Our Unprecedented Journey Across KY’s Sheltowee Trace Trail

January 8, 2000 on 7:46 pm | In Mountain, Touring | No Comments

12-31-99 through 1-10-00

Article and inspiration by: Matt Hoyes

Edited and co-piloted by; Matt Johnson (whose notes will be italicized)

Matthew Hoyes pioneered this journey. Although I can recall dozens of campfires where the topic of conversation among the bio-family was the completion of Kentucky’s Sheltowee Trace Trail - Matt made it happen…for him, and by the blessing of sweet idiocy - for me.

Unlike ‘big sky’ touring out west, the tight valleys and corduroy hills of the Appalachian foothills are particularly difficult to navigate. Topo’ information is invaluable, whereas the Sheltowee is very difficult to follow. As it winds southwest through the Daniel Boone National Forest, The Trace passes through wilderness areas, sacred Indian grounds, National Landmarks, pristine river valleys, as well losing itself in ATV playgrounds and forgotten Appalachian communities. Ultimately, it ends on the John Muir Trail in Tennessee’s Pickett State Park.

Seldom in life does anybody get the chance to be the first… to do anything. Before this article, nobody has ever documented a mtb tour across the Trace. The millennial new year, winter conditions, that Appalachian element, the whole Daniel Boone National Forest, all the way into Tennessee…how could I not be part of it. Amazingly, my wife and 6-month old baby girl saw it just that way too, kinda. Due to family and holiday obligations, the earliest I could hit the trail was on the January 2nd. Our Red River Gorge rendezvous went off without a hitch.

In the spring, as Matt and I were still grasping the intensity of our winter epic, and matured friendship, we learned of a KY comrade who had just completed the Sheltowee Trace. He was fully supported, but completed it in half the time we had taken. To that gentleman, you’re a sick man-mj

As most people were preparing their millennium celebrations, draining their bank accounts, or stockpiling water and gas, I was planning my most thrilling adventure to date. I decided to ride across Kentucky on the Sheltowee Trace trail. 268 miles in all, it would challenge and inspire me more than I could have ever imagined. The following is my attempt to turn all of those wonderful recollections into words, and I promise that hacking out this essay was immensely harder than the riding itself. Nonetheless, no words or photos will ever do it justice.

12-30-99
My brother, Nick, and I arrived at the Northern terminus (not far from Maysville, KY) of the Trace at around 2 a.m., which is about my standard degree of lag when shooting for an 11 p.m. e.t.a. We had flown into Cincinnati on the 30th, about three days after Nick had called home to check on his dog, Zoe, only to find she had gotten off her run and split. There was still no Zoe when we arrived in Cincy, but a worried and weary brother sucked it up and got me to the terminus. Thanks bro.

12-31-99
New Year’s Eve, 1999, was the best last day of any year that I’ve lived. According to the mileage chart, it was going to be 48 miles from the Northern Terminus to Clear Creek Campground, and awaiting me there was the most wonderful welcome party. Dear friends, Amanda Tucker, Steve Koeller and Andy Kosse had already set up camp, and it was stocked with food, drink, and all of my cushy gear.

