Dear Sundog: I love the desert. From my own muggy home, I try to make it to the Southwest every year: Tucson, Santa Fe, Joshua Tree, St. George. I’m considering moving there. But is it wrong to move to a place that doesn’t seem to have enough water to support the people already living there? —Dry Curious

Dear Dry:ĚýFirst we must consider that all desert towns are not equal. Many have managed to restrict their water use and growth to some semblance of balance with nature, while others— and —continue to expand, even as their current water supply dries up.

While of course water delivery to millions of people is complicated, in this region, the ecological culprit is obvious: grass.

Sundog loves to run his toes through verdant lawn as much as the next guy.ĚýBut the modern American lawn—the half-acre of Kentucky bluegrass sprinkled daily, mowed weekly, petro-fertilized seasonally—has no place in the desert, even as it’s become emblematic of a sort of golfy affluence in Sedona and St. George. The EPA says that in the Southwest, 60 percent of household water use irrigates the outdoors. Put another way, for every four gallons used for cooking, washing, and bathing, another six go for preparing the croquet course. Yet another way: a year’s water supply with a lawn would—without a lawn—last two and a half years.

Lawns are a European import, brought to the arid American desert first by settlers from places like the Scottish Highlands and southern Germany, where grass just naturally occurs, and second by the wave of 20th-century snowbirds from places like Virginia and Michigan where, also, grass just grows. Why must the white man turn Scottsdale into Scotland, even as it quickens the decline of his desert colony?

In , Jared Diamond relates a story about the first Europeans to occupy North America: the Vikings, who settled what is now Greenland, four centuries before Columbus arrived on the continent. They planted their European crops and brought cows, which didn’t fare well in the new terrain. In the harsh winters, food was scarce. The settlers observed the Inuit hunting seals and then heating their homes by burning blubber, eating the meat—surviving. But the Norse considered this slimy meat beneath their dignity and considered the Inuit to be wretches. They refused to consume it. As a result, they starved and fled back across the sea, ending their four-century stay in the Americas.

Mightn’t we say the same, Dry Curious, about the maladaptive desert grass farmers? They see the water bills. They witness the ongoing drought. They know that the artificial lifelines from Lake Powell and Lake Mead, which have existed for just a geological blink of an eye, are filling with silt and approaching dead pool. And still they sprinkle.

Even as the vast majority of these settlers were born right here in the USA, Sundog speculates that their attachment to turf is some sort of emotional inheritance from the Motherland of moors and meadows. Their colonies here are predicated on the notion that their forefathers discovered an unpeopled dry wilderness, which they irrigated into their own slice of Eden.

But it’s not true. Indigenous people built complex, irrigated, agricultural civilizations along the Salt River and the Rio Grande and the Colorado River that sustained them thousands of years longer than our current one. If you visit a reservation or a town settled by the Spanish before the Anglos arrived—think Santa Fe or Old Town Albuquerque or Barrio Viejo in Tucson—you won’t find many lawns. You’ll see cactus and piñons and junipers and native shrubs and rock work and sometimes just plain dirt: a kind of xeriscaping that predates the word xeriscaping.

Long before the advent of gringo water projects, these places were habitable due to natural factors: Santa Fe had a cool high elevation and a snow-fed river, Tucson had the lush summer monsoons and the perennial Santa Cruz River, Albuquerque had fertile soil along the Rio Grande. To be sure, Native people don’t dislike greenery; most of the green parts of the desert were taken from them, along with the water rights. And I should also clarify that modern Americans of all skin tones love themselves a moist lawn: it’s not just a white thing. The point is that the people who have inhabited the desert for centuries are still inhabiting it, and showing others how it can be done.

But for today’s turf warriors to acknowledge all of that would be to question the short-sighted premise of the American petro-state, an experiment that has lasted less than a century. And so instead of ripping up that sod and planting it with native shrubs and grasses, they clench that garden hose more tightly with their sunburned fists.

To continue the Collapse analogy: Anglos can see Natives eating the fish (conserving water) and have the capacity to eat fish themselves (to stop watering lawns), but they would rather go extinct than give up their lush leas that they once saw Mel Gibson charge across in Braveheart.Ěý

The next factor to consider in moving to the desert is your capacity for being hot. Along with cheap water, the modern Southwest was built with cheap electricity to run air conditioners. And it’s only getting hotter. A reports that six counties in Arizona—including Maricopa, home to 4.5 million people in and around Phoenix—are in danger of becoming uninhabitable in the next 30 years as the planet warms. Does that mean that people will flee? Of course not. They will just use more oil and electricity to cool their homes and cars. Let’s face it: there wasn’t some recent past where Phoenix was a sustainable oasis. ItsĚýcentury-long boom has been dependent on electricity produced by burning coal on Navajo land and a major nuclear power plant, as well as cheap gasoline for driving five miles to get a cup of coffee.

Sundog dreams of a future where all desert dwellers inhabit homes with foot-thick walls made of natural materials like straw bales and adobe, where they run swamp coolers from solar panels on the roof, and capture rainwater in barrels and irrigate native plants with drip lines. While that futureĚýhas arrived here and there, the vast majority of desert homes are poorly insulated mash-ups of drywall and fiberglass and pine sticks that dump precious water onto a square of sod and burn hot coal to blow cold air at the eternal sun. Warming the planet in order to chill our homes is madness.

In general, yes, it’s ethical to move to the desert, provided that you’re not intent on growing a green lawn and that you canĚýhack the 100-degree summers without cooling your home to 72. Remember that you’ll be moving to Indian Country; be an ally to tribes defending their land and water and sovereignty. Avoid Phoenix and Las Vegas and St. George, which have placed themselves on a one-way path to drought catastrophe. In the desert, small is beautiful, and there are still plenty of shaded creeks flowing through the canyons, providing life for small bands of humans, where you can build the future as you want it. Sundog won’t tell you where they are, but if you look hard enough you might yet find one.

The post Should I Move to the Southwest, Even Though There’s a Drought? appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

62 Parks TravelerĚýstarted with a simple goal: to visit every U.S. national park in one year. Avid backpacker and public-lands nerdĚýĚýsaved up, built out a tiny van to travel and live in, and hit the road. The parks as we know them are rapidly changing, and sheĚýwanted to see them before it’s too late.

Since it was winter, I thought hiking in the desert would be easy—with moderate temperatures and lower elevations. After years of heart-pumpingĚýhigh-altitude adventures in the Sierra Nevada, I wandered onto the Tanque Verde Ridge Trail, in the eastern section of Saguaro National Park, expecting to cruise up the seven miles to 5,962-footĚýJuniper Basin in a flash and then skip merrily down the path back to my van. How wrong I was.

The trail that leads up Tanque Verde Ridge is a must-see for any serious hiker visiting Saguaro National Park, and for good reason. It’s steep, rugged, and full of the park’s namesake cacti. ButĚýmore importantly, the trail traverses a distinct series of biotic communities, from desert scrubĚýto desert grasslandĚýto pine-oak woodland. I was astonished by the diversity of cacti and plant life that seemed to flourish, even at the park’s lowest and driest elevations.

The saguaros were everywhere. Thousands of 30-foot-tallĚýgreen pillars with nubby arms that begged to be anthropomorphized. No matter where I looked, my brain couldn’t help but turn the centuries-old saguaros into a veritable freak show of desert cartoons. There was a sassy lady with her prickly arms at her hips, an emerald strongman showing off his biceps, and a towering mint skyscraper full of carefully carvedĚýprewar bird apartments.

