From the Clouded Memory of
Wes Baca
October 30, 1999
The Epic, Mountain Trail Ride
Wow! I am excited! After a nearly 13 year lay off, I've gone on my first, truly epic, mountain trail ride. Now I will admit, that I have not been totally without motorcycles for past 13 years. That's only because George, owner of The Georgetown Cycle Shop, made me go on a Jemez Mountain trail ride. Since I didn't have a bike at the time, he even made me borrow a new KTM 250. But, that ride was way back in 1988. And, I did join the New Mexico Trials Association, competing in 1990 and 91 on my M199 Sherpa T. But, as far as riding my own bike, a long distance, with a bunch of beer swilling dirt bikers, it has been a long time.
It all started, in the spring of '99. I had been getting the itch to ride a dirt bike again. I would have to give credit to www.off-road.com for getting me itching. Credit is due because I was searching for information on the whereabouts of Rick "Super Hunky" Sieman. What I found was a WEB page advertising Rick's book, Monkey Butt. I instantly ordered my very own copy of Monkey Butt, and eagerly awaited its arrival. After reading the book and recalling the best times of my life, my path was clear. I must get a dirt bike. So, every Sunday I checked the want ads for used dirt bikes. Finally, I saw a 1997 XR280, in the Sunday paper. And, for some reason, I figured I needed that bike. Probably because I assumed that an XR280 would be enough motorcycle to have fun on. But, would also provide me with an excuse for not being fast. It turned out that good ol' Al Good was the peddler of this fine steed. Al was asking $3,300 for this splendid machine. I don't really know Al, but I had met him before through George. So, I recognize him and I think he recognized me. Al let me take the mighty 280 around the block, and I must admit that I was surprised at how "not slow" it felt. I offered Al $2500. To which, Al politely declined, without laughing, and I went away. Two weeks later I see the same bike in the Sunday paper for $3100. I think, maybe I have a chance at this bike after all. I give Al a call, and tell him that my offer of $2500 still stands. Al admits that he has not had as much interest in the bike as he thought he would, and tells me that since he knows me, he can let me have it for $2,900. I have to tell Al that it's still more than I can spend, I thank him, and say so long. Then a month later, the bike appears in the Sunday paper again for $3,100. Dial, dial, dial, and dial…
"Hey Al, I see that you still have my XR."
"Yeah, I do. Let's see you offered me $2,500 and I said I'd take $2,900. What say we split the difference and make it $2,700?"
"Deal!"
I didn't know where to ride, so I just rode the foothills out by Carnuel for few weeks. My XR280 really surprised me with its ability to chug up semi-gnarly, low traction hills without stalling or spinning the rear tire. I'm having fun, but after I get used to the bike, the limited area gets kind of boring. I need to get in touch with some of my old buddies, and find out where they go riding these days. Also, I need to start replacing my old worn out and rotten riding gear.
I didn't know if any of the old gang were still riding. But, I figured Ron would know. So, I gave him a call. Ron informed me that, he and his cousin Jim have WR400Fs and they go riding all the time. We set the date and agreed to meet at the Village Inn for breakfast.
On October 30, the morning of the ride, I was a little nervous since Jim wants to ride in the Jemez Mountains. No, I wasn't a little nervous. I was a lot nervous. I was so nervous that I arrived at the Village Inn 45 minutes early. My stomach felt like it used to on the start line of a desert race. I never rode much in the mountains, twice in the Jemez, twice at Sipapu, and once at the Mile High Enduro in Cloudcroft, New Mexico. But, I figure my XR will suck if we go out to the Desert. Besides, I don't want to try to go fast anymore. That's why I got the XR. There are five of us Ron, Jim and me. Plus, Kevin and Ed. Kevin just got a used XR400 and Ed has a '99 KTM 300 EXC. Again, I was nervous. I know what to expect from Jim and Ron. Jim is faster than I am. He is also nice enough to let me keep him in sight. Of course, if I try to reel him in, he will pick up the pace just enough to leave me in the dust, but still let me have some dignity. Ron is an accomplished rider, but with some really shitty knees, he tries not to ride over his head since, a get off could mean another trip to the O.R. Kevin and Ed, I don't know about. Kevin was riding an XR250 before he got the XR400. I can't hold that against him since I'm riding an XR250. He may be fast. I can't tell. Ed does not look like a fast guy. He's kind of skinny, gray haired, and wears a western shirt, the kind with the pearl snaps. But, he does have a KTM, one of my all time favorite marques. Anyway we stuffed all the bikes and gear into two of the five available trucks. And headed for the hills.