There’s something uniquely exciting about riding through unfamiliar wilderness, knowing that you must make it to your destination because you have virtually no equipment to make it through the night. The result is usually a few hours of night riding due to a gross underestimation of the brutal terrain, and this day was not much different. My first realization as to exactly how ten miles was going to feel came early. Leaving the parking lot, at the northern terminus, the Trace shoots due north to the Daniel Boone National Forest boundary then bends east and eventually south. The first section is prime single/double track rippin’ all the way to county road 143. The first of the many suspension bridges along the trail came early in the day and delivered me right on to someone’s private property. A big flanneled man greeted me on a four wheeler being followed by a bulldog. He said that he first thought I was walking a motorcycle across this one foot wide bridge that hangs a perilous fifteen feet over a flat rock creek. No, sir. Bikes were fine with him though, and he sent me in the right direction. I rode through some more sweet single/doubletrack mix that lies in the area around Rodburn Hollow, and by about 3 p.m., I had reached Morehead. It was obvious that I wasn’t on pace to make Clear Creek by sun down, but it didn’t matter at the time. I knew the next section to come, and it was one of the tastiest in the Boone. The Cave Run Lake area is one of the more popular riding spots for good reason, and I knew the time could be made up. Mostly doubletrack or wide singletrack, the Trace leaves Cave Run’s Caney loop and continues south, which commenced what I thought to be the best section of the Trace that I’d ever ridden. The trail rolls into some highlands and looks back at Cave Run Lake, then down onto Clear Creek Lake. I descended with the sun, and kept the hammer down as my eyes constantly adjusted to the dimming light in the green singletrack tube.
Eight hours of saddle time had gotten me to the Clear Creek Campground and my friends. The warm hugs that I had been dreaming of finally came when my buddies came strolling down from their sunset vantagepoint. New Year’s celebrations began immediately and we all ended up struggling to hold our eyes open to see the birth of the new millennium. Sleep came easily that night, and, with a short-mileage day to follow, I would get to sleep in.

1-1-00
And did I sleep in. Not getting on the trail until half past noon should have been and indication of the ensuing battle with the cozy climate of my sleeping bag. Once I was on the bike, climbing out of Clear Creek got me warmed up to the day. Wickedly steep switchbacks greeted me in unrelenting succession, but the trail always rewards such efforts and I was not to be disappointed on this day, the first day of 2000. Once the climbing tops out, it’s ridge top splendor until the trail falls off the other side, plunging into the trees. I was pulling G’s (that sinking feeling in your stomach when you go through a dip on a roller coaster) when I crossed a fire road and shot into another tough climb. At the top of the climb, it steepened as more sandstone jutted out of the vanishing trail. It was there that I hopped off the bike to begin the portage and realized that my jacket had fallen off my rack. Surviving the trip without a shell would have been impossible or, at least, damn uncomfortable. Unable to remember the last time I saw it, I started to re-retrace the Sheltowee. Back down and across the fire road, then up.

Paying dearly for every inch of what had just been the downhill that had me so perma-grinned didn’t go unrewarded either. I found my jacket (almost at the very top of that sweet downhill), and, when I stopped to pick it up, I spotted a quaint, beautifully hidden arch. After visiting for a few minutes, it was back onto the frozen Velcro track for an even faster second descent. The trail continues up from where I’d turned around, and it requires much hike-a-bike to top it out.

More insane drop-offs and portages followed, with the last of which providing the first taste of the eye candy to come. The rolling knobs started giving way to hundred-plus foot cliffs, and I knew that I was entering the Red River Gorge region. Although, not nearly as close as I thought, I found myself pedaling through a nasty mix of road, mud, and big gravel after hitting route 1274. I got rained on for an hour or so as I was approaching a decision that I knew was impending. The blazes led me back a somewhat residential gravel road, then to a trailhead. It was the beginning of the Clifty Wilderness, and I was staring at my first ‘no bikes’ sign. This wilderness area is considered a fragile geological area, and it’s connected to the Red River Gorge (Kentucky’s ‘Land of the Arches’). So, I swallowed my pig-headed pride and bypassed it. It was hard not to feel a little bit gypped, or like I was cheating myself out of my goal of doing the entire trail, but I was trying to make a law-abiding crossing and headed out to the main road. Highway 77 parallels the trail into the Gorge where I was meeting my friends. The Gladie Creek visitor center on 715 was to be the meeting place which, after about five-and-a-half-hours of saddle time, I reached with daylight to spare. But, a hike to Raven’s Rock would keep my support crew busy until about 7:30, and we met a few hundred yards down the road. Glad to see my gear, almost as much as my friends, I got into my fuzzies, and we headed for a sweet car camping spot that Steve knew of.

