It seemed like another loop might work out, because the two-track was somewhat smooth on the low end. So the next day we biked up to the top of the alluvial fan on a major road, and descended on that two-track.
Yuk! Well, it could have been worse. The rocks could have been sharp as well as 'baby head' sized. Just think what steel spokes have to put up with! I worried about puncturing the rear bike tire because it was a thin, light-duty tire.
All the way down I thought about what the geologists claim: that large rocks drop out first (from the stream flow down the alluvial fan), and smaller rocks make it further down. So maybe I had something to look forward to. But would reality actually live up to " book larnin' " for a change?
It happened more gradually than I wanted and the change wasn't completely uniform, but by the time we reached the bottom of the two-track, it had become four times smoother than at the top.
The alluvial fan was no longer a random field of rubble -- it was no longer directionless. I could visualize what altitude would be best for a halfway comfortable road. Directionality became clear and important: if the road went parallel to the mountain range, one might expect fairly uniform rock sizes. Of course you would get stuck crossing a lot of arroyos.
A sailor has a map of the wind in his head. He can head into the wind at an angle, but he knows how slow it will be. He can turn around and speed downwind, but that increases the chance of capsizing. He also visualizes shores and sandbanks. It was the same here on this sea of rubble.
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| This is not an alluvial fan, but it shows how "navigational" an arroyo can be, and why I have always loved them. |
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