Last summer I experimented with some “bike slacking”—taking my gravel bike on a three-day trip. Bike slacking is my term for bikepacking
light and staying in Airbnbs while eating at local restaurants. I rode from Gunnison to Lake City, then to Silverton, and on the third day to my sister’s place near Telluride, Colorado. She drove me home after that. I had a great trip and have been dreaming of doing something similar this summer, but adding actual camping and making my trip a bikepacking trip. So I need to do some testing namely an actual overnight bikepacking trip.This past weekend, an opportunity arose for me to leave around 1 PM on Sunday and be back for a meeting at 10:30 Monday morning. This would be a perfect test run although I would have to use the packs that I had — backpack, handlebar pack and a frame pack.
I quickly planned a 45-mile route up to Sun Park—something challenging with a little adventure. I’d thought of this route before, but it had a couple of intimidating features: Wet Beaver Creek during the peak of spring runoff, and no trail from Wet Beaver Creek to Sun Park, meaning I’d have to hike-a-bike about one mile and 1,000 feet of elevation gain.My plan was simple: ride the first 25 miles to Sun Park and camp there, then have an easy 20-mile downhill ride home in the morning to make my meeting.
As I started pedaling south towards Hartman Rocks, the first thing I noticed was an unfamiliar pressure on my pelvis. It felt like someone above me was pushing down on my shoulders, the weight of that 18-pound backpack pressing through my body into the bike seat below. The seat dug in harder than usual, and it didn’t help that for some reason I had decided not to wear my riding bibs under my pants—one of those last-minute choices that seem insignificant until they’re not. Mistakes #1 and 2.
The weight was there, but I was committed now. I headed out of Gunnison on what I’d planned as a quick test loop through Hartman Rocks before the real adventure began.
Dark skies loomed overhead, and within thirty minutes I was soaking wet from a spring rain. Luckily, a strong headwind dried me out as I turned a rode west. I pressed on toward my real destination: Sun Park and this would test everything I thought I knew about bikepacking.
As I began the first major climb—10 miles and 2,400 feet of elevation gain—I became aware of how completely different this felt from my normal rides. My legs ground away at 40-60 RPMs instead of my usual spinning cadence, the 36-tooth chainring that worked perfectly for my rides was now feeling like I was pedaling through thick mud. Each pedal stroke was
deliberate and heavy plus the weight of my gear made every rotation a conscious effort. Mistake #3.
The crawling pace on the uphill wasn’t new to me. I accepted it and took my time, stopping to snap a few photos and say hello to grazing livestock. But as I neared the summit, I began to notice the clock. Time was slipping away, and I still hadn’t reached my two biggest challenges: Wet Beaver Creek and a mile-long, 1,000-foot hike-a-bike.
The Moment of Truth
That’s when I realized I might need to alter my plan—either my route or where I’d planned to camp. I stayed in the present, knowing that I might have to change plans. I was going to move forward until it became clear I had to adapt.
I reached the summit of my climb and the beginning of a “road” that I only knew by seeing it on a map. Wet Beaver Creek awaited at the bottom, so I descended the unused road littered with baby-head-sized rocks, spotting an overturned Dodge truck along the way. I had no issues besides having to dismount a few times for downed trees.
Then I heard it—the sound of rushing water, still minutes before I could see the creek. When Wet Beaver Creek finally came into view, I saw the speed and depth of the water flowing fast with spring runoff. I had anticipated this challenge, so it wasn’t a complete surprise. What caught me off guard was that the creek didn’t widen in this area, offering no obvious place to cross.
For thirty minutes I walked up and down the bank, searching for a safe crossing. Each failed spot added pressure—I could feel time ticking away and the bear scat I’d spotted earlier was nagging at the back of my mind. I also spotted an inviting camping spot by the creek grow that was getting more tempting with each dead end.
Then I found it: a massive Doug Fir that had fallen across the creek like a bridge. I walked across first without my bike, breaking branches to clear a path, testing my confidence. The tree felt solid and wide enough. Getting my loaded bike six feet up onto that fallen trunk was the real
challenge—pushing, pulling, and wrestling 40 pounds of bike and gear up to trunk level.
But once I had my bike in hand and we (my bike and I) were both on that tree, walking across with the rushing water below, the feeling was pure “Game On” determination. I’d conquered the creek. Now I only had to tackle the next obstacle: the hike-a-bike up to Sun Park.