1-2-00
The Red River Gorge is a National Geologic Area that’s dissected by the Sheltowee and is a hiker’s or rock climber’s dream come true. Friends introduced me to this mystical land in 1992, and there hasn’t been a year since that I haven’t dropped into the Red for a few days of serious playtime. There are loads of walls, cracks, crags, and cliffs offering an array of challenges that taunt you to go beyond your limitations and claim a number of lives annually.

Since my friend and soon to be trailmate, Matt Johnson, and I weren’t scheduled to meet until the evening of Jan. 2, we had a day to blow. A day off my bike this early in the trip had me itching for the trail, but sunny skies and a 50-plus degree-day made the hiking take all my cares away. The hike to Courthouse Rock via Auxier Ridge is a stroll, but the climb up Courthouse’s crack will get some adrenaline spiking into your veins. Steve and I couldn’t resist, and had to bust for the top. Three hundred and sixty degrees of high country eye candy awaits those who can scramble their way up the crack. ‘Just couldn’t pass it up.

Our hike showed me something that I had never before seen on this very familiar trail - fire damage. The Red, in the fall of 1999, had been blazing with wild fires. The forest service roads snaking through the woods would be the dividing line between lush green woods and charred black ones. Certain trails looked as though new brown carpet had been laid across a soot-covered floor. Due to the amount of reckless behavior that occurs, there are going to be some new restrictions placed on visitors for the safety of this sacred place, and, for once, I’m siding with the man. The Gorge has been desecrated, raped, or just partied out, for far too long by irresponsible visitors. I’m glad to see an effort to preserve what rock faces people haven’t carved away by writing “Bobby loves Suzie” in the soft sandstone. There are still those places where fewer people have tread, and the spirit of the Shawnee who sought shelter in the Red’s rugged canyons can still be strongly felt. I’ll always return to them.

After the hike we came out of Tunnel Ridge Road, and Matt’s 1969 Galaxie 500 was parked right in front of us. Another perfect hookup completed, it was time to say goodbye to Andy and Steve, then time to prepare for the continuation of our journey.

1-3-00
Touring with another person is about compromise, and that’s a good thing. Matt has taught me, through his wealth of experience, almost all that I know about backpacking and especially bicycle touring. We first toured together in the Canadian Rockies in 1995, which was my first multi-day back country bike excursion, and I came away from that trip with an unequaled reverence for Matt Johnson. So, I was thrilled when he said that he wanted to join me for a crossing of the Sheltowee. As usual, we had slightly different takes on just about everything, but it’s the middle ground that’s probably best anyway.
Finally loaded, thinking that we’ve got too much crap and him wishing for a couple more amenities, we reentered the Trace. Not wanting to miss an inch of the trail, Matt thought that we should ride through the remaining sections of the Gorge. So much for law-abiding. What the hey, it’s January. Starting at the Whittleton Branch trailhead on route 15, we dropped in and headed toward the normally tourist-laden Natural Bridge State Park. We crossed over route 11 and sniffed out the trail within the park. This maneuver was the most blatantly illegal thing that we did, but we paid for it, even though no one caught us. Natural bridge itself is a large ridge top arch that the Sheltowee crosses over, and it’s not exactly an easy crossing with a bike, especially a bike loaded with forty pounds of gear. Lots of steps and a narrow called ‘Fat Man’s Misery’ made it impossible to get through with bags or even front wheels on our bikes. About three trips each got us and all of our gear to the top of the arch. Shortly after leaving Natural Bridge, the Trace exits the State Park and gets back to some good riding. The first taste of the eastern slick rock (large stretches of exposed sandstone trail surface) came at this point, and it made all three trips up the steps worthwhile. Unfortunately it didn’t last long and neither did those handy trail blazes that point us the way. Matt and I, considerably lost, scrambled to find a suitable campsite amongst the private properties that we passing while on forest road something-or-other. The sun fell and the rain moved in, but a dense hemlock grove and a running stream were reached with some easy bushwhacking. The most exciting part of this adventurous day was the swirling storm that whipped the trees overhead, bending them in every direction. Some big timber could be heard falling in the distance, but one loud crack in the nearby darkness had both of our headlamps shining into the void from which we fully expected to see some monster tree coming to squish us. ‘Must not have been as close as we thought. Both of us made it to the break of day.