Just four miles into the hike, my thighs were on fire and my fair Scandinavian skin was begging for a spot of shade. It was only 65 degrees, but the sun was relentless, and I had long passed the turnaround point for most visitors. I had done my share of desert wandering, and it was time for me to navigate my way back to a beer and a burrito. At the 5.5-mile mark, I decided I had seen enough panoramic views of downtown Tucson, 15 miles from the park, and called it quits to go take in the sunset at Javelina Rocks.

On day two, I swore I wouldn’t subject my legs to another strenuous hike, so I opted for a mellow detour to the . More zoo and botanical garden than museum, it featuresĚýexhibits so thoughtfully constructed that they made even a zoo skeptic like me smile. Friendly volunteer docents were easy to find and eager to help, and every last one of them recommended the —an educational show about the region’s birds of prey—so that’s exactly where I went. I ducked for cover and squealed with childish glee amidĚýa group of silver-haired retirees every time a hawk or horned owl buzzed over our heads.

By the time I made it to the park’s western visitor center, it was already afternoon. I ambled up to a senior ranger at the info desk and asked what the gem of the park’s western district was. “Well, did you stop to see the Desert Museum?” he asked. “That’s just about the best thing you could have done. It would take a lifetime to see that many animals out here while hiking.” I felt like I was acing my homework.

He pointed me in the direction of the Valley View Overlook Trail for prime sunset photos. I hopped back into my van and took off down the dusty dirt road. I dodged formidable cholla and prickly pear cacti in the faint glow of the dying light, trying to capture the perfect silhouette of a mature saguaro, their strange bodies forming menacing shadow puppets against the darkening sky.

Sometimes trips are palindromes of themselves, beginning and ending in the same way or with the same emotion. I felt thatĚýin the vast Sonoran Desert, craning my neck skyward to marvel at the enormous cacti. They are bizarre and cartoonish, yes, but they are also beautiful. Timeless. Centuries-old totems of desert wisdom.

62 Parks Traveler Saguaro Info

Size: 91,716 acres

Location: Southeastern Arizona, with west and east sections that straddle Tucson

Created In: 1933 (national monument), 1994 (national park)

Best For: Hiking, backpacking, wildflower viewing, and scenic drives

When to Go: Visit in the spring (46 to 91 degrees), fall (46 to 95 degrees), or winter (39 to 69 degrees). Avoid it in summer, when average highs hover around 100 degrees.

Where to Stay: While no vehicle camping is available inside the park’s boundaries, Saguaro offers six backcountry camping options (permit required;Ěýobtain one at the visitor center). is the largest, offering a high-elevation retreat from scorching desert temps and a perennial water source.

Where to Eat: Ěýin Tucson is the oldest family-run Mexican restaurant in the country. The eatery’s original matriarch claims to have invented the chimichanga, and whether or not that’s true, they do a great job of satiating hiker hunger.

Mini şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř: The ,Ěýin Saguaro’s eastern Rincon Mountain District, is an eight-mileĚýpaved roadway full of breathtaking views and easy pullouts to nab that perfect sunset shot. Be sure to stop at the .25-mile accessible, interpretiveĚý on the northern rim of the drive.

Mega şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř: Bag a peak! is the highest point in Saguaro’s western Tucson Mountain District and worth the effort of the eight-mile loop trail to get there. Start at the King Canyon Trailhead, then hike up the wash. Be sure to look for ancient petroglyphs near the dam. Take in some incredible views from the summit before looping downhill on the saguaro-lined Hugh Norris Trail. Cap it all off with a downhill jaunt past historic Gould Mine.

Worth a Detour: The ,Ěýnear the park’s west entrance, is a great side trip for families and animal lovers looking to learn more about the flora and fauna of the region. Highlights include the hummingbird atrium, raptor flight, and desert loop trail. And, I didn’t have time to go, but , near theĚýpark’s eastern section, is home to unique rock formations and a butterfly garden.

The post Inside the Cartoonish and Majestic Land of Saguaro appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

On January 20, 2017, President Donald Trump’s inauguration day, Laiken Jordahl went for a hike in Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, an ecological jewel in the Sonoran Desert that straddles the U.S.-Mexico border. The monument is studded with towering saguaro cacti and a rare namesake plant that looks like it was pulled from the Dr. Seuss universe.

Jordahl, 24 at the time, worked for the National Park Service developing wilderness stewardship plans. Trump won the 2016 election in part by promising to extend an impenetrable border wallĚýfrom California to Texas. As Jordahl hiked through the desert, he wondered if it was legalĚýto build something like that on protected federal land.Ěý

“Everyone assured me it could never happen,” JordahlĚýsaid at a rally he organized on November 9, 2019. “This place is just too special. And here we are, two and a half years later, standing in front of the first new sections of Trump’s wall.”Ěý

Last May, the Department of Defense awarded the first in what would become $1.3 billion in contracts to Southwest Valley ConstructorsĚýfor what it called a “Tucson Sector barrier wall replacement project.” That money was part of the $6 billion sourced from the Pentagon to build the wall without congressional approval after Trump declared a national emergency on the southern border on February 15. His wall was coming to Arizona. Sixty-three miles were to be built in the U.S. Customs and Border Patrol’s (USBP) Tucson Sector, which includes Organ Pipe.

When construction began in early October, Jordahl, who now worksĚýas the borderlands campaignerĚýfor the Center for Biological Diversity in Tucson, Arizona, documented it on his . Although the Department of Homeland Security claims it transplanted all healthy cacti in the way of the project, Jordahl posted videos of green 150-year-old saguaroĚýlying on the groundĚýthat he said had been bulldozed. The videosĚýwent viral, especially in Tucson, a hive of border activism. The rally was Jordahl’sĚýfirst opportunity to bring others to Organ Pipe so they could see America’s new wall, and its destruction, for themselves.

That’s why I flew in. Like many people, I’d been watching Trump’s border wall push from afar. Whenever I read or watched reports about it or his administration’s wider immigration policies, like family separation and new hurdles for asylum seekers, IĚýconsideredĚýthe human costs. To me, the wall seemed to be about more than border security. It was a monument denouncing America’s increasing cultural diversity. Then again, I’d never been there. Once I watched Jordahl’s videos, I knew it was time to see the Arizona borderlands for myself. I planned a two-week trip to try to determine what, if anything, was at stake.

More thanĚý300 people showed up atĚýJordahl’s demonstration, and they spanned the Tucson gamut. There were arty Burning Man types dressed like desert wildlife, a knot of retired activists who call themselves the Raging Grannies, and indigenous people from the Tohono O’odham Nation. All of us walked past heavy construction equipment and hundreds of pallets stacked with 30-foot-long bollards—hollow pillars that, when standing, form the bulk of the wall. We stepped over a dozen dying saguaros, their shallow roots exposed and left to decompose in the gravelly pink soil along the edge of a dirt border road expanded to facilitate construction.Ěý

“It hurts me,” said Philip Morales, a member of the Tohono O’odham Nation as he contemplated a felled saguaro. “We call them our grandmother and grandfather, because they have a spirit in them. And it gives to us. It gives us saguaro fruit, gives us sustenance.” He approached the wall, sang a blessing, and prayed. Others joined him, but soon the collective sadness turned to outrage. A chant began. “Tear down this wall! Tear down this wall!”Ěý

In the minds of the activists, it wasn’t just cactus and local indigenous customs that had been trampled. It was the Endangered Species Act, the Clean Water Act, the National Environmental Policy Act, and 38 other federal laws that were waived to green-light a project whose merits are debatable at best. All because of an obscure provision of a bill that passed through Congress as a budget rider more than a decade earlier.