I checked my topo map and searched for the least steep ridge to hike up. One thousand feet and at least 1 mile lie in front of me. I took my first step on the slope and started up.
The beginning was tough and I thought back to videos I saw of skiers making their way up a steep slope. I tried to use that same method criss-crossing my way up. Heavy breathing, sweat, and not a lot headway into my trip up, I wondered how I would make Sun Park before dark.
I took turns carrying my bike, pushing my bike, and slumping over my bike trying to recover for the next step. It had now been over 5hrs since I left my house and the sun was starting to set.
I decided to find the flattest piece of the ridge and make camp. My new plan would be to eat, sleep, recover and prepare for the rest of the climb the next morning.
I found a spot and took a few moments to rest. Mistake #4 that I made was not knowing how to build the new tent that I had bought. I did not do a test run of putting up the tent. I spent the next 45 minutes trying to figure it out. I got it standing and it looked about 90% right. At least, now I had a roof over my head if needed.
It was now time to make dinner and reading the instructions, I realized my quick dehydrated meal would take double the time due to my elevation. No big deal, I had a great view and 
the quiet of the forest was soothing.
During this wait, I realized I made Mistake #5 of not bringing my charging cord for my phone. I brought a battery pack but no cord. After sending a satellite text to my wife that I was safe, I turned off the phone and had my dinner. I then settled down to read as I had squeezed my kindle in at the last moment. It wasn’t long before I was asleep and I stayed that way till about 3:45 and the sound of heavy footsteps nearby. My mind raced as I had seen black bear scat earlier that day. I had a bear bell on my pack but no bear spray. I would include that on my next trip.
Fortunately after about 30 minutes of thoughts of bears breaking into my tent and how I would protect myself, I fell back asleep till 6am. I did not want to get up but I had more hike-a-bike and I had a 10:30 am meeting.
I got up stretched out and made some coffee. It was during this time that I realized that I had left my spork out and now it was gone and most likely the property of some nearby squirrels. Mistake #6. I would have to make do with breakfast being ride food – a bar and some dried mango.
After that I was all packed up in 20 minutes and hiking up. I again switched from pushing my bike to carrying my bike. I would find game trails and take them as long as I could. I hiked for 1 hour and could see that I was close to the top. As I neared the top and the steepest section according to the map, I was overjoyed to find it clear of trees and a game trail zig zagging up. I made this section only to find the next section strewn with down trees. It looked like a game of pick up sticks gone wrong. After another 30 minutes of traversing the hillside and going under and over too many trees, I found myself in Sun Park.
Glory be! Sun Park was a beautiful sight.
It was now 8:30 AM and I was only two hours from my meeting, so I made an executive decision and altered my course by a couple of miles. I would now just descend versus climbing a bit more on the bike. The downhill was amazing—I sped along coasting and celebrating being past the hike-a-bike.
Then the soun
d of hitting a rock rang in my ears, followed by the sound of air leaving my tire. I had hit a rock and got a snakebite puncture. After five minutes, three tire plugs, and 228 pumps on my bike pump, I was riding again.
I passed by an old mining cabin, and from there I knew a seldom-used singletrack awaited me. I entered the off-camber singletrack and pedaled my way to the next jeep road. I made a quick descent from there to the pavement.
I had thirty minutes left before my meeting and only two miles to ride. Plenty of time. I arrived home, changed my shirt, combed my hair, and got on my Zoom call.
Even now, whenever I hear rushing water or face a major challenge, I’m transported back to that surge of unstoppable confidence when I made it across Wet Beaver Creek with my bike in hand. It’s the feeling of every true adventure—when preparation meets opportunity, when you commit fully to the unknown, and when you discover that you’re capable of more than you knew.
That sensory memory of triumph—the sound of rushing water below and the weight of my bike balanced perfectly in my grip—reminds me why I seek out these challenges. Adventure feeds my soul. I never know the outcome, and I feel a little like an explorer of the past. You plan for the worst and hope for the best.
And I have to find adventure—it’s my form of escape, from the planning stages to the actual experience. It’s the entire process.
Will I do it again? For sure. I don’t think I’ll do this exact route, but I will adventure, and I look forward to some multiple-day bikepacking trips this summer, each one promising new sensations, new challenges, and that same intoxicating rush of stepping into the unknown with everything I need strapped to my back and my bike.
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