A Paved Road So Compelling, We Asked Ourselves “Why Hike When We Can Ride?”

Though hiking is our focus in life, we occasionally take a break from the backcountry to go road cycling. Riding is an effective way to stay fit when trails are snow covered but paved roads remain dry.

Choose the right road, and cycling can be just as scenic as hiking—perhaps more so, if you factor in how far you can ride in a day and how much scenery that distance allows you to appreciate compared to a day on foot.

During our recent foray to Tucson, Arizona, we brought our road bikes. Sure, winter hiking is superb there. But while driving to trailheads in the Santa Catalina Mountains last winter, we realized the highway climbing from Tucson up 9157-ft (2792-m) Mt. Lemmon is a world-class road ride on par in every respect with Mont Ventoux, of Tour de France fame. We had to try it.

Lemmon is the highest and largest massif of the four sky-island mountains surrounding Tucson. Sky Island means an island of forest in a sea of desert. Lemmon towers over Tucson, and the highway (skyway, is more like it) affords views of other, prominent sky-islands including Tanque Verde Mtn (nearby SE), Rincon Peak (distant SE), and Mt. Wrightson (SE).

The road has many names. Most people call it the “Mt. Lemmon Hwy.” Some call it the “Catalina Hwy.” And it’s now officially the “Sky Island Scenic Byway.” The mountain was named in honor of botanist Sarah Lemmon, who in 1881 was lead to the summit by Native American guides.

The ride is spectacular, exhilarating, challenging. It’s a constant, serpentine, cliff-side ascent above canyons, beneath hoodoo pinnacles, ultimately into a grand forest. It climbs from sand to ice, from saguaro cacti to ponderosa pines, from snakes to bears. Views are frequent, often panoramic. And the pavement is perfection: smooth, with a slender-but-adequate shoulder providing a margin of safety. In all of North America, very few roads offer such magnificent cycling.

As for vehicle traffic, cyclists can relax on the Mt. Lemmon Hwy. The road is so sinuous, it’s difficult for motorists to drive dangerously fast. If you ride here midweek, you’ll encounter only light vehicle traffic. And if you ride here on a weekend, when vehicle traffic increases markedly, you’ll be among many other cyclists strung out along the entire route, so motorists will be alert to your presence. Plus, Tucson is a bike-friendly city where—generally—cyclists are expected and accepted. In that regard, Tucson is refreshingly European.*

The Mt. Lemmon Hwy was completed in 1950 after 17 years of construction. It was awarded the Arizona Engineering Excellence Grand Award for Context Sensitive Design in 2005, because it deftly preserved the tumultuous terrain and delicate environment.

We’ve cycled Hwy 1 along California’s Big Sur Coast, the Icefields Parkway in the Canadian Rockies, and Utah’s Hwy 12 from Escalante to Capitol Reef National Park via Boulder and Torrey. All are premier rides. But Mt. Lemmon is our favorite.

In December, 2009, Team Radioshack trained for the 2010 Tour de France on Mt. Lemmon. No wonder. Winter weather here is so consistently sunny and warm that you can usually ride in shorts and short sleeves. Only if it gets windy higher on the mountain might you need tights and a wind shell.

Our first day on Mt. Lemmon, we cycled 14 miles (22.5 km), gaining 3,500 ft (1067 m) from elevation 3050 ft (930 m), to Windy Point Vista, at 6560 ft (2000 m). Pedaling at our loping, “scenery first” pace, it took us about one hour and 40 minutes, plus 20 minutes for stretching and refueling. Bear in mind, we stopped and gawked at all the vista pullouts. We recommend you do, too, even though your bike already grants you a vastly better view than is possible from a car.

Going that slow was a joy. We were constantly captivated by the views and astonished by the highway itself. In some places, only if you tilt your head way back will you see the highway almost directly above you. Yet only a few, brief sections of pavement qualify as “steep.” Languorous switchbacks keep the ascent mercifully gradual.

The 14-mile, downhill blast is ecstatic. From Windy Point Vista, we probably pedaled no more than a dozen crank revolutions (in the vicinity of Green Mtn trailhead). We arrived at our parked car within 35 minutes.