Typically, the presence of a single endangered species is enough to at least delay major construction projects, but in 2005, Congress gave President George W. Bush the ability to waive federal laws to build a section of border wall in California’s Smuggler’s Gulch, near San Diego. Except the president’s expanded authority was not confined by geography or time. It was open-endedĚýand buried in the Real ID Act, which assigned a national standard to state identification cards. Debate about that bill and these new presidential powers were limited in the House and Senate because the Real ID Act was passed as a budget rider on an appropriations bill funding the wars in Iraq and AfghanistanĚýand much-needed relief for victims of the Boxing Day tsunami in Southeast Asia. Nobody likes voting against the troops or victims of natural disasters. It passed the Senate, 100 votes to zero.

Bush used his waiver authority to finish that wall in Smuggler’s Gulch and erect similar walls and smaller barriers along the border afterĚýCongress directed him to do so via the 2006 Secure Fence Act. President Obama held the same waiver authorityĚýand never used it. President Trump has seized on it to act unilaterallyĚýand build the wall wherever he likes.Ěý

According to the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, to date, 132 miles of newĚýborder wall have been slated for construction in Arizona since Trump was elected, at a cost of roughly $14 million per mile. The 63 miles in the Border Patrol’sĚýTucson Sector are already under construction. Environmentalists like Jordahl fear the wall will affect 23 endangered and at-risk species, including the Sonoran pronghorn antelope, Mexican wolves, and the elusive jaguar.Ěý

“This is exactly how you cause extinction,” Jordahl says. “You fragment habitat and populations into smaller and smaller sizes, their genetic diversity decreases, they become more vulnerable to disease and inbreeding, and they wink out.”

That matters because if you expand the term “borderlands,”Ěýas most ecologists do, to include 120 miles on either side of the line, you get a place where bald eagles roost near macaws, bobcat and ocelot might cross paths, and mountain lions, jaguars, and wolves compete for white-tailed deer. It’s an overlay of subtropical and temperate habitats, a wonderland of regal saguaro cactus—where woodpeckers, screech owls, and Harris hawks nest—and rugged mesquite trees, whose seedpods are eaten by coyote and javelinaĚýand were once used by the Tohono O’odham to make flour. Its jagged mountains rise like sky islands from a sea of undulating grasslands irrigated by seasonal washes that flood during summer monsoonsĚýand oases like Organ Pipe’s Quitobaquito Springs. The wall under construction at Organ Pipe is slated to extend past Quitobaquito, an important wildlife watering hole.Ěý

“It’s a sacred site and has been for generations,” says David Garcia, a Tohono O’odham elder. Every year, young peopleĚýfrom the tribeĚýgather at Quitobaquito to run some 150 miles to Mexico’s Gulf of California and back in a salt-collection ritual that doubles as one of the most intense endurance events in North America. WhenĚýthe new wall is complete, that generations-old salt-run course will have to be altered.Ěý

The Tohono O’odham Nation spans the U.S.-Mexico border, with most of its land on the U.S. side, just east of Organ Pipe. The national monument once belonged to them. When Garcia grew up on the reservation, there wasn’t a palpable Border Patrol presence, so it was easy to cross back and forth to Sonora, where his father was born. “There were nine gates that you could drive through. Now there’s only one that you can walk through,” Garcia says, “and there’s a USBP base on the reservation. So, at any given time, an agent can say yay or nay to allow you to go into Mexico or come back onto the reservation into the United States.”Ěý

“The U.S.-Mexico border touches six national parks [Ed.: three are national historic parks],” says Erica Prather, a national outreach representative with Defenders of Wildlife in Tucson. She was at the protest, collecting signatures to pressure Senator Kyrsten Sinema (D-AZ) to oppose the wall project. “Organ Pipe is obviously a national park unit. This isn’t just guesswork;Ěýthere’s science that’s been done. This is a wildlife migration corridor. If this were the northern border in Glacier National Park, people would be having a shit fit.”Ěý

That may be true, but one look at the existing vehicle barriers on the border in Organ Pipe, and you can see why some consider them insufficient. They look like corral fencing made out of steel—six to ten feet tall, easy for both wildlife and people to slip through or hop over. Of course, those barriers aren’t the main obstacle migrants face. The desert itself is a natural border wall. Harsh and unforgiving, thick with spiny plants and blessed with precious little water, temperatures can rise to 120 degrees in summer and plummet below freezing in winter. Desert wildlife is built to survive all that. Humans, not so much. Ever since the Clinton administration ramped up urban border enforcement, would-be migrants have attempted to navigate the southern Arizona wilderness, often with tragic results. Since the mid-1990s, the remains of more than 3,000 migrants have been found in the bush. For every body found, immigrant rights groups say there are five to ten that may never be located.Ěý

Quitobaquito is not the only wildlife water source affected by the Tucson Sector’s new border wall. On November 14, Jordahl drove us southeast from Tucson toward the San Bernardino National Wildlife Refuge (SBNWR), which is miles from any paved roads. While Organ Pipe is considered a high-traffic zone for migrants, thanks to its immediate proximity to Mexico’s Highway 2, only three migrants have been detected crossing into SBNWR in the past three years, perhaps because this area is wild on both sides of the border. Nevertheless, 20 miles of wall are being built here, cutting off a critical riparian habitat known as Black Draw, a swampy spring-fed creek that forms the headwaters of Mexico’s Yaqui RiverĚýand attracts wildlife from both sides of the border. The wall will also extend directly in front of the 150-acre Slaughter Ranch, which has a lakelike reservoir fed by artesian wells.Ěý

Fred Dunn manages Slaughter Ranch and says he’s seen Mexican wolves, mountain lions, and bobcats more than once. He’s even heard rumors of a jaguar passing back and forth over the border. (SBNWR officials have no record of wolf or jaguar sightings within the refuge’s boundaries.)ĚýDunn loves animals and is concerned about how much water the construction crews are using to mix concrete for so many miles of border fencing.Ěý

Builders have drilled multiple wells, he says. Some of that water is sprayed on the road as dust control. Most is used to mix concrete. Dunn is anxious that his artesian wells and reservoir could run dry, so he recently paid $40,000 to build a new deep well of his own. Similar water issues exist in Organ Pipe, Jordahl says. He worries that Quitobaquito Springs might dry up if construction crews drain the local aquifer. Are his and Dunn’s fears legitimate? That’s impossible to answer, as no environmental impact studies or reports have been required at either site because of Trump’s waiver authority.Ěý

After visiting Dunn, Jordahl and I hiked Black Draw, where we spooked wild turkeys rummaging in the shade, and continued on foot for 3.5 miles to the newest section of the wall. Although the Tucson Sector contract was awarded to Southwest Valley Constructors, that name is an empty shell. It’s a subsidiary of an Omaha-based firm called Kiewit, which has offices across North America and is a favored contractor of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. A source close to the project told me that Kiewit is in violation of its contract on environmental grounds. It did look like Black Draw had been filled in with construction debris near the road, but Kiewit officials never responded to multiple interview requests, and SBNWR officials wouldn’t discuss it. Based on my short exchanges with some of the crew we saw working there, the wall project was just two weeks old, and they had completed about 200 yards so far. Most of the labor force we met were Latino.Ěý

