Adventures in West Virginia Part II: Snowshoe

At around 6:30 AM, I was awakened to the sound of dogs barking hysterically nearby.  Evidently, the spot I chose as my campsite rested not a football field away from a dog kennel near the festival grounds.  Not to worry, as I welcomed an early start to what promised to be an unforgettable day.

Outside the cozy confines of my tent, the morning dew had drenched everything in sight.  It was cold, probably low 40s, but the sky was clear and the sun was starting rise up over the trees.  I walked over to the Suburban to grab my thermos and begin the hunt for coffee.  Pat was out cold on his mattress inside the truck so I did my best not to wake him.

I found coffee at the stand that had been selling burgers, brats, and dogs the night before.  Coffee was a little weak, but three or four thermos fulls did the trick.  Pat woke up just as I began to get antsy, and we grabbed some food and went to meet Paul at the car.  After waiting for about ten minutes, we saw Paul shuffling his way through the campgrounds, obviously struggling a bit from the night before.  I threw him a gigantic Gatorade and we loaded in the Suburban.  On the way out, we pulled over to talk to Chris while he was loading his car to go run the Gauley.  He busted out the Snowshoe trail map and pointed out all the trails we needed to hit that day.  After a nice 'broment' and some high fives, we were on our way.

The drive from Summersville to Snowshoe is riddled with windy roads and breathtaking views.  Highway 55/20/15 traverses and descends at least three ridges on the way to Snowshoe.  Throughout the entire ride the three of us speculated on the vast number of bike trails that just had to exist in that terrain.  After about two hours, we started seeing signs for Snowshoe.

***

The Snowshoe resort is positioned on top of the mountain, and during the summer it's almost like a ghost town.  We drove around for about 10 minutes and did not see one roof rack for bicycle.  Finally, after backtracking through the resort a second time, we noticed a biker in full gear bombing town some stairs outside the main village of the resort.  "This must be the place," we all said.  We parked the car, geared up, and asked for directions to the ticket office.  Once we purchased the tickets we hopped on our bikes and road up to the trail head.

Pat's downhill bike had been in the shop and wasn't ready before we left Asheville, so he was going to be riding his hard tail dirt jumper all day.  This meant we were going to avoid the really technical, more expert trails for most of the day, which was fine with me.  As it turned out, the more moderately difficult trails were an absolute blast.  Gigantic berms lined up one after another required your transitions to be spot on if you wanted to carry speed into the table-top jumps that immediately followed.  One of my favorites on the more freeride terrain was a trail called Raging Bull.  Huge, flowy berms and table-tops in the woods section, and towards the end the trail shoots you out into the open where you run into two big, wooden berms and a step-down finish.  Quick and fun.

We finished our first run down the mountain and the adrenaline was flowing at high speed.  I pulled the map out of my pocked and gazed at all the trails we had available to ride.  Excuse the cliche, but I have never felt more like a little kid in a candy store.  On our second run down we decided to finish on Raging Bull again, but before the run Paul told us he wanted to stop and hit one of the big gap jumps that you run into about 3/4 of the way down.  

We all stopped and Paul scoped out the jump.  I would personally never even attempt it, but Paul was fired up.  He seemed to be right on line, but as hit the lip his bike bucked a little more than he wanted it to.  Pat and I immediately knew this was going to end badly.  Paul disappeared over the other side of the jump, and we quickly ran down to check on him.  Not good.  He completely overshot the landing and crashed hard.  The visor on his helmet had broken off and he had blood on his face.  He was nursing his arm and it was immediately apparent to me that he was going to be out for a bit.  "It's definitely broken," Paul told us.  

   

As any good rider would do, he picked himself back up and finished out the trail.  On the lift up he told us he was going to go back to the car and drink some beers, and then come out with his camera and snap some shots.  It's never fun to see one of your buddies go down, especially on the second run.  But it was great to see that he wanted to make the best out of the situation.  When we got to the top, he traded bikes with Pat and rode off towards the parking lot.  After a brief discussion of what we wanted to do, we nailed the drop-down stunts at the top and bombed down the fire road that traverses the top of the mountain.  

Now that Pat was riding more of a downhill setup, we decided to hit the more rowdy trails (i.e. the ones everyone told us to avoid).  We found some pretty rocky, rooty trails that had nice wooden features and great run-outs.  It was fun catching all that Snowshoe had to offer.  We rode every trail on the Easter Basin side of the mountain and then went back and made runs down our favorites.  Paul met up with us and got some nice shots on his DSLR.

After a couple runs for the photo-op, we decided to grab some lunch before hitting the trails on the other side of the mountain.

