The 29th of May, 1955 // Leominster, England
A group of cycling-inclined outdoorsmen gathered at The Black Swan, a staple pub in England’s West Midlands, to formalize their shared passion – leaving the security of pavement behind and communally traversing the rugged landscapes that lay before them on the saddle. That night, they established the Rough Stuff Fellowship (RST); a group of like-minded individuals driven by the urge to spontaneously pack the bare necessities into saddle bags, head far afield, and engage in collective hardship.
“[To] traverse the rougher and less beaten ways” was to opt into a challenge, to open yourself up to the good, bad, and ugly that would inevitably be thrown your way. The RST – many of whom were WWII veterans – knew there was no better way to form fellowship with your common man than to accept a challenge and take it on together.
The 23rd of June, 2024 // Boulder, Colorado
Inspired by the Fellowship’s example, our group of impromptu planners sourced a handful of 1980’s era mountain bikes, a set of jerry-rigged saddle bags (Amundsen duffels, to be exact), and more than enough wine, cheese, and steak to sustain us for the day and night ahead. Strapping our (not so bare) essentials to our steel frames in the meadows of Devil’s Thumb Ranch, we gazed out at the snow-capped peaks of the Continental Divide, the trip’s unambiguous obstacle. We charted a course for Rollins Pass, the Divide’s “low” point (towering 6,000 feet above us), which we’d look to cross before finding shelter at the Årestua Hut, before finally descending the divide… home to Boulder.
“30 Minutes Left…”
Despite each member of our crew having an intimate relationship with the mountains of Colorado’s Front Range, we could all readily admit that we underestimated the toll that a “bush whack”, with a loaded-down 40-year-old bicycle, can take on a person. With the tree line continually out of reach, we rode, pushed, and carried our bikes up the ever-rockier trails of the forested foothills of the Divide. After a particularly grueling section of switch backs, directly in the firing-line of the alpine UV, we heard Beau’s first claim of “30 minutes until Rollins Pass, I’d say…” Beau, being the only member of our novel fellowship who had completed this traverse prior, inspired hope amongst our ranks via his claim. The cool, windswept, allure of Rollins Pass (and the descent which followed) was the promised land for our sweaty, sap-covered, and exhausted crew. 30 minutes passed before another call of, “Scratch what I said before! I’d say 30 minutes from here”. With expectations reset, we kept moving up slope with a new set of hopes. 30 minutes later, hopes dashed again.
At this point, we collectively decided to indict the wristwatch and phone clock. We realized that any attempt at expectation setting was irrelevant and useless – we would get there, well, when we got there. We found that forgoing a timeline, or strict itinerary, afforded us room for enthusiasm and humor in the present moment. We shifted our focus from the ‘objective’ of reaching Rollins Pass, to simply enjoying the company of one another in a breathtaking landscape.
This was a wise strategy, as the delays inherent to an ad hoc trip, such as this, were on the horizon. As we approached one of our primary waypoints, an abandoned Trestle Bridge (an old wooden train bridge) built into the side of a mountain, we realized we were stuck in the valley, some 300 feet below where it sat on the side of a near-sheer slope. We needed to get up there… somehow. One by one, we threw the full weight of our bikes on our backs and started plodding our way up the loose soil of the slope. As we trudged, gasping at the thin air of 9,500 feet, Nick laughed and said “Smile and wave, boys. Smile and wave.” There was humor in the predicament we were in, it was comically challenging. Alone, we may have thrown in the towel. But, the collective strength of the fellowship prevailed, and we all made it up the trestle – laughing as we went. Lunchtime awaited us.
Timeline? Overrated.
After cracking open a fresh jar of fig jam, Alex started dealing out prosciutto, brie, and baguettes – not bad. This luxury was short-lived though, because the 10-year-old tube within Henry’s tire had burst just prior to the ascent of the slope. Another delay. Beau’s decade and a half of bike tinkering came in handy, though, as his field repairs were sound and held air through the remainder of the trip. While Beau, Henry, and Alex addressed this mission-critical procedure, we noticed JC off in the background rolling the biggest stones he could find down the rocky slope. The childlike glee he found by smashing rocks into one another was infectious, the tire could wait. We all joined in. Timeline? Overrated.
After tiring of these tumbling collisions, we were back on the trail. This time, Beau may have finally been right – 30 minutes indeed. After reaching the tree line, we were only a few “Luretoppen” (false summits) from Rollins Pass. The air had cooled dramatically, and we happily filled our bottles from the melting ice that surrounded us. Morale was high and we cruised ever higher, towards the much anticipated high-point of the trip. Upon reaching the Pass, JC pulled out his speaker and queued the Marty Robbins classics – Big Iron, Saddle Tramp, and El Paso. A brief celebration ensued. These classic Western tunes became our theme music for the trip, the choruses are still rattling around in our heads two weeks later, for better or for worse.
All Downhill from Here
Darkness was closing in, quickly. We realized if we were going to make it to the Årestua Hut, our refuge for the night, before sundown – we needed to hustle. The problem was (problems, rather), going downhill with weighted frames was a novel notion for all of us. Not to mention, Alex’s breaks hardly worked to begin with – plus, descending rock fields with virtually no light made for a real challenge. We started dropping like flies. Our eagerness to arrive at the hut, cook up some dinner, and turn in after a long day drove us to push our pace a bit more than was wise. JC – over the handlebars; Henry – same story 5 minutes later. Beau, committed to staying in the saddle regardless of the trail conditions – took spills 1, 2, and 3 all within a 20-minute window. All were unscathed, but it was evident that it was time to call it a day.
Finally, we were within spitting distance of the Årestua Hut – our warm and inviting shelter awaited. As we rounded the bend and peered through the moonlit trees, we spotted the rustic A-frame in the clearing. Upon further inspection, the front (and only) door was boarded up. As luck would have it, a hibernation-starved Black Bear had broken in some months prior and torn the place to pieces in their search for food. The space was deemed unusable and needed repairs. We were relegated to the porch. Another hour, another tribulation – but, as always, we laughed it off and set up camp on the hut’s porch. Fondue, Steak, Baguettes, and Cabernet Sauvignon was the evening’s prix fixe. After a long day of travel, our primitive impulses kicked in, with each of us grabbing slices of steak by hand and plunging them into the communal cheese cauldron. JC’s lactose intolerance was no match for the draw of Fondue on a chilly alpine night. We had found a moment of true summer bliss.
Our Trojan Horse
After a deep sleep – with the five of us packed like sardines on the porch – all that was left was to cruise down the canyon, back home to Boulder. We mounted our trusty steel steeds for one final push and began the steady winding route down through the foothills. Home at last. Despite the inherent challenge posed by this journey, that was the very point. We sought camaraderie through communal hardship. Riding over the continental divide was not the goal, this was. This physical objective was merely a Trojan Horse for a more fulfilling and lasting goal – enjoying the company of friends in nature, regardless of the hardship required.