1-4-00
Apparently, MJ and I were slightly more lost that we thought. We headed due south, navigating strictly by compass, since we hadn’t seen a trail blaze for thirty miles or so. Eventually popping out on route 52, we second and third guessed ourselves and went west in search of the trail. The Crystal Trading Post was the indication that we were off course and needed to head east, but it was a nice place to stop for some warmth and an Ale 8. “Ale 8 One” is a highly addictive and peculiar green bottle of soda that’s brewed in Winchester KY, and it’s a staple of life in the eastern mountains of Kentucky. (I’d liken Ale-8-One to a flat mixture Ginger Ale and Mello-Yello).

Back on track, we headed east to find a fire road with a trail blaze and followed it south only to be further discouraged. This time it wasn’t just a ‘no bikes’ sign. We were faced with an enticing section of densely wooded trail and an elaborate sign explaining that it was private property and through hikers (bikers) were to go back to route 52 and follow the roads to Heidelberg. Naturally, we had to ponder it, but those ‘dueling banjos’ always seem to twang from the back of my mind, forcing me to choke down even more of that hard to swallow pride.

As good, little non-trespassers do, we took the fire road back to 52, then headed south on route 399 to Heidelberg. The blazes showed us the way back onto some nice trail heading to Arvel, and it seemed as though we were back on track. Again, we were shown that the appetite of the trail should never be underestimated, as it began devouring our equipment. MJ noticed his rear wheel disengaging with a loud popping noise. Cassette freehub body? Freehub spline? Bolt? Then, it would miraculously fix itself. Matt is an outstanding mechanic, but I thought that he might have been falling victim to a little bike-hypochondria because I hadn’t seen what was happening. I was pedaling along behind him, and everything was looking perfect, then POP! His wheel is suddenly flopping violently, still rolling, but banging the sides of the frame. All he could do was stay smooth and keep pedaling, not letting it freewheel for fear of the mysterious disengagement. We had to get somewhere, preferably riding instead of walking our bikes, so MJ nursed it the best he could and kept rolling. Once the trail intersected route 587, we headed for a high point so that MJ could try his cell phone. It worked. Although not one of our potential support people could be reached, we left the same message everywhere - “We need a wheel !!!”

I talked Matt into making the Turkey Foot campground our destination, as opposed to shooting for S-tree, which is where Amanda was scheduled to meet us on the following night. The only problem was that she knew nothing, at the time, of our mechanical woes, and we still had to make it to S-tree. Regardless, Turkey Foot would provide a nice waterside campsite on War Creek and we would have to be content hoping that someone received our distress signal. Snow started to fall and the temperatures plummeted.

1-5-00
The goal for this day was to simply make to S-tree, hopefully securing a replacement wheel along the way. We followed the Trace out of the hollow, but knew that we would again have to detour on the road to reach the phone that would be our lifeline. It’s a gradual, rocky climb out of Turkey Foot, and Matt’s smooth pedaling got his bike out in one piece, but the damage was done. Once on route 89, I could see his wheel flopping with every pedal stroke, bouncing off his chain stays and sending Matt and his gear flailing side to side. We headed south, into McKee, for a badly needed stop at the grocery/general store/local hangout. Since Amanda wasn’t supposed to be at S-tree until much later, and we didn’t know, for sure, that she had a wheel for us, time wasn’t much of an issue. So, we blew three-hours making phone calls, eating junk food, and fielding questions from the puzzled McKeeans.