***

Bellies full and spirits high, Paul decided he felt good enough to ride the rest of the day with us.  With Pat back on the hard tail and with one major crash under our belts, we decided to stick to the moderate trails.  Chris told us about two trails to hit--Ninja Bob and Powerline.  He said they were flowy and full of berms and jumps, which sounded just about right for the last few runs of the day. 

We obviously missed a turn or two, because we ended up on a pretty gnarly trail--the exact type we were trying to avoid at this point.  We came around a tight turn that led into a real rocky section.  It's unclear exactly how it happened, but Pat took a spill.  It didn't seem that bad until Pat let out a little "Aggh!", which he doesn't do very often.  He was having trouble gripping the handlebars and had to walk the rest of the trail.  My body must have been exhausted, because I was having trouble keeping my lines and staying on the bike.  "Just finish out this run," I thought to myself.  With two-thirds of our crew on the injury-reserve list, I felt compelled to get through the rest of the day unscathed.  

Paul and I explored some trails on the way down and met Pat at the shuttle stop.  By the time he met up with us, his hand had begun to swell and he was pretty sure he broke something.  Paul and I decided to do one more run--except this time we'd stick to the trails we wanted to ride--and meet Pat at the takeout.

The shuttle showed up and we loaded up along with a couple other riders that came down the mountain.  I had heard stories of the wild driving tactics employed by the shuttle drivers at Snowshoe, but it didn't register until we hit that first tight curve at 55 mph.  It's funny to think that I'm willing to risk life and limb on a mountain bike, but I was scared to death on the shuttle ride back to the top.  It was a relief to reach the drop-off point and get back on my back.

Paul and I double-checked the map to make sure we didn't miss the trails this time.  After deciding our route, we went down and hit the best trails I had ridden all day.  Berm after berm after berm led straight into eight-foot table-top jumps and immediately into another series of three or four berms.  It was amazing.  I was inexperienced with this type of cornering, so Paul gave me a few pointers that really helped and made the berms a blast to hit.  We finished the day with an awesome ride, but it was a shame that Pat couldn't be there with us.

Pat was waiting in the Suburban at the shuttle stop.  We loaded up the truck and after a beer break we began our trek home.  With only two quick stops, we made it back to Asheville in exactly six hours right as the clock struck midnight.  It was good to know that Snowshoe is a feasible weekend trip for a 9-to-5er like me.

***

The next day, I received a text from Pat.  "Bad break.  Yeehaw!  Ima get a new scar to match my left hand scar!  Plate n screws," he wrote.  Paul had broken his hand too.  Combine that with our other biking buddies Dale and Bryan, we had four members of our crew on the IR. 

Injuries aside--and Pat and Paul would agree--it was was a weekend for the ages.  I never thought I could pack that much adventure into 38 hours.  There's a race at Snowshoe on October 3.  I think another trip is in the cards.

(MORE PHOTOS TO COME)

Adventures in West Virginia Part I: The Gauley

Ever since I acquired my new downhill bike, my thirst for adventure has been damn near insatiable.  I've descended more trails in the last three weeks than I had the entire summer prior to my purchase.  The new bike--a 2005 Santa Cruz VP Free sold to me by a close friend--has really forced me to step up my game and try new lines I never would have dreamed of riding on the more all-mountain setup of my Fisher.  The VP has given me the drive to ride new trails every week and to push myself harder with each ride.  So when my friend Pat asked me to go on a trip to West Virginia that would ultimately end with a day of riding at Snowshoe Mountain, I signed on without hesitation.

The plan was to meet at my house and roll out at around 9:00 AM on Saturday.  Our first stop was in Summersville, West Virginia where the annual Gauley River Festival is held.  The crew consisted of three adventurous fellows in Pat's dad's Suburban--aptly dubbed Battlecar Galactica once fully rigged (SEE PHOTO).  It was Pat (our fearless leader), Nick (met him the night before and found out he needed a lift), and me.

On the back:  Pat's bike and my bike.  On the roof: Nick's boat, Pat's boat, and Paul's (who we would be meeting in WV) bike.

Naturally--and in good fashion--we didn't actually leave until around 10:30 AM.  I say in good fashion, because we couldn't rightly leave Asheville without dining at Sunny Point.  At this rate, Pat and Nick were going to put in the Gauley right at 3:00 PM (just as the dam is shut off).  We were calling it close and banking on there being zero traffic hold-ups along the way, otherwise no boating for those fellers.

As with any trip where anticipations are high, the drive seemed to take forever.  Not to say we didn't have a good time in the car, but I couldn't stop thinking about what the next 48 hours had in store for us.  This was my first trip to Gauley Fest, my first trip to Snowshoe, and the first time I was going to ride at resort with lifts and shuttles all laid out for me.  It was definitely shaping up to be a weekend for the books.

