail runs along the high cliffs overlooking the Moab valley, Arches National Park, and the La Sal Mountains. The views alone are enough to captivate you for hours. The trail is rated as a double black diamond, and described as “either your favorite experience in Moab, or your worst nightmare”. For a group of intermediate-advanced riders still getting accustomed to the area’s features, that translated roughly to: stop every two minutes to walk a section.

As the golden-brown light turned red and pink, it became abundantly clear we had a problem. This was very slow riding, and there was zero chance we’d make it down in time. We were still about 8 miles out, and it was unlikely we’d even get to the supposedly easier and faster jeep road with any substantial light remaining. One couple had brought two small lights, but these weren’t likely enough to actually ride with.

I took a quick break from the tough and technical riding to get my heart rate low enough to think clearly about the situation. I don’t have any formal training, but I’ve spent enough time outdoors, read enough books, articles, and guides, and watched enough Bear Grylls (jk, don’t ever take that guy seriously) to feel pretty comfortable assessing the situation.

Good: We had cell service, and could call for help if needed

Bad: We probably wouldn’t have service for long, judging by the terrain

Good: It was warm, and the temperature didn’t seem to be dropping much as the sun went down

Bad: Energy levels were low, and nerves were starting to run high

Good: We had a GPS track of the route to follow

Bad: If you can’t see well enough to ride, 8 miles takes a really long time

Good: We had cell phone lights

Bad: Cell phone batteries don’t last very long, and we needed at least one phone for navigation

Good: The sky was clear and the moon would come up

Bad: The moon was waning, and wouldn’t rise till about halfway through the night

Good: I had lights and basically all the supplies we could need in the van

Bad: The van was 8 miles away

Good: There was still some light left, and if we booked it we could probably make good progress

Bad: The group was starting to drag, with the risk of accidents and injury quickly rising

This didn’t seem like a call in Search And Rescue situation, but it had the potential to turn into that if someone got injured in the dark or we just flat out couldn’t make progress without seeing the terrain. A lot of variables were bouncing around my mind, but I knew two things for sure:

1. I most definitely did not want to be “those people” that had to get rescued because we were unprepared idiots
2. I am a stronger individual performer than team contributor, and was feeling pretty comfortable with the terrain and my energy level

A clear decision emerged: I would split off and go ahead, taking advantage of the remaining light to quickly make as much progress as possible, with the goal to reach the van, get lights, and head back up the trail to meet the group as they came down. Splitting up was a bit risky, but I was comfortable with it and it seemed like the best bet.

Before long I reached the jeep road, and knocked out a few quick(er) miles. The fading light soon slowed progress to a crawl though, as I frequently lost the trail and had to look at my phone to see which direction to head. The dim light still afforded some ability to pick out terrain and features in the trail, but before long I started losing the ability to tell whether the steep sandstone slopes were one foot down or three.

It was like biking blind – someone tells you there’s a rock in the trail, or a feature you need to roll over, or that the ground changes texture, but you really can’t tell what to expect until you’re in the middle of it. Until the soft sand grabs your tires and makes you quickly adjust your balance. Until you roll down a steep ledge and that flat ground you’re expecting arrives a half second after you anticipated. Until a jarring bump throws you forward into the handlebars and you realize that ledge went up, not down. It’s an odd feeling, disconcerting.

After a couple close calls, I decided my window for fast progress had passed and it was time to put safety where it belonged and walk. Walking, however wasn’t necessarily much better than being on the bike. Instead of the tires feeling out the terrain, it was now my feet. On a few occasions, I discovered ledges were steeper or taller than I’d thought, and clumsily slid down them after losing my footing. I did have my cell phone light, but Murphy’s Law of phone batteries meant mine was hovering at an uninspiring 15%. The risk of my battery dying (in which case I would surely lose the trail and run a very high risk of getting lost if I continued moving) seemed to outweigh the benefits the light would provide.

As I slowly made progress on the much-more-technical-than-we-were-hoping jeep road, I definitely questioned whether I’d made the right decision by splitting off. What if I injured myself? Even the rest of the group could be easily an hour behind. What if my battery died and I got lost? They could miss me on their way down. Wouldn’t it have been smarter to stay together so we could use some phones for light and others for navigation? Ultimately I decided I was happy enough to be negotiating the route alone, burdened only with the requirement to keep my own spirits up, and comfortable knowing what my own abilities and limitations were.

I reached a sandy section that, although still largely unrideable, was at least flat and devoid of perilous rock features. More than once while trying to ride a section, I ended up on the ground in the middle of the soft road, both feet still securely clipped to my bike. After one of these slow-motion falls I stayed on the ground for a moment to let the frustration pass and center myself. I looked up at the stars and couldn’t help but notice how incredibly bright and vibrant they were. I laid there thinking about the situation and appreciating that as ridiculous as this was, I was actually rather enjoying it. Something about the combination of an uncommon situation that’s challenging, somewhat dangerous, and on the edge of (but still within) the bounds of one’s limits. It hit all the right buttons for that classic Type 2 fun. And it was a damn pleasant night out, how could I not appreciate the opportunity to enjoy it in such a unique way?

As the route slowly dropped into the river valley, I caught the reflection of headlights on the canyon walls and could feel the safety of the trailhead getting near. The final section of the Poison Spider trail was anything but easy though, with ample rock ledges and loose stones ensuring everyone gets their money’s worth. Finally I spotted a trail info board at the edge of the parking lot, and the inviting outline of Little E sitting patiently where I left her.

Never have I been so happy to get back to my van-home, and kissed its utilitarian yet strangely emotive body panels so enthusiastically. It always amazes me what a difference something as commonplace as a vehicle can make. Without it, you can be stranded in the wilderness with no way to see, stay warm, eat, or leave. But add 70 square feet of state-of-the-art automotive engineering filled with gear, food, water, and love, and you suddenly have not only the ability to survive, but all the creature comforts one could reasonably ask for – a home.

I picked up the oh-so-critical lights and a few other items, then turned around to head back up the route I’d recently finished cursing. Aside from being tired, it was actually quite an enjoyable ride. Night biking has a different feel to it, very serene. I ran into the group a few miles up, slowly picking their way along the trail by cell phone light. We regrouped, cobbled together some light mounts, and made our way down to the trailhead safely.

So… I guess this qualifies as another Near Miss for me. Yes, there have been others recently, I think you all know what I’m talking about. It’s not hard to understand the root cause of this one though – poor planning. Before it was even fully dark, I vowed to never again go on a ride without taking a light.

My tendency is to be over-prepared when I head out on rides or hikes, and this is a good reminder that isn’t exactly a bad thing. The lessons extend beyond that though. It’s easier than you might think to get thrown off your game and find yourself in a sticky situation. The faux safety of being in a group is now going to be high on my list of things to watch out for. After all, it’s easy to be prepared when you’re planning for inclement weather, a night in the backcountry, or staying out after dark. It’s the times you aren’t thinking about it or expecting anything bad to happen that will catch you off guard.

Yes, I’ll be packing my bike light routinely from now on, but thinking more about the potential for danger in other activities as well. And I’ll be looking for an opportunity to get out on the Mag 7 trail again, because darkness or not, that was a heck of a ride. I just might start slightly earlier next time.