It sounded as though Amanda had gotten the messages and would have something resembling a bicycle wheel in her car when she rolled into the campground. We talked to our friends, Coach Chris “Big Dog” Schmidt and Adam Roe, at Lindsey Wilson, also Wanda Tucker (Amanda’s mom), and it sounded like the cavalry was on the way. Having done all we could by phone and having completely gorged ourselves on food, we made the push for S-tree. It’s a short fire road climb to reach the campground and the wheel made it. As usual, the entire place was ours, and the skies were crisp and quiet except for the occasional shrill howl of a coyote. All we had to do was wait, and we passed the time playing some Frisbee. Just before dark, the Neon rolled up, and another warm hug was walking my way. She had gotten the messages, gotten us a wheel, and gotten herself to middle of nowhere to save our trip. Later that evening, around the campfire, Matt asked Amanda if her car had a name. It didn’t. “I think you should name it Scout” suggested MJ, and so now it is.

Matt and I were facing a dilemma of monstrous proportions and were bailed out by the combined efforts of some wonderful friends that all would have dropped anything to help keep our journey alive. Especially Amanda. I don’t know where I’d be without that girl.

1-6-00
The pukey day. I was awakened this particular morning by some harsh diarrheal urges in my abdomen. Lucky for me, there are some facilities at the campground. Once relieved, I crawled back into my sleeping bag for some more zzz’s. When I finally drug myself out of my tent, Matt had already finished working on his bike, but I was feeling much more nauseous than before. We kicked around the campsite and prepared for the day, but every time I took a drink of water (I didn’t dare eat anything) I felt a little sicker. Soon I was hunched in the woods vomiting green liquid. That’s not good. Thoughts of giardia, food poisoning, and flu ran rampant in my head as something else was running rampant in my intestines. Something as detrimental as giardia would make continuing an impossibility, but I got my gear together and tried to nibble on some granola. Surprisingly it stayed down, and we headed out.

Luckily, we didn’t need to carry the forty pounds of gear that makes the miles so laborious because Amanda was meeting us with supplies at the 49er, which is where the trail crosses over Interstate 75. She rode with us for a few miles before heading back up to Scout. There isn’t much trail that’s worthwhile between S-tree and I-75, and I suffered badly all day due to a high fever and loads of mud and water crossings. I got thigh deep in Horse Lick Creek and was already freezing and frustrated with my lack of strength. It’s days like these that make it so valuable having a partner on the trail. We reached a trail blaze redirecting us off of a road and back into the woods for some more treacherous trail. The daylight was dimming and I was barely moving, but, unable to bare the thought of missing another inch of trail, Matt looked me in the eye and convinced me that I had the strength to pull off one more stretch of trail. We were both absolutely hammered. Matt could ride most of the terrain slowly, but I was barely capable of a trudge. He coaxed me the entire way, stopping and reassuring me that I was doing good and that we had to keep moving if we wanted to see Amanda or, at least, to not freeze to death in the forest. Eventually, we hit a fire road, and I spotted the historic marker for Wildcat Mountain, which is the site of a historic civil war battle. I had ridden through this section before but I was struggling to get my bearings. So, I decided to ask some sketchy looking guy that was standing in the woods, two fisted with Budweiser cans. He steered us the right way. There was virtually no light left in the sky, but it was all-downhill from there, literally. Once relatively sure that we’d be seeing the Scout, I proposed to Matt that we get a hotel in London. No objection.

We pedaled harder into the cold air fueled by thoughts of showers and beds. The smell of the diesel fumes convinced me, in my barely conscious state, that we were actually riding over the highway and approaching a trace of civilization. When we rolled up and told Amanda that we were getting a room she thought we were joking. I had spent five hours in the saddle, running on a cup of granola, it was below freezing, and my internal temperature was surely in the hundreds. No joking. The Economy Inn was no joke either at $35.00 a night. After showers, Matt and Amanda chowed down at Pizza Hut while I forced down a soda. The day had taken its toll on my spirit, but I just kept telling myself that it was one of those twenty-four hour flues.

