Staffer Connor Coughlin takes hell-ish ride in Utah

I was lying face down on the ground. The distinct scent of the desert earth filled my nostrils and red dust was chaotically smeared across my cheeks like the face paint of a primitive warrior preparing to head into battle. Obscenities flooded into my head and poured out lips in aggravation as I realized what had just happened to me. Just a few moments before I had been flying freely down a steep hill at 25 mph, the arid wind gently kissing my face. But now I was staring blankly at the earth, blood dripping from my face and staining the smooth rock trail.

I was mountain biking in Moab, Utah alongside a number of other students taking part in mountain biking PE class offered at NIC. I was alone at the time and in between groups on the trail so aptly named “Baby Steps.” The hill I came coursing down led to a trip corner that, if not rode through correctly, would send you into a nearly-unseen pothole; a pothole that unexpectedly sent me over the handlebars of my bike and, mouth agape, into the pure rock trail.

“Crap, crap, crap,” I frantically thought to myself. “I broke my teeth.”

Sure enough there lay the scattered remains of my two front teeth on the desert floor. What had once been the relatively smooth and straight results of six months of orthodontic work now were in jagged ruin.

I shattered my teeth into pieces and it was only the first day of riding.

The trip began in the early hours of March 29. Friday’s classes had long since ended and it was the start of spring break, a time for escape and all worldly responsibilities to be denied even if it were for only a week. The class was to meet at the Outdoor Center in McClain Hall at 1:00 am for the 16-hour, 900 mile trek. I arrived around 10 pm and took up temporary residence in a raft for a couple hours of sleep before others began to arrive.

We were on the road awhile later, amidst stormy conditions throughout Idaho going through Montana. The weather calmed once after passing through Missoula and the rest of the trip held clear skies to lead us into the desert world of Eastern Utah.

We arrived into Moab in the late afternoon. The main street of the downtown area was bustling with of all shapes and sizes in the height of the town’s tourist season. On the outskirts of town lay The Lazy Lizard Hostel, a place I’d call home for the next five days.

The hostel is known, and somewhat infamous for catering to those of “dirtbag” variety. The spiritual children of hippies, dirtbags are poets and artists of land and the human body. They give up a life of convention in order to take on a life of outdoor pursuits with hopes of a sort of spiritual enlightenment to come out of this immersion in nature and physical activity. They live in their vans and climb the world-renown walls of Yosemite National Park. They work jobs as river guides all throughout the summer in order to be free to ski everyday throughout the winter. They go backpacking across the 2600 miles of the Pacific Crest Trail, only to turn around after they’re done and do it again just because it was so much fun the first time.

It was a shabby hostel to say the least. “La Casa,” the main house our group was staying at was makeshift in nature with no two floorboards in alignment. Looking out over the house was the rest of the hostel which almost resembled a post-apocalyptic wasteland; a combination of a junkyard and a trailer park. But it had an inexcusable charm to it. The hostel had a quaintness and beauty that could only be found beneath the surface and after upon meditation of it.

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I picked myself up off the ground and picked up the shattered remains of my teeth. I yelled out a couple of times in hopes that someone in the group I was riding with would hear me. I waited for several minutes before I finally saw members of my group come roaring down the hill. After a quick medical check and fixing of my contorted bike we continued to ride. Being perfectly conscious and in a minimal amount of pain I rode on for the next three miles with my group back to the trailhead, blood still dripping from the wounds on my chin and legs.

Over the next two days I received a root canal and two caps on my teeth from a generous dentist in town all while continuing to ride trails in the meantime.

On the third day the majority of the group decided to go canyoneering. We headed out to Negro Bill Canyon, a canyon located near the famous Slickrock Trail. After traversing a series of drainages along the trail we came upon the almost-unseen mouth of canyon. The first of the rappels was set up and we went down one by one, with one of the group deciding it would be fun to give those below him a good surprise and rappel down 100 feet entirely without any pants on.

The first rappel led us to the top of the 250 foot Morning Glory Arch, one of the largest natural archways in the world. This is where we did a simul-rappel. Without any anchors or protection besides the force of friction, two people rappelled off opposite sides of the arch at the same time using body weight to counteract one another. Floating down gently from 100 feet I saw the red canyon glow with life. Golden rock spires in the distance reflected the warm sun down upon the valley below. A small stream trickled quietly beneath me cutting through the middle of the canyon. In the short two decades of life I’ve lived thus far that experience remains to be one of the most amazing I have ever had.

The rest of the week was spent doing pure and raw mountain biking. Hymasa, Klondike Bluffs, 7-Up, Slickrock, Pipe Dream, Captain Ahab, and Porcupine Rim were the trails where the rubber tread of our tires combated the dirt and rocks of the red earth. It was where our blood and flesh were sacrificed to the brutal gods of the desert in exchange for a fleeting moment of pure bliss and freedom.

We packed up and left the hostel and Moab behind in the early hours of April 4. It was quiet and clear morning. The darkness faded and the sun grew higher and higher into the sky as we passed through Salt Lake City, Montana, and finally back into Coeur d’Alene. Left behind were a multitude of memories. Carving my old dirty bike through relentless downhill switchbacks, scrambling up rock slopes to peer over monolithic canyonlands, meeting a fire-juggling hippie named Zesty, rappelling off one of the world’s largest arches.

The desert is a merciless yet beautiful beast that’s easy to underestimate. If you don’t take in account its savage nature it will punish you without regard. But respect it and you see its beauty in a new light that will change your very being. I laid down my bones to the dust of the desert and received a life-changing experience in exchange. There is now an inescapable spiritual connection with Moab coursing through me that will forever keep me coming back for more.