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While unloading the bikes and suiting up in our crusty riding gear, the friendly banter is everything I remembered it to be. It is, one of the things, that I missed most about group rides. My trusty XR was not so trusty on this morning as it took considerable effort to get it lit off. I guess it had something to do with the fact that I had not started it in two months, the crisp 30-degree morning air, and my lack of proficiency in 4-stroke starting drill. It finally did start. Kevin's XR400 was a little slow to fire too. The WRs and the KTM started practically on the first kick. As we are now ready to embark on our adventure, I'm thinking about where I should place myself in the group. I know Ron will want me ahead of him, and I know that Jim will lead since he knows the trails. I still do not know about Kevin and Ed. Ed quickly blasts off through the trees, followed by a charging Jim. I glanced at Kevin and it was obvious that he expected me to go ahead of him. Quickly I launched my vehicle into hot pursuit.
As it turned out Ed was one hell of a rider. And, he knew the trails as well as Jim. Oh those trails. I grew up in Albuquerque, but in all my years of riding, I never knew that the mountains could be so much fun. I rode in the mountains a few times in the old days. But, I didn't much like it. Should I tell you why?
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My first mountain experience, was when Dave talked me into going up to the Sipapu Ski Area to ride. It seems he had just been to a Poker Run up there and he said it was a great place to ride. My bike, at that time, was a 1980 KTM 250 that I had bought used from a local expert, after he had thrashed it for a whole year. I figured he should have all the bugs worked out, and it came with a set of Works Performance shocks. Dave also had a KTM, probably a couple of years newer than my 1980. We drove up early in the morning in Dave's van. Dave had a tough time finding the exact spot where the trails started. Then, later in the day, he had a tough time finding the exact spot where we left the van. I shouldn't blame it all on him though, since I could have paid more attention to where we were going and where we had been. In short, we were lost, deeply lost. It was one of those cloudy rainy days, the kind where you can't even see where the sun is. We were not familiar with the area and we had no idea where we were. Or, even which way was up on the map. We came to a barbed wire fence with no gate in site, and stopped. "Hey Dave, I think we lost the trail." "Nah, it goes up that hill." Dave says as he points up a steep, rocky, muddy, gnarly uphill with a narrow path running painfully close to the barbed wire. "Yeah Dave, if I use my imagination I can see a trail there. But, it looks like the deer only use it when they're coming down the hill." "Don't be such a puss Wes. We can make it up that easy." Then Dave clicks it into gear and charges the hill. Not to be out done, I follow. Dave makes it up past a scary rock ledge and stalls the engine. Seeing all this take place. I cease my assault on the mountain and try to turn back down. As I'm bulldogging my bike down the gooey slope, I can hear the sound of Dave trying to kick start his bike. Then the sound of a bike coasting down hill and gaining speed. Suddenly the sound of total silence fills the still mountain air, followed by the dull thud-like splat of Dave's rotund body hitting the mud like a turd falling from a tall cow. I could hear Dave wheezing and gasping like somebody trying to breathe in the total vacuum of outer space. I turned around just in time to see Dave's bike pound him like a tent stake and come after me.
As soon as Dave is able, he explains what happened: "My muddy boot kept slipping off the kick starter. So, I decided to roll down the hill and bump start it. When I jumped on the bike, my feet slipped off the pegs just as I hit the rock ledge. I went airborne and over the handlebars at the same time."
