He was big, three feet long or thereabouts, obviously alive, but not moving even as I approached. I got off the bike and stood wondering what to do until a car came roaring around the corner and I had to risk life and limb to save the snake. Not really. They stopped with a wave and rolled down their window to ask if I was ok. I pointed down and, showing off my vast herpetological knowledge, said, “Snake.”
The woman, on the passenger side, asked “Do you know what kind?”
“No idea.”
“We thought you were hurt. We were ready to throw you in the back of the car,” the man said.
They drove off after asking for some navigational help that I didn't have, and the snake continued contentedly ignoring me in the afternoon sun.

I was in the midst of a one-night bikepacking trip from home, just south of San Francisco, to Samuel P. Taylor State Park in the North Bay. The purpose of this ride, aside from, you know, fun, was to prepare for a 250-mile bikepacking race around Lake Tahoe called Bones To Blue that would be taking place a few weeks later. I hadn’t ever bikepacked before and figured it was a good idea to spend at least one night out before attempting a big-ass, multi-day race. I needed to test my sleep system, see how well I handled a multi-day fully loaded ride, figure out how to pack, and get in a good training ride.

"What is bikepacking?" you may be thinking. It's backpacking but on a bike. All your camping gear is carried in specially designed packs attached to your bike. Bikepacking packs come in a variety of types — none of them huge, some of them small. The bags I had: handlebar, top tube, triangle, seat, and a backpack (backpacks can still be used but they're often small)--with a total capacity of about 36 liters. To put that in perspective, my medium-sized backpacking pack is about twice that at 70 liters. Getting all the gear distributed into these packs can be a bit of a puzzle.

I rode out at 10:21 a.m., excited about the trip. I had about 50 miles ahead of me for the day and thought it would take a total of about eight hours (even allowing time for photos, socials, and notes). I was following a route from Bikepacking.com that had been downloaded onto an app on my phone called RideWithGPS which provides turn-by-turn directions.

Day 1 — Northbound — 7:36:11 Moving time — 52.22 mi — 6,470 ft climbed

The first part of the route took me through the City to the Golden Gate Bridge via the Great Highway and Golden Gate Park. Once I hit the bridge I was in icon territory. I always feel stupid taking pictures of the bridge because, I mean, who hasn’t taken a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge? Regardless, crossing the bridge never gets old; the views, the height, the possibility of seeing sea life, windsurfers and boats below, Blue Angels zooming by overhead, the wind trying to knock you into the guard rail, slow-moving packs of tourists. So, instead of a stationary photo, I posted my first-ever Instagram story.

The published route starts on the north side of the bridge (not at my house) and heads up Conzelman Rd. A climb well-known to Bay Area cyclists and also a well-used spot to get that (here it is again) iconic photo of the bridge with the San Francisco skyline behind.

About halfway up I hung a right onto the Coastal Trail, the first dirt of the route, which took me down into Gerbode Valley. A quick mile on Bunker Road and I headed north on the Bobcat trail. Bunker Road continues west to Rodeo Beach and the Marine Mammal Center — more Bay Area icons. Bobcat is a relatively smooth dirt road that gently rises–continually and consistently–for about two miles. Near the top, I missed a turn at a complicated conjunction of trails (there were at least a hundred…at least), and ended up heading down Alta. Attempting to correct my mistake without backtracking up the hill, I found myself on the beautiful, green, lush, well-maintained Oakwood Valley Trail, with hundreds of big steps, made from wooden railroad ties, and not good for riding with a fully laden bike. It’s always nice to find new interesting trails but I lost time as I walked the steps instead of attempting to Evil Knievel them.

At the bottom, I took a left up the road to the Tennessee Valley Parking lot and was back on route. I decided that was a good time to break for lunch, PB&J; a staple of ultra-endurance sports. This parking area and trailhead is a popular spot for hikers, trail runners, mountain bikers, and horsepeople. You can follow the dirt road down to the beach or take various trails from here in almost any direction. My route went a mile down towards the beach and then up the Coastal Trail and the first real steep climb. Two miles straight up, a good portion of it too steep to ride (one of the overarching themes of the route) with an average grade of about 8% and max over 15%. At that point, the Coastal Trail is a wide fire road and I passed several people hiking. It was sunny, clear, cool, and breezy, lovely weather to be out in the Headlands.