We were back on Mt. Lemmon a week later. This time we covered 20 miles (32.2 km), gaining 4150 ft (1265 m) to the Palisade Visitor Center at 7200 ft (2195 m). The 20-mile, downhill blast: 50 minutes. Emotional effect: a strong, lasting desire to return to Tucson and ride Mt. Lemmon again and again.

You’re a hiker who rides? Mt. Lemmon is one of those rare places where you might prefer a bike beneath your bum instead of a pack on your back.

Getting There

Drive to the junction of Sabino Canyon Road and Tanque Verde Road. This is in NE Tucson. Udall Park is on the SE corner. Reset your trip odometer to zero here, then proceed E on Tanque Verde.

1.2 km (0.75 mi) Bear left on Tanque Verde Road, where right leads to Wrightstown and Pantano Road.

4 mi (2.5 km) Turn left onto Mt. Lemmon Hwy.

7.3 mi (4.5 km) Park on the right, just beyond milepost 1, at 3050 ft (930 m).

The Ride

0 mi (0 km) Milepost 1, at 3050 ft (930 m).

5.7 mi (9.2 km) Molino Basin rest area, at 4370 ft (1332 m).

9 mi (14.5 km) Thimble Peak Vista, at 5320 ft (1622 m). Here you can peer W, across Bear Canyon—the largest drainage in the Santa Catalina Mtns. Seven Cataracts Vista is shortly beyond, followed by three long switchbacks. Soon enter a forested canyon. Beside you is a creek drainage harboring sycamore trees.

12 mi (19.3 km) General Hitchcock campground, at 5920 ft (1805 m). It’s closed (gated) during winter.

14 mi (22.5 km) Windy Point Vista, at 6560 ft (2000 m). A spectacular vantage. Public toilets. In the next couple miles, you’ll pass Geology and Hoodoo vistas.

17.6 mi (28.3 km) San Pedro Vista. The Galiuro Mtns are visible E.

20 mi (32.2 km) Palisades Visitor Center, 7200 ft (2195 m). Pass a water faucet and public toilets on the right, just before arriving.

25 mi (40.25 km) Village of Summerhaven, 7840 ft (2390 m).

*Here’s another, exceptional ride in Tucson. Drive to the East section of Saguaro National Park. From the visitor center, cycle the 8-mi (13-km) Cactus Loop. Do it twice. The scenery is good, the pavement smooth, and the midweek vehicle traffic is nil.

The Opinionated Hikers on Patrol for You

The Hole-in-the-Rock Road (HITRR) departs Highway 12 near Escalante, Utah. Running southeast into the desert, below and parallel to the Kaiparowits Plateau, it slices through Grand Staircase – Escalante National Monument and probes Glen Canyon National Recreation Area.

Where the HITRR departs pavement, it looks like any of the hundreds of humble dirt roads in Utah. But for canyon-country hikers, this is THE road, because it leads to trailheads for numerous premier hikes. Along the way, it provides access to lots of unofficial but superb campsites.

In May, while on a backcountry-research trip to update our book Hiking from Here to WOW: Utah Canyon Country, we once again drove down the HITRR. We re-hiked…

Trip 23  Peek-a-boo, Spooky, & Brimstone Gulches
Trip 26  Willow & Fortymile Gulches
Trip 27  Davis Gulch

We also re-hiked the actual Hole in the Rock: from road’s end, down to the shore of Lake Powell. It’s a hike that, for various reasons, we did not include in Hiking from Here to WOW: Utah Canyon Country. Now we can supplement the book with this up-to-the-minute field report.

As of last week, a low-clearance 2WD vehicle can negotiate the HITRR to Dance Hall Rock at 36 mi (58 km). In a few places, you’ll have to cautiously work around minor obstacles, or keep your speed up through sand. Beyond Dance Hall, you need a high clearance vehicle. Beyond Davis Gulch, 4WD is advisable.

We comfortably drove our Toyota RAV4 (7.5 inches of clearance) to about 51 mi (82 km), just past Davis Gulch. A steep slickrock ramp discouraged us from driving farther. We parked, resumed on foot, and soon encountered a patch of deeply corrugated slickrock we definitely would not have driven. It didn’t matter. We enjoyed hiking the final 4.5 mi (7.2 km) through desolate high-desert.

The panorama was engaging. Fiftymile and Navajo mountains are the dominant sights. Still draped with snow, Navajo was especially dramatic. Not a single vehicle passed us. We saw no other hikers. The solitude was delicious.