Back in the motel, we got a call from Chad Irey who had just returned from his millennium trip in Costa Rica. He had his bike and gear ready and was itching to get on the trail, but hadn’t heard from us and possibly wouldn’t have if we hadn’t gotten a room that night. Irey is always ready for an adventure and was heading down from Cincinnati immediately after getting our whereabouts. He came in around 4 a.m., but I didn’t hear him. My person was in shut down mode trying to purge its illness through its pores.

1-7-00
We busted out of London early. This was a big day. My mind and body seemed to have been reconnected and the gremlins in my stomach were taking a break from reeking havoc. I actually had an appetite, so it was back up to the 49er for some greasy spoon breakfast. Some biscuits and gravy and four cups of coffee and I had all but forgotten about the previous day’s punishment. Chad rejuvenated us with his ambition and it was back on the trail.

Amanda was to meet us on this night, which meant that we could fly light, leaving her with all the gear. Irey was itching to try out his new panniers, but I’m sure that he was glad not to have them on this day of high mileage that’s full of wicked terrain. Still ignorant to just how tough this trail is, we made another gross underestimation and projected preposterous times for our “first” meeting place. “Maybe 2 p.m. at the latest. Heck. We might be there by noon” were just some of the idiotic things that were blurted out while we were eyeballing the map.

Will we never learn? The going was incredibly slow, and we watched the day slip away as the unrelenting terrain kept on beating us back. It’s wonderfully wild country through this stretch containing everything from fire road to slick rock to singletrack and everything in between. It’s also one of the longest stretches without hitting pavement. We left I-75 and headed directly into the trail on the networks of 4×4 paths that offer many wrong turn opportunities. Besides crossing over highway 80 directly between nothing and nowhere, we didn’t see a road until we reached the parking area at route 192. The three of us finally reached Amanda by about 5 p.m., just four or five hours late. Having the entire afternoon to swim in her own thoughts and fears for our threesome took its toll. Amanda broke into tears when she saw us emerge from the woods. Just as I had jokingly been telling her the whole trip, in a much more serious tone, I said “Don’t ever listen to us again. We’re stupid.” She eventually pulled herself together and drove down to the waterside to join us in camping on the shore of Laurel Lake. Chad, thoroughly wasted from his first day, kept using expressions such as “beat down” to describe his hurtin’ condition. He put forth an outstanding effort for his first day, and I’m sure that he gained a new appreciation for the Trace.

1-8-00
As we loaded our bags, we prepared for a section that MJ and I knew, from having ridden it, would get harder as the day progressed. The trail starts out as an easy doubletrack that rips along the contours of Laurel Lake’s shoreline, then crosses over route 1193 into some steeper terrain leading to route 896 and the headwaters of the Laurel and Cumberland Rivers. Up until that point the sailing was smooth and Irey was getting a gentle introduction into the discipline of riding with panniers. From there, we dropped into ten miles of wickedly technical singletrack that is only partially feasible on a good day without the burden of carrying gear. Matt and I know the section well from past excursions, but we couldn’t have imagined how much more challenging every obstacle would be when loaded with an extra forty pounds.

Apparently we were still a little green or just had a blatant disrespect for the trail, because, at the start of the day, we talked about camping beyond Cumberland Falls. As the day grew older, we were faced with more sections that required the push-pull-drag method, but it didn’t go unrewarded. Frozen booming waterfalls, bigger rocks and increasingly higher cliffs loomed as we inched our way south. We passed by beautiful Dog Slaughter Falls, and were running out of day when MJ finally talked Chad and I into camping in a recess cave with a sixty-foot ceiling. The idea of one more day of falling short of the proposed destination had me itching to keep moving, but it was a prime spot that sheltered us from the rain that we knew was coming. We slept on the rocks, and stayed toasty and dry while listening to the booming thunder of the mighty Cumberland that was accompanied by the rolling thunder of the overnight storm.

