Almost Lake Mead. Mountains don't crash down into a river, all at once. They seep downward and outward, along the glaciers of gravel known as 'alluvial fans.' I would rather call them gravel ramps.
Riding a bike up these ramps is one of the under-rated pleasures of the outdoors. Locally a smooth gravel road heads straight up the ramp. It is quite a grunt. My little dog was lashed to the bike and trotted at the perfect speed to keep up with my second-gear pedaling.
I wish there was more second-gear pedaling in mountainous areas, instead of grinding uphill in first gear, and then coasting down, with your disk brakes getting hot. What a fine thing it is to reach the top in second gear, give the dog a drink of water, put her in the milk crate, and then "eat your bicycle dessert" by coasting downhill, hardly pedaling at all.
Gravel ramps can be remarkably uniform in slope, unless they are cut by an arroyo. There is something addictive for man and dog to move to their limit, and then see if they can push past that limit, slightly. But that is thinking more like a "roadie" than a true mountain biker, isn't it? So be it. Crashing, smashing, and bashing rocks and bones never had any appeal.
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| Uphill, second gear |
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