The road is obvious, and there are no forks, so navigation is not an issue. Just keep walking, or driving, to road’s end: 55.5 mi (89.2 km). Immediately ahead is a prominent cleft in the sandstone cliffs. Hike into it. This is where Mormon pilgrims in the Hole-in-the-Rock Expedition built a “hanging road” and safely, miraculously, lowered all their wagons and stock to the Escalante River.

Read a description of the expedition (pages 140 through 143 in Hiking from Here to WOW: Utah Canyon Country), and you’re in awe of their superhuman feat. Stand here, and see how impossibly vertical, rough, and forbidding their ascent route actually was, and your response soars beyond awe into speechlessness. This is where Mormon missionaries, keen to up their success rate, should bring their conversion prospects.

It’s a moderate scramble (no exposure, but frequent hands-on moves) most of the way down to Lake Powell. The final descent to the lake is on a steep, sandy trail strewn with loose rock. Distance from the top of the “hole” to the lakeshore: 1 mi (1.6 km). Elevation loss: 800 ft (244 m). Even in May, it’s hot, thirsty work. Carry at least three quarts (liters) of water per person.

Lake Powell remains cold until June. We “swam” for all of about three minutes. But after May, the weather can be too hot (90° F / 32° C) for hiking. So it’s best to wait until late September to hike here. The weather will be cooler, the lake warmer.

After several weeks at home in Canmore—working long days, getting minimal exercise, chafed by the reality that little hiking is available in the Canadian Rockies until June—we felt strange, unsettled. The nomadic life is strong in us. So after taking care of essential business and stacking the rest onto our laptops, we migrated south. Early spring is ideal hiking time in southern Utah.

Leaving the icy mountains behind, we headed to the land of sun-pounded slickrock domes and sandy-floored, sinuous canyons. We traded a palette of grey and straw, for red, orange and yellow. We pitched our tent under grand cottonwoods, sat out late beneath the starry, cobalt sky, woke up to temperatures that invite hiking in shorts.

We hope you can take time this year to visit Canyonlands, Capitol Reef, or Zion national parks, or the vast, high-desert regions surrounding Moab, Torrey, Boulder, or Escalante. Bring our book Hiking from Here to WOW: Utah Canyon Country. It will ensure you make the most out of each day. You live in western Canada? A 20-hour drive is all that stands between you and another planet: southern Utah. If your home is in the northwest U.S., you’re close enough that four or five days is all you need for a quick but fulfilling canyon-country adventure.

While driving through the outskirts of Calgary, we passed a housing development with a huge sign: FINAL PHASE! Our interpretation was, yes, this is indeed the historic, final phase for these absurdly huge, utterly unsustainable, hilariously boxy, anti-architecture mansions. Even a dim awareness of reality (peak oil, climate change, global economic decline) is sufficient to recognize that these trophy homes are monuments to excess and will soon be unwanted embarrassments. Besides, homes and mortgages of that magnitude have always been anchors that severely curtail one’s independence. They represent the final phase of whatever liberty their owners previously enjoyed.

Continuing our drive south of Calgary, we saw other housing developments spilling across the prairie. All the homes are boxes. All are “detached” but none is more than a couple meters from the nearly identical box next door. All are drab shades of the drabbest colours: taupe and grey. We could not live there. Such pervasive monotony would quash our creativity. The comforts those boxes provide would not compensate us for the soul-deadening affects of uniformity, repetition, and predictability.

We’d rather be in a downtown Calgary condo, where we’d have the Bow River and several big parks nearby, and where we could participate in stimulating city life.

Approaching Lethbridge, we could see the weather was worse on the southern horizon. We stopped for gas and discovered the approaching snow storm had already knocked out the city’s electricity. Without electricity, gas pumps are inoperable. Plus the Coutts border crossing was closed, as was the highway in northern Montana. “Don’t try it,” someone told us. “Cars in the ditch everywhere.”

It seemed the snow had defeated us. Our four-hour drive south was wasted. We turned back north. But nomad determination kicked in. “I bet we can outflank this storm,” Kath said. “We’ll drive west over Crowsnest Pass into B.C., then probe south.”

It was longer by four hours, but it worked. It was a more interesting drive, too. And it allowed us to keep moving. That’s the nomad philosophy: Keep moving.