1-9-00
Time to make decisions. We woke up to a light constant rain. We weren’t even close to the previous day’s destination of Cumberland Falls, and we really needed to make it passed Whitley City to camp for the last night. Monday had to be our last day due to work commitments for Chad and Matt, and because Amanda and I were already missing a day of classes.

The day greeted us with more portages and more miles than we had expected to reach Cumberland Falls, but that didn’t keep us from blowing an hour at the falls to take pictures and use their facilities to wash off a little grime. It was time to take one more swallow of that awful tasting pride, as we decided it would be best to skip a small section here in order to ensure a shot at the southern terminus the next day. Amanda was bringing supplies and hugs on this night, so we needed to set a destination then phone her with the plans. Alum Ford looked like a good enough place to begin our final push, so we set out from Cumberland Falls State Park on route 90 instead of taking the trail. The other section that we had bypassed, because of the bum wheel, was one that we’ve ridden dozens of times. Missing this section was a real heartbreaker because it was unknown territory, but the vision of reaching the terminus having skipped a few miles here seemed much more reasonable. So, we rolled on towards Whitley City. We followed route 700 west and stopped at a burger pit, or something, to gorge on some badly needed grease. I chalked it up to a restful day, and we all got ourselves psyched for one final push.

1-10-00
For being such a big day, we didn’t get too early a start, but that’s just our style. Get going late and race the darkness to safety, it’s more exciting that way. Luckily we had Amanda supporting us for the day, so we could go without the extra gear. This day was to be all about making time. We finally wised up and chose an earlier, more realistic meeting place for our first stop, which was the crossing of route 92 at Yamacraw. Following the Big South Fork of the Cumberland, the Trace was dreamy, and we actually beat the Scout to our meeting place. We waited a few minutes for Amanda and then set our next destination, which would be Hemlock Grove campground, a mere ten miles from the Southern terminus. MJ and I gave a hurtin’ Chad a little head start, and it would be the last time that we’d see him for about six hours.

Confidently, we jumped into the next section, not expecting to find the Sheltowee Trace so devastated by dead fall. As we redirected ourselves towards more passable terrain, we realized that we were on a powerline clearing which was the culprit that devoured the Trace. Every tree that was cut down to make the clearing fell directly over the trail, so we just plowed along hoping that our beloved singletrack would reappear. A ‘section closed’ sign, at the next trailhead, confirmed what we were afraid of, more destroyed sections. As it turned out, Chad was smart and took the road straight to Hemlock Grove. Matt and I, frustrated by having missed a section the previous day, decided to follow the unbelievably vague ‘alternate route’ signs to stay on the trail. In doing so, we encountered some of the most topographically challenging fire roads that I’ve ever had to ride. Ten sections in all, labeled ‘A’ through ‘J’, were closed due to storm damage, we presumed. We hammered over Grassy Knob, then Piney Butte, and finally ran along Laurel Ridge until we came to the section J trailhead. Of course, it was closed, but we were only a couple of miles from Hemlock Grove by trail. If we took the alternate route, then it meant going passed our destination and backtracking to the campground. No way. We were on a ridge top, the hook up was down at the river, and it looked like we could just follow a tributary that would lead us out if we got lost. The trail was too enticing and that awful taste of pride was just too much for us swallow. We went for it.

This was the beginning of one of the darkest, most trying times, both physically and emotionally, in my life. When they said closed, they meant closed. But, being the hardheaded mountain bikers that we are, we couldn’t turn around at the sight of a couple dead falls. We trudged through the most heinous, dense section of forest that I’ve ever seen. We waded through streams, and fought helplessly to rip ourselves free of the tentacles that latched on to us with every attempt at forward motion. It was all-downhill, but it took us three hours of throwing our bikes over and dragging them under trees just to see the light of day. We were separated for most of hell-trip. I emerged with a flat tire, which was somewhat of a mystery since I hadn’t been on my bike at all. On the brink of tears, unable to rummage up a single positive thought, I wheeled out my lame steed. Once reunited, Matt and I broke into uncontrollable laughter. Laughter of joy, laughter at the stupidity of our attempt, maybe just laughing not to cry, it was a moment that I’ll never forget.