It was a strange thing to witness—a new swatch of wall in the middle of nowhere, connected to nothing, glinting in the setting sun. It looked like an oversized abstract art installation, which was fitting, because when you’re standing in borderlands wilderness, mountain ranges painted against the eastern and western sky, the border itself looks like an abstraction:Ěýan arbitrary line bisecting the landscape.Ěý

During my two weeks in southern Arizona, I visited six sections of the border. In addition to the new wall, there was an 18-foot variety, built in the Bush era;Ěývehicle barriers like at Organ Pipe;Ěýand four-strand barbed-wire fencing at the southern end of the Arizona Trail in the Huachuca Mountains, a known jaguar and wolf runway. I quizzed U.S. and Mexican soldiers about the wildlife they saw as they conducted surveillance or patrolled for cartel-affiliated smugglers who run migrants and drugs across the border. I met veteran Border Patrol agents at their local bar. They flashed images on their iPhones of marijuana bundles worth more thanĚý$100,000 and the smugglers they’d arrested. I met recent deportees and Mexican, Honduran, and Venezuelan asylum seekers in Nogales, Mexico. I glimpsed surveillance towers, Border Patrol choppers, and wildlife. Lots of wildlife, including coyotes, jackrabbits, white-tailed deer, and too many birds and bats to count. Much of it within spitting distance of the border.

When I asked a Border PatrolĚýpress representative why the agency chose to begin construction at Organ Pipe and SBNWR, they mentioned “availability of real estate.” The land was already in federal hands. However, Defenders of Wildlife and the Center for Biological Diversity believe that means it belongs to the people, not the president, and should be managed in the public’s interest. Prather considers border wall construction in Organ Pipe and SBNWR to be public lands theft on par with the reduction of Bears Ears National Monument and the pending sale of oil leases in Alaska’s Arctic National Wildlife Refuge.Ěý

In an emailed statement, theĚýBorder Patrol wrote, “Deploying wall system in high-priority areas—particularly urban areas where illegal border crossers can quickly vanish into the surrounding community—allows USBP to decide where border crossings take place, not smugglers, and USBP can deploy personnel and technology in complement to border barrier.”

Set aside the fact that the newest wall is nowhere near urban areas, and the agency’s statement remains troubling. It alludes to a funneling of human patrol and air resources, as well as migrants and smugglers, away from paved roads and flatlands andĚýtoward the mountains, which are crucial wildlife corridors for predators and prey. And for what?Ěý

We know from that the only drugs flowing through the porous border areas in Arizona’s wilderness, from Mexico into the United States, is marijuana, not opioids or cocaine. Hard drugs come through urbanized border checkpoints, because they are odorless. Even human migration has slowed way down. There are still illegal border crossings, but these days, according to migrant advocates and Border Patrol agents I met, most would-be migrants prefer to apply for asylum and hope for the best rather than risk their lives and attempt to evade Border Patrol.Ěý

Defenders of Wildlife and the Center for Biological Diversity litigate to enforce environmental laws. The Center for Biological Diversity has challenged Trump’s waiver authority in court and lost twice. A pending longshot appeal to the Supreme Court is the organization’s last resort. It has also challenged Trump’s emergency declaration that allowed him to fund the wall without congressional approval. The White House has asked a judge to dismiss the case. Arguments will be heard in a Washington, D.C., federal court on Monday. Both organizations also document wildlife (Center for Biological Diversity’s Russ McSpadden has in Southern Arizona) and advocate on its behalf. Defenders also works on rewilding projects.Ěý

Craig Miller, senior Southwest representative at Defenders of Wildlife, has been involved with jaguar conservation and Mexican wolf reintroduction in Arizona since the 1990s, when there were just seven Mexican wolves left. Thanks in part to his work with local ranchers, today there are more than 130 wolves roaming Arizona and New MexicoĚýand about 30 more across the border in Mexico.Ěý

“The wall, if completed and if it remains, will prevent us from ever achieving one of the most robust and important rewilding initiatives on the continent,” Miller says.Ěý“Not just for Mexican wolves, but for all that represents. We’ve made good progress over the decadesĚýat preserving the northernmost population of jaguars, which historically roamed throughout Arizona and New Mexico up to the Grand Canyon. Now we have a stronghold of wolves and abundant suitable habitat throughout the region, but if they can’t get to Mexico from here, it’s just a pipe dream. It would prevent the essential flow of genetics.”

Diversity, in other words, is crucial, not just for endangered species, but for any healthy system. “Diverse systems are more interesting. They also happen to be more resilient, fertile, and productive,” Miller says. “In this region, life flows north to south, through all of these sky-island mountain ranges and seas of grasslands. This border wall amputates it. It’s a tourniquet. It prevents life flow across the landscape.”

The post The Environmental Threat of Trump’s Wall appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

Each year we head to a cycling mecca to test dozens of road and mountain bikes in search of the best new models. And we're pretty picky: the location needs to have the whole range of world-class riding, from smooth climbs and descents on pavement to flowy and technical trails. Luckily, Grand Junction, Colorado, and Tucson, Arizona, haven't left us wanting.

2019: Grand Junction

For 2019, we spent more than a week in Grand Junction, and every ride—on roads, gravel, andĚýtrails—elicited rave reviews from our testing crew.

2018: Tucson

The previous winter, we landed in Tucson and spent two weeks whipping around in the desert. Here's a behind-the-scenes look at the gear, riders, and whiskey that play a part in the test.

The post Our Favorite Places to Test Bikes appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

One thing most #vanlifers don’t talk about is being sick on the road. But if you travel full time, you’ll eventually have to fight a cold or the flu. For the nearly two years, we’ve been traveling in Artemis the Airstream, Jen and I have mercifully avoided seriousĚýillness—until a month ago. And while a head full of snot and a crippling fever doesn’t make for the shiny, inspirational photos that fuel Insta, there are lessons to be learned from weathering a bad patch in a trailer.

Following °żłÜłŮ˛őľ±»ĺ±đ’s Annual Bike Test, I was depleted from two weeks of hard riding and late nights. I often get sick following the event, but this year a week passed and I thought I was in the clear. Then, I woke up one morning stuffed up, hacking, and swinging wildly between paroxysms of chills and sheet-soaking sweats. Jen offered to drive 30 minutes to the store for medicine and tissues, which I think was less an act of compassion than a simple desire to get as far from me as possible. I don’t know who was worse off that first morning: me or Jen, who, knowing we were trapped together in a 200-square-foot petri dish, basically realized it was only a matterĚýof time before I infected her.

If there’s any advantage to being sick in a trailer, it’s the compact space. Three paces got me to the stove every time I wanted tea. And the bathroom was only a couple more steps beyond. With no television and no demands of home like chores or laundry, there’s also nothing to distract you from focusing on recuperating. So I spent that first 24 hours sucking down Nyquil and Echinacea and drifting in and out of sleep, which is probably just what I needed. And fortunately for Jen, it was unseasonably warm in Tucson, so she kept herself occupied outside the trailer, reading, running, and catching up on work.

Following the test, we'd holed up at a Pima County campground, , to make work easy on ourselves for a few days with electricity and amenities. Naturally, the day after I caught the flu was the final one of our permissible seven-day stay, meaning, sick or not, we had to move on.ĚýOur plan had been to head west to , but I was feeling so pathetic that I started lobbying for a hotel. A big part of the reason we wanted to visit Organ Pipe, beyond just the iconic succulents, wasĚýI’d heard that the park’s lonely dirt roads were ideal for bikepacking. We’d actually been trying to get there for two years but had been thwarted first by an unexpected international assignment and most recently by torrential rains. Now, the idea of finally making it to Organ Pipe but not getting to do what I wanted to do—in my infirm state, I couldn’t pedal a lap around the trailer, much less three or four days around the park—made me feel crabby and sicker. “Hashtag vanlife sucks,” I think I may have groused once or twice. But Jen, who still hadn’t succumbed to my sickness, simply went about packing up and driving us west, despite my protestations.