I turned off the Coastal Trail and onto a singletrack trail that was eventually interrupted by Highway One winding its way down to Stinson Beach. I crossed the road and was magically in Mt. Tam State Park, created in 1928 with help from William Kent and the Tamalpais Conservation Club. Kent and his wife were staunch conservationists who donated 200 acres around Steep Ravine for the park. The Kents were also instrumental in the creation of Muir Woods National Monument and the Marin Municipal Water District. As a US congressman, he authored the law creating the National Park Service. Unfortunately, he was also a xenophobic, racist, asshole who fought for laws to keep out Chinese and Japanese immigrants. Kentfield is named after him, as is Kent Lake of which we’ll hear more shortly [cue scary music].

Miwok turns into the Dias Ridge trail which follows along the ridge on easy rolling terrain until the ridge ends and rushes steeply downhill towards the ocean. The trail compensates for the slope by zigzagging convulsively back and forth and down the hillside. Once over the hump I had amazing views of the beach sandwiched between two bluffs with the ocean beyond and Redwood Creek flowing lazily into the sea after passing through Muir Woods. While riding down I get only momentary glimpses of this view on the straights between switchbacks. They’re fun to ride and not too technical but the malicious weight on the handlebars prefers straight lines instead of switchbacking.

The trail ends at Muir Beach and there is about 50 feet of flat before the route shoots up a short and super steep connector trail, whose only purpose is to cut out 1/2 mile of riding on Highway One. But it's so steep that it's a struggle to even maintain footing much less push and lift the bike up the hill over rocks and roots. That was a dumb route choice, I want my money back.

Highway One: It’s beautiful, it has great views, but lack of shoulders and zippy traffic make this section a little sketchy to ride. While on it, I was treated to a procession of old-timey cars coming the other way, complete with brassy horns and friendly waves. I turned off to traverse up a hot, dry, grassy hillside on the aptly named Coastal View Trail and the highway continued on without me, winding its way around the bluffs and on up the coast to Oregon and beyond.

The higher I got up the hillside, the more expansive the views of the Pacific and the Northern California coast. By that time I had some fatigue and the desire to lay down and nap in the grass was enhanced by the drowsy afternoon sun trying to Garfield me. It was three steady warm miles, including some crappy trail conditions that precipitated walking, to the top of Cardiac Hill where the Coastal View trail intersects with the world-famous (notice I didn’t say iconic?) Dipsea trail. The Dipsea (which is iconic even if I didn’t say it) is home to the Dipsea Race, first run in 1905 and the oldest trail race in the US. The top of Cardiac Hill is almost the high point on the Dipsea, it has the only water available on the course, and is the dividing line between Muir Woods National Monument and Mt. Tam State Park.

Teddy Roosevelt created Muir Woods National Monument in 1908 using the relatively new Antiquities Act. It was the seventh national monument and the first from land donated by a private citizen. It came about because the Kents, again, owned the land around Redwood Canyon but the water rights to Redwood Creek were owned by a local water company. The water company planned to dam the creek and create a reservoir, which would have flooded one of the last groves of large old-growth redwoods in the area. To save the forest, the Kents donated this land to the federal government and suggested the National Monument be named after William Kent’s friend John Muir.

After Cardiac Hill it was an easy mile to the Pantoll Campground and by then I was more than ready for a break. I sat on a picnic bench in the deep shade of the heavily wooded campground and took care of some extended break business: sunscreen, charge devices, eat, and recuperate as much as possible. I was 35.1 miles in and had done most of the climbing for the day, but I was way, way behind schedule. I had known there would be hills too steep to ride but the hills, the trail conditions — rocky and rutted and such — and, ahem, a navigational misstep, slowed my progress. And frankly, I was just slower than I thought I would be.

I left Pantoll about 4:20 pm (for reals it was 4:20, that’s not a reference to recreational drug use ) and headed up Pantoll Rd. It’s a steady and continuous climb, not too steep, that gains 500 feet in two miles. Steady riding until I came upon the snake draped languorously across half the road.

