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Josh
Bluff Hutt Dae 2: Colder Bois of Hi Cuntry Hikling
I rustled awake like a vibrator in a packet of crisps at 4AM, the soothing sound of everyone else shivering in chorus. Mike was up in the dark stumbling for the fireplace, rolling on another log in a herculean effort of sleepiness. Not all heroes wear capes. Some wear hooded down jackets.
The warm glow lasted a few more hours before the cold wood of the bench began to leach through my daft exoskeleton sleeping mat and through to my arse cheeks. The wood smoke had become too much for my puny asthma lungs and I thought it best to get a head start on packing, accounting for my world renowned faff time. I was greeted by a cold blast of air and accompanying snowflakes on opening the lower the saloon door, with all signs pointing to it having shat down snow throughout the night.
Holy shit.
Nervous energy and the the fact we were in a cold shed with no proper insulation meant shivering through the breakfast motions, conversation flirting briefly with the subject of a potential 12km hike through snow with twice that in dead weight kilograms over our shoulders. Mountain bois no longer fear distance pedalled, but frosty trudging is an altogether different beast.
On the subject of dead weights; the bikes were still coated in their magical layer of frozen snow, lining the overhang of the hut like long-forgotten torture instruments.
We took pictures and (I) frolicked through the knee-deep snow to use the facilities. Happily the dunny door was frozen open rather than closed, all but eliminating the common drop toilet stank of a million four wheel drivers on their diet of dead cyclist and inter-marital aggression. The beautiful scene made for some breathtaking Clif bar exorcisms.
Faffing concluded and all too aware of the constant snowfall we tidied our rickety lodgings, took a murky group shot and pushed out into the snowdrift.
The apparition of a trail tumbled downward and disappeared into a white haze, swallowing whoever was unlucky enough to be breaking first tracks. From the outset it was clear that riding wouldn't be an option as snow amalgamated on all parts of our useless vehicles including those intended to rotate. At that moment I'd have surely parted with a testicle to swap the Wolverine for a snowboard. Or a dustbin lid, or anything that was particularly smooth or that wasn't a heavy bike coated in snow and ice.
I'd anticipated overheating quickly, but it only took a couple hundred meters for by body to feel like the interior of an Uncle Ben's Rice Medley pouch on 900w. Depths ranged from around 40-60cm of snow as we descended ponderously, aided only by the steepness. We trod cautiously, keeping an eye out for any Mr Tumnus' or other hoof beasts that might be laying in wait to spring a trap. I wonder what sort of vehicle mountain rescue would use to get up here. Todd took some moody ass film pictures which captured things perfectly.
Back at the cruel switchback from our pitch black push the road levelled to provide our first taste of the hardship to come. With no gravity to assist every movement was a grind - slotting into an already trodden line, or out front ploughing and panting through the winter chunderland. It's not often you get to be in a place of such intense majesty without the energy to properly enjoy it.
The stretch from the hut turn off showed glimpses of slightly less than knee deep powder and though knackered we tried our hands at veering downhill, legs outstretched and perineums poised for annihilation above respective top tubes. When the effort of picking oneself up off the ground with a mangled bike became too much hassle we continued to push.
I popped a final frozen energy bollock into my mouth with a mouth full of snow chaser. The whole not having any way to hydrate thing had become a bit sinister thanks to the sweaty exertion and the small streams by the wayside were now obscured by snow and ice. Water, water everywhere but not a drop to drink.
A few upward pitches were all we needed to know that the push back up to Refrigerator Gap would require some heavy work. Until then it was mostly up and down, lightening the load but continuing to break spirits nonetheless. By the time we reached the big boy we'd formed become a well oiled pushing peloton, taking turns to bury ourselves out front in the tidal waves of snowy bullshit.
On that note, I'd invite you to join in an immersive reading experience. All you need is:
To play simply put on all of those clothes with the scarf wrapped around your head, position the treadmill in front of the freezer and set it to motorbike jump mode while opening the freezer compartment and cramming your bonce in between that Findus lasagne and the open bag of 3 year old hash browns. Finally hoist that sack o' scaffolds up onto your shoulder and pop the treadmill onto medium difficulty. This is weekend living...
It seemed like hours of upward grind, periodically switching to the other side of the bike when all the muscles had finally seized down the sides of our bodies. I was all but certain of arriving home to my girlfriend with a body like Brad Pitt in Fight Club. Why would anyone bother with this bullshit otherwise. More like like Pitt of despair. Amirite?
FridgeGap (energy saving brevity) appeared through the falling snow, looking nothing at all like it had before. We'd been through some shit since our last visit and haunted faces told the story. I'll also continue to tell the story by telling you that we drank nips of Luke's whisky, exchanged weary banter and quietly hoped we might be able to ride our fucking bikes for a bit.