We finally wrestled our bikes up the hill and found a trail. Then Dave ran out of gas. I drained some of my fuel into his tank so we could keep going. Then we both ran out of gas. We sat there looking at each other for a while. Actually, Dave looked for mushrooms. Then, all of a sudden we heard it. The high pitched call of the Yeti? No. It was the scream of a tiny 2-stroke engine at high rpm. Could we be this lucky? We walked toward the sound, still wearing our helmets. What we discovered was an old local fellow cutting firewood. Since he couldn't hear our approaching footsteps over the noise of his chainsaw, we were able to walk right up behind him, unnoticed. This, I guess, is why we inadvertently scared the living shit out of poor old guy.
"Ahhh! What do you guys want?"
"Sorry man, didn't mean to scare you. But, we were riding our motorcycles and ran out of gas. Maybe you could spare some of your chainsaw gas?"
"I guess I could sell you some. How much do you need?"
"Just a couple gallons. Or, all you can spare. But, we don't have any money."
The old fella' was nice enough to let us have all of his chainsaw gas and a can of Homelite 2 cycle oil. Just in case. He also was kind enough to show us where we were on our map. Man, were we lost. Our best bet now is to ride out of the forest to NM434. Then, ride through the town of Mora and back to Sipapu ski lodge. Mora is a very inhospitable place to be if you’re not a Northern New Mexican. The locals don't much like any body, especially gringos. Dave and I ride into town like two trail weary outlaws in a Clint Eastwood movie. Pull into the local filling station, nervously gas our unregistered vehicles, add half a can each of our Homelite 2 cycle, then we remember, we are flat broke. "Shit, what are we going to do now?" "We're going to get killed that's what." As the attendant ambles towards us, we are in a near panic. But, we simply explained the situation, and hoped for the best.
While I wait at the gas station Dave is allowed to resume the search for his van. After what seemed like an eternity, Dave returns with his van, a case of beer, and most importantly his wallet. We pay the man, offer him a beer, he takes a six pack, and we load up, and start the drive home.
"So Dave, where did you get the beer."
"I found a liquor store and bought it."
"How long did that take?"
"Not long. Actually, it did take the guy about ten minutes to find change for a fifty. Well, the liquor store was about ten minutes out of the way. Ok, it was ten minutes out and then ten minutes back. Oh fuck you it took a half-hour extra. Shut up and have a beer or three!"
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My second mountain experience was Fourth of July 1985. I had just purchased my '85 Mstar GM 500 from Georgetown Cycle Shop. George was out of town. His helper, Tommy, talked me into buying a new bike so that I would not miss the Sipapu poker run coming up later in the month. This was because my '84 KTM was waiting for a new crankshaft. Seemed like a plan to me so I borrowed three grand and bought me a Maico. Tommy suggested that we go up to his Dad's cabin in the Jemez Mountains and ride all weekend.
Dave and I thought that was great idea so we loaded up Tom's van, and took off for Los Lunas. Wait a minute, Los Lunas?
"Hey Tom why are we going to Los Lunas, it's the wrong direction."
"Cause we got to get some firecrackers and cherry bombs and stuff."
"Oh."
Heading back to Albuquerque, loaded to the dome light with illegal fireworks, dirt bikes, and beer, we pull into the parking lot of Malibu Grand Prix.
"What are we doing here Tom?"
"Have you guys ever drove these things? It's great. Come on."
Dave and I were game. So, in we went. That is, $10 each for Malibu GP licenses. Plus, 60 bucks a piece for the lead foot special and we were in. And, yes it was fun. It turns out that the track record belonged to Jim Hill, who was a local MXer. We never even came close to Jim's record but we did motocross the cars across the infield a time or two.
Back on the road to the Jemez Mountains again. By the time we get to the cabin, it is past midnight. We grill some steaks and corn on the cob and stuff ourselves. Then, Tommy boy pulls out the Southern Comfort. Now I know from high school that Southern Comfort is a bad idea, but what the hell.
The next morning Tommy took us on what was to be the most unfun, horriblest ride of my life. We rode nothing but fast gravel forest roads and dry baked logging roads with deep curb like ruts. I never crashed more, or harder, in my entire life. There were pieces of me scattered all over those mountains. I suppose, in hindsight it is easy to see that riding an open bike for the first time, in unfamiliar terrain, with an expert motocrosser that grew up riding in the area is a bad idea. Plus, my extreme Southern Comfort discomfort didn't help. I did find out however, that an HRP Flak Jak and a Bell Moto 4 can be a big help. Especially, if you go over the handlebars and land on your head and shoulders countless times in a single day.