We arrived the same way we left--in good fashion.  Pulling into the put-in parking lot just ahead of the dam being shut-off, I quickly helped them unload their boats and watched them walk off into the woods.  Left there with no direction of where to find the take-out, and with no cell phone service, I instinctively drove back up to the road and began searching for cars with roof racks heading in the same direction that the river flowed.  Being that there was a kayak festival going on at the time, the parking area for the take-out was packed full of cars.  Since it was so late in the day by the time I pulled up, there were many boaters already chugging beers and getting the night started.  I picked a spot right near the trail-head where the boaters hike out, threw on my shoes, and started hiking down the trail.

The trail was steep and technical, and I dreaded the walk back up.  I could not imagine having to hike a kayak up it, but I could  imagine riding my bike down it.  Man was this trail begging for a descent!  The entire hike down I had my hands held out in front of me imaging they were gripping the handlebars of my bike and "riding" the lines that stood out to me.  When I got to the bottom where the take-out is, I ran into a guy named Nate that I had biked with before.  He had just finished running the section that Pat and Nick were currently coming down and I asked him how long it took him.  "About three and a half to four hours, but Pat should be done in two and a half or three," he said.  I checked my watch and realized I had at least two hours to kill.  Hmm, what should I do to pass the time?  Cold beer, of course.  I said goodbye to Nate and began my trek back up the trail.

I cracked a beer and sat in the woods at the top of the trail with a couple other guys that were cheering on the boaters hiking up the last steep section.  I ran into my friend James and hung out with him the rest of the time.  He was the only person I recognized out of this whole crowd.  Not being a boater made this trip a lot of fun for me.  I always enjoy meeting new people while immersing myself into a new culture--and make no mistake, kayakers do share a unique culture.

About an hour and a half and four beers later, I saw Pat's boat poking out of the woods.  "I need a beer," he said.  Pat ran the Upper Gauley in under two hours, a section which seemed to take most people at least four.  Badass.  Pat introduced to some friends I happened to park next to, and we hung out with them for the next thirty minutes or so until Nick got back  to the car.  Once he did, we loaded up and began our search for food. 

The town of Summersville doesn't have much to offer in the way of cuisine, other than the staples like Applebee's and Taco-Bell.  We ended up eating at an Asian buffett, which was probably not a good choice in hindsight.  Generally, I try to eat a somewhat healthy meal the night before intense downhill mountain biking, and three plates full of MSG is not exactly what the doctor ordered.  But we indulged, and headed up the road to the festival. 

The actual festival grounds were located behind a high school football stadium.  There were tents set up by kayak and other outdoor companies.  Boats were laid out all over the place, and I had to constantly watch my step so as to avoid damaging thousands of dollars worth of equipment.  Our buddy Chris was working at the Dagger tent (a kayak company  that sponsors Pat), so we headed there first.  Chris had ridden at Snowshoe earlier that day and was about to explode while telling us all about it.  He was bursting with excitement about the day and his descriptions of the trails lit a fire in me.  All I could think about was the next day's ride.  

The rest of the night was a blur and it wasn't from the alcohol--which I drank very little of due to my anticipation of the day to follow.  Pat knew everyone, and everyone knew Pat.  I kind of tagged along with him the whole night and was introduced to a countless amount of kayakers from all over.  There seemed to be a lot of boaters from outside the Pittsburgh area, particularly Seven Springs which is about an hour from my hometown of Youngstown, Ohio.  I was pretty stoked to find out that there is a pretty big downhill scene in the Pittsburgh area.  I am definitely bringing my bike home with me in the spring.

Snake Oil Medicine Show--a band with roots in Asheville--was playing on the stage in the festival.  For most of the night they were more background music to my endeavors, but they caught my attention when they covered a song by Railroad Earth.  Once I had my eyes focused on the stage, I realized just how rowdy this festival was about to be.  There were about 100 people dancing to bluegrass music, many of whom had their own bottles of liquor or container some sort of mixed beverage in hand.  My eyes grew wide with anticipation.

The festival grounds started to shut down around midnight.  Pat looked at me and confirmed the realization I had when watching all those people dancing.  "This is when the craziness ensues," he said.  Sure enough, a group of drunken paddlers began wrestling one another about ten feet away from us.  Another paddler came running up while yelling, "Hang on guys!  I've got gloves!"  By gloves he meant boxing gloves.  This was my cue to head back to the campsite.  

I felt like I was five years old on Christmas Eve again.  All I could think about was riding at Snowshoe.  It had been hailed as the best riding in the Southeast, and one of the best places to ride in the entire country.  Chris' stories of his rides had me riled up and all I could think about was getting up there.  Once back at the car, I quickly set up my tent and readied myself for sleep.  The morning could not come fast enough.