Twenty-eight species of cactus grow in Organ Pipe, but the one that gives the park its name is a magnificent and humongous specimen that grows in palm-shape clusters up to 20-feet tall. They reminded me of dry-land coral reef outcrops, and, despite my flu, as soon as I caught site of one, I was glad we’d come. Though the campground was on the compact side, with tents and trailers sandwiched into a grid, we scored a nice site in the generator-free zone with a couple of towering saguaros, and with temperatures pushing 80 degrees, I was glad toĚýsit quietly in the desert heat and convalesce. I was slowly starting to feel better, but to Jen’s chagrin, she came down with my sickness that evening. All hopes of adventuring in the park were off.

That turned out to be okay. For a couple of days, we slept long stretches, day and night, lounged in the sun, and read our books. Once we both began to improve, we took to driving out into the park late in the day and setting up our chairs to listen to the shrill, oscillating cries of cactus wrens and to watch the sun set over the still, Sonoran desert. If we’d arrived at Organ Pipe feeling well, not sick, we never would have appreciated these simplicities. More importantly, if we’d gotten sick at home, not in Artemis, we’d likely never have taken so much down time. As it was, we not only got to see a place in a way that we might not have otherwise, we also recovered quicker than we probably would have if we weren’t in the trailer.

On our last full day in the park, I was feeling well enough that I mustered a 20-mile pedal at slightly faster than walking pace on the closest loop road to the campground. Jen, meanwhile, took advantage of the park’s awesome, twice-weekly shuttle service to get in a short hike. The ride wasn’t the big adventure I’d had in mind, but after a week of lying on my back, I was happy for the simple act of breathing the desert air a little more deeply. And riding in the Sonoran desert, on dirt roads virtually empty of traffic, through stunning, black, empty mountains festooned with needly succulents, was just as compelling as I had always imagined it would be—even at a slow creep.

The post What the Flu Taught Me About Taking It Slow on the Road appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

Tires proved the most surprising story of the şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř magazine bike test this year in Tucson, Arizona. In two weeks of testing 50 bikes, with a dozen riders on each bike every day, we had only two flats. To put that in perspective, at the 2017 test, we flatted 18 times, and in 2016 we tallied a whopping 27. Previous tests had at least that many flats, and often more.ĚýFrom the nasty, barbed plant life to the serrated rocks that litter the roads and trails, everything in Tucson is out to shred your tires, which makes our dearth of flats even more impressive.

Because the results stretch across wheel and tire size, bike type, tire and wheel combos, and even brand, the inevitable conclusion is that tire designs as a whole are improving. Even beyond the bike test, I’ve had so few flats on my year-round test fleet that I can hardly remember the last time I changed a tire.

So how do you explain these improvements? “We are finally a few years into tubeless tire development, and we are hitting our stride,” says Clayton Wangbichler, a spokesperson for WTB. “Early on, companies were adapting tube-type tires for tubeless, and it was a learning curve to find out what worked and what didn’t. We’ve moved beyond those days and we are fine-tuning tires with different plies, better casings, and a variety of compounds to suit conditions. Also, rim designs are now built to facilitate tubeless setups.”

Probably the biggest factor contributing to improved durability and feel is sidewall and tread protection, which amounts to some sort of protective layer built into a ply of the tire. “I think we have finally figured what materials work,” says Graham Wilhelm, product manager for Trek’s wheelworks program. “We know specifically what type of nylon, what TPI of nylon, and what weave of nylon works best.” And it varies from tire to tire. For trail and all-mountain designs, for instance, Bontrager uses three sheets of 40TPI nylon, one in each sidewall and one sub-tread. On cross-countryĚýtires, there are only two sheets of 60TPI nylon in the sidewalls. “I think you see this across the board: companies have really focused in on what works, so you’re getting tires today that weigh the same as they did five years ago, but they are so much more durable.” Wilhelm also points out that improvements in tread design mean better control, so riders are less likely to flat because they’re riding better lines.

Aaron Chamberlain, at Maxxis, whose tires graced over half the mountain bikes we tried, says they have new technologies as well, including DoubleDown, which uses two plies of casing, like a downhillĚýtire, but with lighter 120TPI casings for better feel. “Bikes are capable and more aggressive, so we have to keep up with that,” he says. He also credits the trend toward wider rims for some of the added durability in tires. “More bikes are coming stock with wider rims. That allows the tire to spread, which reduces the risk of pinch flats.” That echoes the approach Enve took to taming flats when it redesigned its mountain series wheels last fall.

Manufacturers also seem more concerned with durability than weight. “When tubeless came out, it was all about weight, but we’ve come to realize that you can’t always cut weight at the expense of reliability,” says Wangbichler. Whereas a decade ago I strived for lightweight mountain race tires that weighed in the 400-gram range, for instance, these days 500 to 600 grams is more realistic, partly thanks to those thicker casings and wider profiles. You can argue over how much an extra 100 grams slows you down, but there’s no debating that you’ll be a lot slower if you flat thanks to tires that are too lightweight.

Bike companies seem to have gotten this message, too. A few seasons ago, most brands were spec’ing the skinniest, lightest, cheapest version of tires so that their bikes would feel as feathery as possible on the showroom floor. At our tests, we’d shred that paper-thin rubber immediately. So it’s heartening to see that more companies are spec’ing heavier weight tires with additional sidewall protection. Specialized, for instance, includes its GRID tires, which have reinforced sidewalls, on all models of its trail bikes, starting with the Stumpjumper and up. And pretty much every bike in the test that came with Maxxis treads included the company’s burliest 3C/EXO/TR designation for the best tear and puncture resistance. “A lot of manufacturers have realized that spec’ing the lightest tire possible means customers are going to be flatting all the time,” says Chamberlain. “And that just makes everyone look bad.”

Tires are getting wider across the board, too. Most of the road bikes we tested were equipped with 28c tires and many had up to 32c—that’s a far cry from yesteryear’s 23c standards. And whereas 2.1-inch tires and smaller were the norm on cross-country race bikes not long ago, this year the BMC Agonist came with 2.25s, and the Specialized Epic got a 2.3. Increased volume doesn’t necessarily mean better durability, especially since pressures generally drop as sizes go up, but it does translate into a better ride. “I think you can trace it all back to fat bikes,” says Sean Estes, at Specialized. “Riders immediately loved the confidence, the added traction, and the fewer flat tires. You get an incredible ride quality with bigger rubber. The trade-off is weight and rolling resistance, so now the push is to find the sweet spot that balances all the factors.”

Enter the 2.6-inch mountain tire, which was probably the hottest item on deck this year. Six bikes came spec’d with this new size, and I imagine that even more would have except that early run availability has been tight. Splitting the difference between 2.4s, once considered a big mountain bike tire, and 3.0s, the original standard for plus bikes, this size provides tons of traction and push through loose terrain and chunder but doesn’t have the same lethargic sensation you sometimes get with plus. “I think it’s sort of a backlash to plus,” says Chamberlain. “There was all this hype about how plus was going to change your life. It’s good for some things, but can also feel vague and slow. So this is the pendulum swinging back the other direction.”