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My first poker run at Sipapu, is my third mountain trail ride. It was as cool as Dave said it was. We weren’t even close to the right area on our previous Sipapu adventure. We camped the night before the event with a large group of riders. And, a large group of mosquitoes. In a short time, the skeeters had chowed down and tore us all up. I slept in the cab of my truck on a nice sweaty vinyl seat which seemed to amplify the agony of the mosquito bites. The next morning, of course no one had any kind of camping supplies. No food to speak of. No toilet paper. No water. No coffee. No nuthin. Oh wait, we did have plenty of beer. I mentioned to Dave that someday we might need to get our shit together. He agreed and we suited up, gassed up, and mounted up. I never imagined it possible to ride up and down trails that steep and rocky. I rode my Mstar 500, and it ran like crap thanks to my own stupidity. It seems that I put the needle clip in on top of the retainer instead of under it. I guess that meant I was on the main jet regardless of the slide position, since the needle was way too high. This astounding piece of mechanical brilliance I accomplished, by rejetting my bike at the end of the Fourth of July Death Ride. That is, after riding all day with a hangover, no food and precious little water. I tried to perform a simple mechanical task. One which, under the circumstances, I doubt that Horst Leitner himself could have accomplished. At the time, I thought that it was very important. Because, I didn't want to forget to take out the 9000 ft jetting and then go blast around the Dez at 5000 ft. As it turned out, I would have been all right since the next ride was in the mountains again and I forgot all about the change anyway. Now that I think about it, all I did was change the needle position because all the Bing jets I had were for my 250 KTM. Sheesh, what a dunce. It's only thanks to the brilliant mechanical design of the Maico motorcycle, that it would run at all.
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One day Dave says, "Hey Wes have you ever wanted to ride an enduro."
"Sure I would, I bet those things are easy."
"The Mile High is in a couple of weeks, let's enter it."
"What about time keeping."
"We don't need to worry about that. We'll just ride as fast as we can and see what happens."
"OK."
So begins my fourth mountain adventure, we entered the Mile High Enduro. So did George, French, and Mike. Suds came along to pit for us. It rained all day and all night before the race. On the morning of the race, there was a thick sheet of ice on the seat of my Mstar. I could not get the thing to start to save my soul. Suds towed me with a Polaris 4-wheeler until the engine finally got warm enough to start. Then, I found out why it wouldn't start. The new throttle cable that I installed the night before was too short. The short cable held the slide at about 1/8 to 1/4 throttle, apparently canceling the effect of the choke. This thing was going to be hard to ride in the mud with the throttle stuck. I quickly hacksawed the nut out of the cable’s built in adjuster, hoping that this would give me a reasonable idle speed. It helped. But, my engine idle speed was still too high. Dave and I were leaving on minute 66 along with two other guys. The three of them were just leaving the line as I sped onto the scene. I blasted past them and promptly missed the mud-slick first turn. I ricocheted into the trees, foot down full lock sideways, and cloths lined myself on a nice thick tree limb, peeling the visor right off my helmet. I said to myself "this is going to be another one of those long days in the woods. Why do I keep getting myself into this shit." It was indeed 90 miles of uphill, downhill, muddy hell. As I finally dragged my tired ass into the last check, I was informed that I had houred out. I begged the guy to let me check through just so that I could say I finished. He said "I might let you do that, but you're going the wrong way." I wanted to take the highway back to the pits but was told that the local sheriff was ticketing illegal bikes. I said, "I don't care. At this point in my enduro career, I'm so tired I'd rather pay the fine than ride another inch in these mountains." He wouldn't let me do it because it would give the event a black eye if the sheriff writes a bunch of tickets. Back into the fray I go. On the way back I was talked into helping an old Texan get his spanking new KTM up a big hill. Then he promptly rode off and left me to struggle with my bike by myself. Quite some time later, I came across a bike blocking the narrow trail. I noticed couple of guys trying to retrieve a bike that had left the trail at a particularly steep spot. After my last experience helping out, I could not be talked into helping these two. While trying to squeeze past the bike blocking the trail I inadvertently knocked it over the side of the mountain. I was able to muster enough energy to gas the shit out of my 500 for the last time that day. This acceleration was necessitated by the flurry of rocks that were being hurled at me by the two stuck riders. By the time I got back to the pits, I was never ever going to ride another enduro. After couple of cold ones however, I couldn't wait till next year.