We repaired my tire and headed down the road a quarter mile to Hemlock Grove. Irey, with self-inflicted illness setting in, was laid out on a picnic table, completely wasted from his four days on the trail. MJ was ready to be done. He was pulling out cotton clothes to change into. Amanda was helping me, lovingly, and I was snapping at her for it. The whole crew was at its wit’s end. I pulled out the map again. It just couldn’t end like this, ten miles from the terminus, pissed off, and coming off my worst mountain biking experience ever. “I’m gonna try it”, I said, trying to sound confident. MJ couldn’t believe it. “I can’t believe your going to make me do this.” I wasn’t going to try to make him go, but I surely wouldn’t object to having his agility and wisdom along side me as we entered the unknown for one last push in the very late afternoon. Knowing that darkness was coming fast, we hammered down the road to the Tennessee State Line and the crossing of Rock Creek. I had even mentioned that if it looked too be impassable then I would just be happy with crossing the whole state, and Matt liked the sound of that. I crossed the river while Matt hung out on the other side, awaiting the verdict. “Looks good. Let’s go!” I hollered across the river. Matt came across with his bike and walked up to me with a look mixed of disgust and readiness. He said something that I can still hear clearly in my head. “You’re a stubborn mother f#@*&!. You never used to be like this!” With only 30+ minutes of daylight left, in we went.

The John Muir Trail parallels the Sheltowee once in Tennessee, and a new blaze was a reassuring sight, at least for a little while. Although, as we both had somewhat expected, things got bad. Really bad. What had started out as a well marked, bikeable trail turned into more of a 4-hour orienteering, survival mission with lots of bushwhacking. We hadn’t taken provisions for the night; no food, no water filter, not much clothing, and it was virtually black in the woods. Occasionally we would pass a sign or something that looked like a blaze, but the trail was non-existent. Without Matt’s strength (and flashlight) during that last section, I would have probably spent that night in the woods. He kept his bearings and kept dragging me along. I was bonking badly, and Matt was muttering stuff about wanting to see his wife and baby again, when we finally hit a road. It had to be the end. There was no where else to go, but there was no indication that it was the terminus either. We took a wild guess and hung a left to try to find Amanda, Chad and the Scout. After about thirty minutes of riding, lost, in Pickett State Park, we found them. They were at the actual terminus according to a park ranger that had helped them out, and we had missed it by about a half-mile. No disappointment in that, just a huge sigh of relief. I had never dreamed that it would be so anti-climatic, but that’s how it was. There was no sign, not even a trail blaze or much of a trail for that matter, but it almost made it more rewarding to know that we persevered and got there anyway. Hugs were shared all around, we loaded down the Scout, and with no trail left, we drove away from the Sheltowee Trace. -Matt Hoyes
I had about four hours in the car to reflect on the highs and the lows, and, like always, even the lowest of lows turn into the fondest memories in the triumphant and delirious haze of retrospect. I returned to school, a tattered and emaciated shell of myself because of what I had left on that trail. And, once classes started, the cabin fever hit bad. I could only think of being back out in those woods. When I tell people stories about this adventure, I always go on and on trying to give them a vivid picture or an appreciation of those most difficult moments, but I know that no one will ever understand. No one can see those pictures but me, and that’s why I’ll forever cherish my memories of crossing the state of Kentucky on the Sheltowee Trace.

Take a trip like this, riddled with seemingly insurmountable obstacles, and all of life’s challenges are put into perspective. Although it was under two weeks long, its lessons on fortitude, coping and over-optimism will affect every decision for the rest of my life-mj

enjoy the pic’s from this groundbreaking journey