We had two enduro bikes in the test, the Pivot Mach 6 with a 2.5-inch Maxxis DHF front and the Ibis Mojo HD4 with a 2.6 Maxxis DHF, and hands-down the control and confidence of the bigger rubber won out. As an experiment, I switched the fatter tire onto the Pivot, and I liked that bike even more. The differences were incremental, of course, but noticeable, which probably explains why this size is exploding. Ěý“I was surprised to find out that 2.6 is leading our sales right now,” says Trek’s Wilhelm. “For me, it’s definitely the magic middle.”

One last note: If you aren’t carrying a plug kit, such as the , you are missing out. Whereas flats in the past meant installing a tube and losing your tubeless benefits, we fixed both of our flat tires with a quick plug job. And plugs have gotten so good these days that those fixes lasted the remainder of the test—and are still going strong.

The post Bike Companies Are Making Great Tires. Finally. appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

I try to spend a bit of time in Tucson, Arizona, annually, but last year, due to extenuating circumstances, we couldn’t make it down there. For 2018, we moved the şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Bike Test back to the Old Pueblo, and, upon arrival in early January, I felt a warm, Hallmark glow for this town. As bike editor for şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř, I have ridden the world over, and if there is a better place for cyclists to winter, I do not know it. The temperate, dry weather makes it blessedly comfortable to ride here, there’s tons of terrain for pedaling, the town is blossoming with breweries and hip restaurants, and there’s a killer cycling culture.

Want a winter training camp or just a quick getaway from the cold?ĚýYou will do no better than this poky, endearing town in southern Arizona.

#1. It's Warm

You know what feels amazeballs? In the middle of winter, ditching your puffer from your cold, dark home and exposing your lily-white skin to the desert sun. Over the course of a month in Tucson, we had exactly two days of light rain—otherwise, the sun was out and daytime temps hung in the mid-70s. As with the rest of the Southwest, this winter is particularly warm and dry, to the point that I was worrying over hydration and whether testers would be able to keep up the pace in the heat. But even on “cold” years, which we’ve had one or two of in the decade we’ve been testing in Tucson, you’re talking about a day or two where you might need arm and knee warmers. The only problem with getting so comfortable? It feels that much colder when you have to return home, which is why, every year, at least one or two in our group talks about investing in a Tucson property.

#2. There's So Much Riding!

I’ve spent a lot of years biking in Tucson, and I’ve still yet to see all the city’s rides and trails. Thanks to Mt. Lemmon (see #3), the place has a reputation as a haven for roadies, and the mountain isn’t even half of the story. There’s excellent riding in both branches of Saguaro National Park, which bookend the city, and the 10-mile, closed-circuit rollercoaster loop in the eastern section of the park might be the finest road lap anywhere. The gravel and dirt roads outside the city provide endless options if you’re willing to explore, and the city also hosts one of the largest and fastest group rides, the Shootout, throughout . And while Tucson doesn’t have a reputation for mountain biking like, say, Sedona or Moab, I think that’s partly because the riding here is so spread out and varied that it’s simply difficult to tie it all up in a neat little package. From the fast and flat flow trails at the in-town to the chunky, bedded-rock loops of Robles and Starr Pass in to the granite playground north and west of , the terrain is so diverse and interesting that every day can bring not just new trails, but totally different styles of riding.

#3. Altitude Training

Pro Tour teams such as Sky, Astana, and Trek love to tout their altitude camps in the as the key to winning seasons, but we Americans can skip the long flights and head for Mt. Lemmon, which climbs from the 2,389-foot Tucson city limit to over 9,000 feet at the summit. The pavement is glassy, and it’s one of the most approachable long climbs you can do, with moderate grades of 5 and 6 percent the majority of the way. (It’s perfect for intervals, if you’re into that sort of thing.) şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř of say, Hawaii, I don’t think there’s many other places in the country where you can get so much climbing in the middle of the winter. And for those who need extra motivation (or structure), the runs training camps here in the cool months.

#4. The Arizona Trail

I’ll admit that I’m biased from years of riding and racing on it, but , an 800-mile purpose-built trail that traverses the state from Mexico to Utah, has to be one of the coolest resources for cyclists anywhere in the country. And Tucson is the jumping-off point for some of the finest stretches of the trail. During testing this year, we pedaled a 35-mile stretch south of town between Kentucky Camp and Colossal Cave, and everyone was blown away by the range of riding, from perfect ribbons of single track through broad, grassy meadows to brutal, rocky rollers that seemed so remote and never-ending that it felt like we were days away from civilization. On the north side of town, the passage between Oracle and Freeman Tank is rugged country where water is scarce and Gila monsters and rattlesnakes are common, while the stretch thereafter, called The Boulders, is so fast and swoopy that you can’t help but whoop and laugh out loud. The AZT is great for single-day out-and-backs, and there’s also excellent potential for multiday bikepacking trips, especially now that Homegrown is offering bespoke .

#5. Epic Rides

While Moab has rightly won great acclaim for the Whole Enchilada, an epic, 27-mile descent, Tucson’s is longer (31 miles), loses almost 50 percent more elevation (12,462 feet of descending on the day), and is continuously more technical. This big-mountain descent, which starts at the radio towers atop Mt. Lemmon Ski Valley and wends its way down the peak’s southern flanks back to town, is a burly day out and takes in some of the trickiest and wildest trails here, including the exposed Incinerator Ridge and the rocky canyon drop down La Milagrosa. It shouldn’t be underestimated, though the fact that it intersects the General Hitchcock Highway at multiple spots means there’s always a bailout. Two other trails, (CDO) and , plunge off the north side of Lemmon, as well, meaning that Tucson has three marquee backcountry descents for mountain bikers. And while you used to either have to earn those turns with a backbreaking hill climb or spend an inordinate amount of time coordinating drop-offs and pickups, now that is offering shuttles, it’s a breeze to undertake one of these epics.

The post Book Your Winter Riding Trip to Tucson Now appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

Bike coverage for şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř and the Summer Buyer’s Guide is largely a democratic process. I put a dozen testers on the year’s crop of new bikes, and the bikes that a majority of riders preferred are the ones we recommend. But those picks don’t always perfectly align with my tastes. Here are a few models that I rode and loved but, for one reason or another (too niche, liked by some riders but not others), just missed the cut. That doesn’t mean these aren’t great rides though.

Pivot Mach 6 Carbon (From $5,200; $8,400 as Tested)

Enduro 27.5ers comprised over 20 percent of our test fleet, making the category one of the fastest growing this year. , which gets a longer front center and lower stance than the previous edition for even more aggressive handling, was one of my favorites. Two things set this bike apart. First, Pivot’s use of the DWLink suspension makes the Mach 6 climb exceptionally well for a 155-millimeter trail shredder. And second, the company’s attention to detail—super-clean cable routings, ports to accommodate any and every build you might ever want, and rubberized frame protection on the down tube and bottom bracket—is maybe the finest on the market. The Fox suspension, including DPX2 piggyback shock and 160-millimeter 36 Factory fork, proved both stout and silky. And the lightweight Reynolds Enduro carbon wheels took a nasty beating but came away unscathed. If you favor big drops, sketchy terrain, bike parks, and shuttling over long days of pedaling, you cannot go wrong with this burly bike. Oh yeah, it’s also the best-looking Pivot I’ve ever seen and probably the sexiest mountain bike in the entire test.