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My fifth, and seemingly final, mountain ride was made possible by someone's misfortune. It seems a guy from Los Lunas (I can't remember his name) got divo'ed and had to sell his practically new KTM 250 MXC. So, he cleaned her all up and brought her to Georgetown for George to sell on consignment. The next Friday all the usual guys showed up at Georgetown for happy hour. George, and some of the guys, were planning a trip up to Jan's cabin in the Jemez Mountains for a trail ride and bar-b-que. It was going to be George, Ron, Ted, Jan, and the twins, Roland and Robin. I had quit riding in the spring of 1986 after a big crash and a two-week stay in the hospital. It was now about two years since my crash. So, I was pretty good and healed up. Although, I still didn't have much range of motion in my left knee. I was listening to the trip plans and getting really jealous. All of a sudden, George invites me to go with. "Gee George, you know good and well that I sold all of my bikes."
"Yeah. I know you're a dumb fucking brain donor for doing that. You should have waited till you healed before making that decision. And besides I've got a brand new 250 MXC up front and you can ride that. If, you're not too much of a wet pussy."
"But George, that bike belongs to the poor dumb fuck from Los Lunas. Doesn't it?"
"Yes it does. But, I'll tell him that you're interested in buying it and I let you test ride it. That is if, you don't think your saggy tits will get caught in the spokes."
"OK. I'll go. When do we leave?"
"As soon as you go home and get your gear you slack jawed moron. And get some more beer on the way back too, ya cun'cha (Little Jimmy's saying for, you cunt, you). Don't forget the rule, a case per day per man."
"I thought that was the bass fishin' rule. How are we going to drink that much beer if we're riding motorcycles all day?"
"What are you complaining about, you bald headed Mexican moocher? You're getting a free motorcycle aren't you? And besides we can drink it at night, when we ain't riding."
"Damn. This is a rough neighborhood. I'll be back in about an hour."
When I returned with my gear and the beer, most of the bikes and gas cans and giant gear bags were already loaded into the two transport vehicles. One vehicle was George's 70's era Dodge Tradesman Van, with over 300,000 miles on it. The van would be hauling two bikes in back and towing George's snowmobile trailer. The trailer started out as a single axle boat trailer, but it had been converted to haul snowmobiles. It was a high tech conversion that consisted of squaring off the front of the trailer and welding expanded metal to the rails. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw all the bikes on the trailer. There were six bikes and a Polaris Trail Boss four wheeler on that poor trailer. Ron's truck had two more bikes in it plus a gas grill, a large easy up awning, several ice chests, countless gas cans, and a two place trailer hitched up to the back with two more bikes!
"Hey Ron. What's up with all the bikes?"
"We had a few more guys sign up for the race. And Jan's daughter is going to ride the four-wheeler. This is going to be one of those giant cluster fucks with George as the pivot man, again. I was going to try to get out of going but I got elected to drive."
"Oh well. It'll still be fun. Help me unload all this beer."
"Yeah gimme one. We might as well get a head start."
As usual it was late at night when we finally rolled into the Jemez. We ate steaks, drank, and told lots of lies.
