Purposely Getting Lost

Hell yeah!

I yelled as I banked around the last bend of the paved bike path and saw the bar on the opposite corner.

I was so excited to finally be at the bottom of the hill.

As I came to a stop, my cohort and then 16-year-old daughter, Gabi, came to a stop next to me.

“We made it!” she says, smiling back at me.

We cross the street, hang the bikes on the back of the RV, and go to find the rest of the family, who have been patiently waiting for us for four hours. They aren’t in the RV so we walk over to the bar.

I sit down at the picnic table next to Victor. Danny, Jiraiya, and Tati are in the middle of playing cards.

“You made it?” a cyclist at the table next to me asks.

“Yes, finally,” I reply.

We had just briefly met him when we were only a few minutes down Jimmy’s Mom (and were already walking our bikes) when he reached the top of a jump and stopped to see if we were okay.

“Does it get any easier?” I had asked.

“No, but this will eventually hit the Old Pass Road,” he replied.

We kept walking.

We had started three hours earlier on an easy dirt MTB trail, Arrow.

When we reached a summit and saw a turn off for Snotel trail, I thought, why not? Trail Forks rated it 5 stars, so it must be great.

It was, but it climbed for what felt like forever, and sure enough, when we reached the next summit and the crossroads for the Ridge Trail and Snotel, we accidentally turned onto the Ridge Trail, thinking we were staying on Snotel.

Ridge Trail was a black diamond trail, and seeing as we had only started mountain biking a month ago, and were on hard tails, that was way out of our league.

My internal compass knew we were heading in the wrong direction, but something about the jaw-dropping views reminded me of being back in the mountains of Europe, which kept me pedaling along this extremely rocky trail that was definitely skirting along the ridge of the mountain.

I kept scanning ahead, thinking it was going to bank right 180 degrees at any moment and send us back to our RV that was sitting alongside the highway with the rest of the family, who were probably starting to worry since we said this was going to be a quick ride.

Thirty minutes and a lot of braking later, a cyclist finally passes and informs us that this is definitely the Ridge Trail.

Gabi looks at me, tired and frustrated, but knows she can’t yell at me because she, too, was sucked into the thralls of adventure that being in a new town on a new trail always brings.

We complain half-jokingly, half-serious that it wouldn’t be so bad if our legs just weren’t so tired.

We had already hiked the four miles to Ski Lake that morning, and six miles the previous day to rock climb in City of Rocks, where, again, we got slightly lost by also taking a wrong turn and having to spend an extra twenty minutes backtracking in the blazing heat with no water while carrying heavy climbing packs.

Good times.

It’s a slow retreat back along the ridge where we eventually realize our mistake and course correct down the even rockier section of the Snotel trail to where it thankfully turns a bit smoother and flowy until we reach the trailhead and grab water from the motorhome.

We should’ve called it a day. I mean, ten miles of hiking in the past 24 hours, a few hours of climbing, and now this intense bike ride!

But Ranger Randy was so excited this morning when we asked where we should mountain bike and told us we had to do this downhill section called Jimmy’s Mom.

He had explained with extreme passion how he and his friends had built this trail and named it after their rich friend’s mom, who bought them all bikes some forty years ago.

I had to see what exactly all the excitement was about.

There’s a reason curiosity killed the cat.

We had no business being on a trail that was the equivalent of getting barreled at Pipeline or climbing 5.12. (Did I mention we were on hard tails?)

When we finally reached the pavement, we flew down—happy to not be vigilantly scanning five inches in front of our front tire for the next rock to crawl over or root to drop down.

Next time I ask for beta on the best rides, I need to hide the guns (the ones attached to the side of my body).

This is a common occurrence. Just because I look “fit,” people assume I can handle so much more.

It ended fine—it usually does. Better than fine, actually. It was amazing, incredible, spectacular, and well… certainly memorable.

Another gorgeous day spent outside in nature with my family, taking in the scenery while pushing our bodies physically, learning to adapt, being reminded of what’s really important in life, and remembering that maybe I should work on being a little more prepared.

The real beauty, though, is how we just happened to be at the top of Teton Pass at the same time as Ranger Randy.

Living a life on the road is a constant experiment in what we refer to as Planned Unpredictability.

It always goes something like this:

We could stop at Idaho Falls—it’s supposed to be a nice city; we could camp down in Swan Valley—it has great bike paths and a gorgeous waterfall.

Or, we could go to the mountains and hit Driggs—the backside of the Tetons.

We definitely know we should NOT go to Jackson because the crowds will be horrendous (it’s the weekend before the 2017 solar eclipse).

We stop to get supplies in Idaho Falls and see that the city is not what we are looking for.

We start to set up camp at Fall Creek Falls (how creatively named), but there really isn’t much space for the kids to play, so we move on.

We get halfway to Driggs before pulling over and going to sleep at a large pull-off along the highway.

I wake early, excited to get us to Driggs, hoping to find a nice coffee shop with decent wifi so I can get some work done.

But then, as I pull into Victor,

“Hey, Victor, check out Victor!”

I see that it’s a lot of farmland. That’s not what I’m looking for. (I didn’t know about Grand Targhee back then.)

I pull up to the traffic light and pause.

I can turn left and go to Driggs, but I have no idea what I’d do there, or go left towards the huge forest of trees.

Left it is.

“Kids, we are going to Jackson.”

Thirty minutes later, I’m standing on Teton Pass while Ranger Randy, who is also a climber, surfer, hiker, biker extraordinaire, and happens to be from our hometown of San Diego, is telling us all the great hikes, climbs, and bike rides we should do while we are in the area.

Yep, this is the nomadic life for a family of adventurers.

For us, the mountains are always calling, and we must go.

But some mornings it’s the oceans, and others it may be the high desert covered in huge rock formations.

It’s rarely the city, unless we are low on supplies and need to restock, or miss family and want to say hi.

Though we often get stuck for days in small towns and revel in the simplicity of one cafe, a family-run market, and the ability to walk or bike anywhere you need to, that is, as long as the brewery has a good IPA.

But as great as those few days can be, the open road still calls to us.

It lifts my spirits and feeds my soul.

It makes me excited to wake and start each day, wondering what adventure awaits my ever-changing backyard.

And shouldn’t we all wake up excited to start the day?

Read The Next Story From This Trip: Nomad Life: Seeing Is Believing

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