Guerrilla Gravity Trail Pistol (From $2,995; $5,695 as Tested)

Based in Denver, Colorado, where all of this company’s rides are designed, built, and assembled, Guerrilla Gravity is reviving the idea that small-scale, American-made bikes are legit by offering value, customization, and—most important—a great ride. Most of the company’s bikes are longer-travel and downhill-oriented, a design ethos that obviously influences slack head angle (66.6 degrees), steep seat angle, short chainstays (429 millimeters), and long reach. Taken together, it makes for a bike that feels plenty efficient yet confident enough to get rowdy. Guerrilla Gravity sells three spec builds of the , or you can pick and choose exactly what you want, including paint color and stickers. The bike the company built for us couldn’t have been more spot-on: The 130-millimeter MRP Ribbon fork proved infinitely adjustable and incredibly supple in the small bumps. The Cane Creek DBCoil IL shock made of the most stable ride of any bike in the test. The Industry 9 Trail270 wheels are as appealing and high-performance as alloy hoops get. And unlike some of the more niche machines out there, this is a bike I would ride on any trail in any part of the world in every condition.

Salsa Deadwood (From $3,800; $6,000 as Tested)

Thanks to its monster wheels and big-truck feel, was either adored or hated by testers, with very few in between. For me, it was one of the standouts of the test, partly because it is the only full-suspension 29+ bike on the market. Those huge hoops make this bike plow like a steamroller. And I think it’s perfect for the desert Southwest—it pushes through rocky chunder, grips like Velcro on loose climbs, and floats when trails turn sandy, which is frequent. This year’s model keeps the short, 91-millimeter rear travel of the previous edition but gets a beefier 120-millimeter fork for a slacker front end and more assertive riding. I did regret that Salsa downgraded from full three-inch rubber last year to 2.6-inch Maxxis Rekons. These tires are some of my favorite, but I’d rather have the bigger variety since full plus-size is what sets the Deadwood apart. With a pretty long wheelbase and a somewhat heavy build (29.5 pounds), this bike isn’t the most playful and won’t appeal to everyone. But I enjoyed smashing around in the backcountry with it.

Look 795 Light RS ($8,500 as Tested)

Like the Salsa, won me over not only for its composed ride but also because it is so different than any other bike on the market. The tubes are all airfoil shaped, but the aerodynamic gains don’t stop there, thanks to Look’s innovative integration. The top tube extends straight into the proprietary stem, which can be adjusted from minus 13 degrees all the way up to 17 degrees to preserve the bike’s sleek lines. The Zed 3 Crank is constructed as one piece, which makes for exceptional stiffness and some of the best power transfer I’ve felt. (The flip chip at the pedals to adjust the crank between 170 and 175 millimeters is also a neat little bit of design.) Finally, the integrated seat mast makes for clean airflow, but Look has also built in elastomers that help smooth the ride. All together, it makes for a powerful-feeling bike that’s best on rolling terrain and confident descending, without the harsh edge of some of the competition. The truth is you can get an aero bike that’s lighter and cheaper from some of the bigger manufacturers, but I liked this as much as any of them for its distinctiveness.

Breadwinner G-Road ($6,395)

(G for gravel) was another polarizing bike among testers. To understand how a steel 650B road bike can be this costly—one of the big put-offs for some testers—you must appreciate the heritage of Breadwinner, which is a collaboration between Ira Ryan and Tony Pereira, two of the most renowned men in the hand-built bike world. Each of the company’s bikes, including every G-Road, is custom built and finished to a client’s riding style, preferences, and geometry. Apart from its bespoke nature, the G-Road comes with 2.1-inch Schwalbe G-One Bite tires on Stan’s Crest MK3 rims, wide flaring Thomson Dirt Drop bars, front and rear thru-axles, and a 1x SRAM Force group set, including the company’s hydraulic disc brakes, all of which suggest taking on very burly terrain. The myriad braze-ons on the Igle segmented fork and the Breadwinner rear dropout hint at the big loads this bike is built to carry. The G-Road was happiest muscling along the fire roads and dirt corduroy outlying Tucson, where the relatively low bottom bracket lent a rooted, super-stable ride. It did OK on trails, too, though the steering seemed slow for really quick stuff. As such, this is a pretty niche machine, best for those who like their roads chunky and their backcountry adventures big—and want the most beautiful bike available for the job.

Cervélo R3 Disc ($5,200)

The Canadian company has had a bit of a reputation for producing somewhat expensive, slightly traditional (some would say stuffy) bikes over the years, so it’s nice to see Cervélo bring disc brakes to the venerable and longstanding R Series. Unless you choose the safety vest yellow colorway—indeed a bold departure for Cervélo—there’s nothing showy or flashy about . Instead, it’s just a nicely built disc roadie with great parts (full Ultegra Di2) and fleshed-out geometry. Every time I climbed aboard this bike at the test, I felt as though I was settling into a bike I’d been riding for years—that’s how comfy it is. It’s not the lightest (17.5 pounds) nor the fastest, but it just feels good on whatever terrain you throw at it. Turnover is quick when climbing out of the saddle, handling is sharp but not nervous, and descending is so stable that I felt totally fine taking my hands off the bars for water on the 50 mph descent of Mount Lemmon.

The post Our Favorite Under-the-Radar Bikes of 2018 appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

One thing I love about traveling in Artemis the Airstream is that anything and everywhere is a possible destination. Places that might normally seem far-off become as accessible as your backyard and one-light towns with no hotels that you’d otherwise speed past are suddenly as comfy as home.

Case in point: Safford, Arizona, a dusty, western outpost two hours northeast of Tucson, Arizona, with a reasonable steak house, a Thriftee Food andĚýDrug, and not a lot else. Thirty miles off an already inhospitable stretch of Interstate 10, it’s a town I never would have happened upon except that friends told me of a fantastical road bike climb there called , which rises some 6,000 feet from desert to the high alpine. One winter, while living in Tucson, Jen, my wife, and I sojourned to the peak, rode the mountain, which was as outrageous as I’d heard, and were back in the Old Pueblo at our favorite pizzeria before dark. We never entered Safford, and, though the ride was exceptional, it was so far away that we figured we’d never return. We’ve probably barreled past the Safford turn a dozen times in the years since.

But last month, as we were rambling west with a few weeks to kill before şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř’s bike test, I thought of the climb. It was halfway to Tucson and optimal for some pre-test riding. “My parents were down there last year,” Jen remembered. “They said something about a campground.” A brief search turned up , which had tons of availability for such short notice. An invitation went out to Jen’s parents to join us with their new fifth-wheel for a weekend of circling the wagons. And boom, Nowhereville was suddenly exactly where we wanted to be.

Any questions about why Roper wasn’t booked up this time of year were answered on arrival. Billed primarily for its fishing, Roper proved more pond than lake, and our in-laws didn’t get a single fish to rise in a day of casting. “Nothing’s been biting for months,” a ranger said. However for Jen and I, coming from wintery New Mexico, the 75-degree days were plenty enoughĚýdraw, and they gave way to warm evenings around the campfire with s’mores and bourbon.