Morning came too soon. By the time we got everybody moving and got all the bikes started it was late morning and I was already hungry. Most of day was spent racing back and forth on forest roads looking for trails. It was hard riding tough, mostly because of the large size and competitive nature of the group. George is one of the most competitive riders I have ever seen. He will do anything to stay in the lead. And, he is damn fast too. His 6'-2" and 250 LB frame, I would guess, is the only reason he was never Grand National Champion. If the group started going too slow he would drop back and goad someone into racing him. This time, I was his target. As we leisurely crossed a large grassy meadow, in search of yet another mystery trail. George pulls along side of me, gives me the one finger salute, and wheelies away. He accelerates through the gears, waving the front wheel of his '81 490 Maico in the sky. I'm just about to chase him, when all of a sudden the front end of his bike slams to the ground and George rag dolls over the handlebars. I'm so stunned by the site of George's XXXL body flying through space, with his red beard hanging out the bottom of his Moto 4, and his lily white pimply ass sticking out the top of his Hallmans, that I almost ran over him. While George was busy kicking in a circle, with one leg, I found a rock to balance my bike against and I shut off his screaming 490. "Hey George. What did you do that for?"
"What the fuck (gasp)… Got damn it (wheeze)… Mother fucker shit (snort)… Cock sucker blow job (sputter)… I'm gonna kick your (cough)…"
"Don't try to answer if you can't breath. Hey I think I see what happen. Look at all these little tree stumps hidden in the grass. I guess somebody must have thinned out some trees here. You probably hit one of these stumps while you were hanging your ass out. By the way, you've got a bunch of grodie looking foamy drool on your beard. Dude…are you alright?"
After George reinflated his lungs (later he found out that he broken three ribs), we continued or search for good trails. In fact, we searched into the night for trails that would lead us back to the cabin. Thankfully, one of us had a headlight and we finally did find the cabin. I was so seized up the next day that I could barely get up the hill to the shithouse. And, I had to make it up that hill because I was going to shit whether or not I made it up the hill. My legs have never been that sore. I guess two weeks in the hospital, followed by 6 weeks non-weight bearing, a year of doing nothing but drinking in cowboy bars, choustin' pinoch (Clovis term for chasing puss), and hanging out at Georgetown will take its toll on the old physical conditioning.
Oh yeah, the epic mountain trail ride. I almost forgot. We went 60 miles through the greenest most beautiful forests that New Mexico has to offer. We stopped on the side of a mountain overlooking the Baca Ranch or the Baca Location as it is known on USGS topo maps (Jemez Springs Quadrangle, F.S. NO. NM-106). The Baca Ranch is a volcanic Caldera. It is also called the "Valle Grande" or "Big Valley". The main caldera is about 15 miles in diameter. The ranch floor is 3000 feet below the Caldera's surrounding rim. There are also six more valleys within the ranch boundaries. The Caldera was formed, long ago, when a volcano erupted and then sank back into the hole. I have heard that when that volcano blew up, it was one of the biggest explosions the earth has ever known. Pieces of rock from the caldera have been found in Kansas, or so they say. The Baca Ranch is not just a big hole in the ground. The Baca Ranch is 95,000 acres which consist of: 23,985 acres lush green meadows, 17,736 acres Ponderosa Pine, 12,084 acres Spruce-Fir, 35,698 acres Mixed Conifer, 1,164 acres Aspen, and 4,145 acres of other Green Stuff. There are 7,500 head of elk, 6,000 head of cattle, and 27 miles of trout streams. Plus mule deer, black bear, mountain lion, coyote, bobcat, beaver, raccoon, golden and bald eagles. Believe it or not, all of this was purchased by the Dunigan family in 1962 for 2.5 million dollars. At present, the Feds are trying to purchase the ranch, in the name of you and me, for 101 million dollars. Of course, no one is allowed on the ranch without permission. Motorcycles are most certainly not permitted on the ranch. And they never will be allowed either since the ranch is also home to these endangered and threatened species: Mexican Spotted Owl, Jemez Mountain Salamander, Goshawk, Peregrine Falcon, Red-tailed Hawk, and the main food of the Red tailed Hawk the Rio Grande Cutthroat Trout. Doesn't matter though. We can still ride all around the spectacular location. For now anyway.
But, back to the epic mountain trail ride. We ate a relaxing lunch of Payday candy bars while we sat over looking the amazing Baca Ranch. No one crashed all day. No one broke down. No one ran out of gas or water. No one got lost. No one whined or complained. No one got hurt. It didn't rain. It wasn't hot. There wasn't any dust or mud.
Hey wait a minute! This was not an epic mountain trail ride at all. It was all those other mountain trail rides that were "epic".