This proved true in part as we engaged in more out of control downhill weaving, gooches hovering in anticipation. The streams were reappearing now so we'd slip into their foot wide gaps to roll somewhat unfettered for a few meters here and there. Snow gathered around the Wolverine's bottom bracket was drenched in water which had become an icy amalgam of added weight, but we were at last moving forward with surprisingly warm appendages.
A stop to gaze from whence we came and reflect on how fucking high Big Mr Bluff was.
Several more clicks of mostly up followed before we reached 8 Mile Gap, this time with no shortage of snow. The gang regrouped, each rummaging in bags for the thermals needed to survive the next phase: Downhill Coldbois of Bluff Hut. The snow thinned enough to move at speed, gamely collected like a Noughties schoolchild with Pokemon shinies. Bodies fully coated with freezing slush as the white transitioned to brown, shit got cold fast.
What followed was one of the most miserable descents I've ever made on a bike. Yanking on the brake levers with frozen, unfeeling fingers as all heat was drawn to the front of my body and blasted off into the ether. Fucking fuck this, take me back to the trudging through snow shite. ARGHHHH.
Corners came and went, brakes squealing to a semi-stop, my the group mostly off in the distance glad to be riding bikes with flat bars.
I became convinced my spine had frozen when reaching the bottom, blasting alone through the fern strewn gully with pelting rain, hoping it wouldn't shatter as I rumbled over baby head rocks.
Rain, heh. The chicaning mountain road offered more climbing than I remembered from the day prior, feeling returning to some areas of the body I'd written off as frostbitten/gangrenous/both. I finally caught Todd and we resumed usual pace for the next eight or so kilometres through chocolate milkground.
We huddled under an overhang on reaching Noonan's Hut as the road began to level by the river. Imagine four miserable men under this tin roof in danger of hypothermia and you won't even need a picture of the real thing. At least it wasn't Fry's hut though eh?
Earlier talk of a lunch stop evaporated and with the last of our group catching we set about getting that shit done. Up and out of the flats and it was back to the grind, wringing our poor quads of any lactic acid that might still be lurking in there. Al went off like a demented grandma on a mobility scooter, characteristically upright with legs churning and a jangling Wald basket surely fished from an urban river. I followed in a bid to keep pace, but watched as Goat(ee)man rolled casually upward at an almost comically steep angle and off into the distance. Catching at the top we returned to the site of the 2018 Tanks Skidding Down A Steep Fucking Hill Championships, for a terrifying descent with added dampness. Gingerly skidding and hopping across deep water runoff scars we tried to scrub speed, mostly met with the SKRTTTT of wheels finding no traction. It was 4PM and daydreaming of hot meals became more vivid.
baked bamembert
We were spat out again at the swollen riverside - the one that tried to claim Tom's shoe, but with another 40cm of raging rainwater to keep us on our frozen toes. No time to be wasted de-socking here as we plunged in on unsteady feet, bikes held aloft on weak arms.
nduja pizza
Successfully through and utterly soaked the Adventure Gods delivered hardship afresh. A child's balloon of a front tyre with no obvious clue as to the puncture culprit. Some furious pumping (oo errrr) with the upper body baguettes and we made our run at the climbing wall of a fire road up to the singletrack. What had felt like a lengthy stage the day prior seemed to sprawl on forever through the dull light of the misty valley. In pairs we navigated the steep descents that'd provided fast flow what felt like weeks ago, and ground up painful climbs as cold journeymen.
Innumerable Cheeseburgers
Another stop to pump blancmange tyre as the rain finally faltered. We must be close? A savage mud chute of a descent back down, legs scratched to pieces on fascist flora. A brief crash into a ditch after overcooking it on a water bar.
baked quail and or confit goose
Onwards! No time for pictures, though I did look particularly tough in this one. Close now! We passed that glorious view of the Howqua.
smoked haddock gratin
The trail pitched finally with a familiar off-camber sloppy from hours of rain as we caught sight of our obedient motor vehicles. Phantom visions of elaborate food were held back with an emergency bag crisps in the Peugeot, and all that remained was to peel off soaking, filth crusted clothes formulate a smash and grab pizza operation in good Ol' Mansfield and get the fuck out of dodge.
It was my third time eating these particularly mediocre dough discs but the battle to claim it made it all the sweeter. I'm sad to say that I didn't come home with the dream bod I was hoping for, but the conversation was great.
"Close your eyes and you'll feel like you're in Napoli boys" said nobody at the table.
I'd rate the trip as Fairly Dangerous and Fucking Hard. I can honestly say that without such a great unit of all-out tough cunts it wouldn't have been possible. Despite the crucial hardships not a single (audible) complaint was made and everyone just got shit done, which is what you need when the brown stuff's is hitting the fan at so many angles you're picking it out of your teeth. That'll do for the high country stuff till the weather sorts its shit out.