And then there was the road climb, which was even better than I remembered because the temperate winter meant no ice or snow on the north faces like last time. It’s a daunting ascent, beginning with five miles on a road as straight as uncooked spaghetti up a grade, not difficult though not easy, that’s pitched back just right so you stare 17 miles up to a notch in the dark pines above that you know you must reach but looks infernally far away. When it feels like you can’t take the straightaway any longer, the road begins to wander and sweep from sagebrush country through scrappy juniper and piñon pines and into mighty ponderosas. There’s even some tight, steep, rutted switchbacks near the notch to really make your legs quake. Graham packs a sucker punch, too, because when you finally crest that pass you’ve fixated on for an hour and think it’s all over, there’s still another five miles to ascend. But the grades ease, and the views open to a head-swirling vista down over the red desert to the west, so the last stretches fly along in the big chain ring. I’ve ridden massive climbs across the U.S. and in Europe and South America, and Graham packs as much drama, pedaling, and scenery as any.

At the gate that marks the end of the pavement at 9,200 feet, a hunter told me that the road, which turns to dirt, leads another 12 miles down to Riggs Lake. Though his description of the idyllic tarn made me badly want to carry on, I was so hammered from the climb that I was also secretly glad that it was already 4 p.m. I had no choice but to turn for camp. Good thing, too, as the sun had already set by the time I rolled into Roper. Just in time for dinner around the campfire.

In the dawn light the next morning, Roper Lake looked ethereal and more appealing than it had under the harsh, fishless light of midday. A brace of ducks warbled and rose from the reeds, and Mt. Graham and the sky island of Pinaleño mountains stood behind, stolid and peaceful and defiant. That stretch of uncharted dirt road waits for me atop that crest, meaning an even more epic climb next time. Of course I’ll return to Safford. I can’t believe I waited so long to come back the first time.

The post An Ode to the Quiet, Little, Forgotten Places appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

During our annual bike test last month, our primary job in Tucson was, well, testing bikes. But we also had a broad selection of new gear along to try out while we were riding. Two weeks of riding every day is a great opportunity to put all the latest offerings—from apparel to footwear, dropper posts to forks—through their paces. Here's a roundup of some of our new favorite gear for the coming riding season.

Pace Edwards UltraGroove Metal TonneauĚý(from $1,600)

The piece of equipment that made the single biggest difference at this year’s test was this durable tonneau cover for our new Chevy pick-up. The ingenious design combines a bed-height, spring-loaded, roll-back metal cover with grooved rails that allow you to add a Thule rack and carry bikes over the bed. Installation was super simple on the Thule 430 feet, with push-button releases that enable the whole rack to easily pop on and off the truck. So I could easily load up the bed with a cooler, table, tools, chairs, and all the sundries we’d need for the day, then throw six bikes on top of it all. Once again, Thule's ThruRide bike racks were a godsend because they adapt to virtually every axle standard out there.

KĂĽat PivotĚý($295)

In addition to bikes on the bed, we ran a four-pack hitch-mount Küat NV rack off the back of the truck for a total capacity of ten bikes on the Silverado. Last year, Rocky Mounts debuted their excellent swing-away design, and this year Küat has joined the game with this add-on hinge. The big advantages of the Pivot: it’s burly enough to hold four bikes instead of Rocky’s limit of two; and it works with any two-inch hitch carrier, no matter what the brand. It’s an industrial-strength piece of metal, which should stand up great to abuse, though the weight of the Pivot alone (55.6 pounds) made installation and alignment a bit challenging. That heft, plus the weight of the rack and four bikes, made for a lot of movement back there when we were off-road, and it also meant the bolt-on mount had a tendency to loosen. Still, it was a boon to be able to carry so many bikes and still move them out of the way for loading and unloading the bed.

Giro Empire E-70 Knit ShoeĚý($200)

When I first saw Giro’s new line of knit shoes, which includes this road lace-up as well as a less expensive commute-oriented model and a mountain option, I was skeptical. But in the Tucson heat, the extra ventilation and supple feel of these quirky shoes proved perfect. Despite the mesh, the Empires have a surprising amount of structure and support, and the Easton EC70 carbon sole was stiff enough for performance but not so brutal that I couldn’t ride all day. I’m still ambivalent about the lace-up design, but I have to admit it is easy to fine-tune the fit. All said, this is a great all-around road shoe with some distinctive style.

Ěý

Henty Enduro PackĚý($110)

Though I like the way hip packs get the weight and heat off your back, I don’t love how you either have to crank them down so tightly that they constrict your waist or they flop around on technical terrain. The Henty Enduro splits the difference between backpack and butt pack, with all the weight low but a lightweight mesh shoulder harness system for stability. The main compartment fits a 3-liter bladder (not included), and a range of other pockets make organization a snap. One small niggle: the buckle for the main flap is fixed, not adjustable, which limits how much you can stuff on. Still, I carried this throughout the mountain bike portion of the test with tools, spare tube, water, food, lights, and a jacket.

Lupine Piko R HeadlampĚý(from $276)

Evidence of the continuing improvements in light technology, the Piko R is smaller than a rolled-up mountain bike tube but produces more light than my huge racing setup from a decade ago. This is the ultimate emergency and backcountry system because you can tuck it into a spare pocket and never fear getting caught out. And with 1,800 lumens, the Piko R knows no trail too techy to ride after dark.

Power Trail Gore Windstopper Insulated (Partial) JacketĚý($250)

It was seriously warm in Tucson this year, with daytime highs occasionally pushing 80 degrees, so by and large we rode in shorts, short sleeves, and not much else. However, on days we were out for long stretches, I always carried along this semi-insulated piece, which has a light layer of PrimaLoft Gold in the front section, stretch panels in the arms and back for ventilation, and windproof and water-resistant fabrics throughout. The day I rode the Lemmon Drop, conditions at altitude went from sunny and glorious to 30 with sleet and snow and back again, more than once. Having this jacket basically meant I could keep riding all day long without constantly stopping to add or shed layers.

Look X-Track Race Carbon PedalsĚý($130)

At first, it seemed a little odd that Look’s new off-road pedals are SPD compatible. I mean, Shimano has the mountain bike pedal down to a science. However, after a couple of weeks of use, I started to really appreciate the X-Track’s wider, more stable platform compared to my go-to XTRs. And on the day we did Cañada del Oro—the north-facing, big-mountain drop—the trail was choked with snow and mud down to 5,500 feet, yet I was impressed by how well these shed the muck. I wouldn’t say that the performance is so dramatically better that I’d run out and upgrade, but if you value a no-slop fit from your pedals, these might be worth a look the next time your old pedals give out.

Blackburn Chamber Tubeless Floor PumpĚý($150)

Building on Bontrager’s awesome concept of a pump with a reservoir that makes tubeless setups a cinch, the Chamber is one of the sturdiest and best-built floor pumps I have ever used. The all-metal construction feels virtually indestructible, the handle with bolt-on grips is as sturdy as a pair of handlebars, the extra-long hose is convenient, and there’s a bleed valve. I also like the oversize gauge. I set up half a dozen bikes tubeless with the Chamber in advance of the test, and it sealed up everything from road bikes to fat bikes without any hesitation.

Oakley Aro 3 HelmetĚý($180)

With so many good helmets already on the market, Oakley had its work cut out to break into the cycling world, and , the company’s lightweight climber’s lid, is definitely a strong salvo. The most notable improvement over the competition is the use of a Boa ratchet combined with a super lightweight nylon lace for the retention system. Oakley has also built channels for sunglass temples into the inside of the helmet’s shell, so when you turn your shades upside down and store them in the lid, as is common when climbing, they don’t jam uncomfortably against your skull. Other than that, the Aro 3 was so light and well ventilated that mostly I never really noticed it was there—that is, in my opinion, the mark of the best helmets.

The post The Best New Bike Gear of 2018 appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.