After the couple in the car had driven on, I returned to trying to save the snake. I tried a gentle nudge to the tip of her tail with my tire. She didn't like that, her head whipped around aggressively towards me, but only the first two inches. I suppose I should point out that while I didn’t know what kind of snake it was, it had no rattles, so I wasn’t too afraid. Post-ride research led me to believe she was a gopher snake which has markings similar to the Western Rattlesnake.

I had gotten two inches of a 36-inch snake to move with a nudge, far fewer than the number of inches that needed to move. I went around to her front, thinking that if I were nearer the head side she might react more and get all her inches off the road. I had a vague memory, likely erroneous, that snakes react to ground vibrations and I schemed up a strategy based on that. I kept my hands on the handlebars of my unmoving bike and my back end pogoed up and down, trying to create vibrations in the ground near her head. It must have looked like I was having some kind of meltdown; not an unheard of thing in the ultra-endurance world. Apparently, this snake wasn’t afraid of a large, bouncing, crazy person, or perhaps she was vibration-impaired. I would have to take more drastic actions. I edged the bike closer to her (without actually coming in contact) and that finally did the trick. She slithered off and into a hole in the hill. And I rode off towards the sunset — which was still hours away — with the satisfaction of a good deed done.

Not long after the snake episode I hit the highest point of the whole route and was treated to glorious views of the ocean, Stinson Beach, and Bolinas Bay and Lagoon. The Bay Area has many great views but this may very well be my favorite. The road swoops along the ridge for another three miles, dropping consistently after the high point so that by the time I left the asphalt I had dropped 500 feet in altitude.

I turned off the road and into the trees. I mean, really, really into the trees. This is Bolinas Ridge an → → iconic ← ← trail in the midst of a thick, verdant, lovely redwood forest. The air in the redwood forest is thick and heavy, like a down comforter on a cold night. It feels like there have got to be bears and pumas about, but in a place like this, they’re sure to be happy, cuddly, snuggly creatures. I rode contentedly down the wide, if rutty, trail expecting at some point to look to the side and see Ewoks shadowing me through the trees on their speeders. Six miles and a few puddles later, the forest ended and became grasslands with views of the Bolinas Valley, also known by its geologic name: the San Andreas Fault (I’m thinking of gettin' me a geologic name).

The path changes drastically after leaving the woods. It went from a wide and soft, if rootsy, fire road to sunbaked hard-as-rock, bone-jarring, skinny dirt trail through waist-high grass. We’re now in cow country. There were no cows present but I passed through a spring-loaded cow-stopping gate at the pastoral transition. The sun was low on the horizon and the grassy hills were glowing with a golden light. The path generally went down but it was slow going because of the rough trail and I couldn't enjoy the sights because I had to focus on avoiding pot-holes and grabby plants.

The sun set and the trail curved down off the ridge and east into Samuel P. Taylor State Park, my luxury accommodations for the night. The park came from land bought and developed by Samuel P. Taylor in the mid-19th century. He used proceeds from his gold mining operations to buy the land from Mexican land grantee Rafael Garcia and built a paper mill, the first on the West Coast. I passed by the mill location in the dark, not that the building exists anymore. When the railroad came to town he created Camp Taylor — a weekend recreational resort that was a popular getaway spot during the latter part of the 19th century. The land was sold to the county in 1945 and opened as a park the following year.

Once in the park, I had a smooth, flat paved path from trail-end to campsite. It was full-on dark by then and my headlamp was still packed away, but I had a very bright flashlight attached to the handlebars. I rode in a bubble of light that swarmed with some kind of little flying bug. I have no idea what kind they were but as I rode I bobbed and weaved my head trying to keep these little gnat-sized buggers out of my eyes and teeth.

I finally got to the campsite at around 9:00 PM, much later than expected or desired. The original plan had been to continue riding down the ridge to Pt. Reyes Station and have dinner at a restaurant there. That didn’t happen, so dinner would be limited to what I had on hand; Twizzlers, trail mix, and Cliff bars. Not great nutrition but calories enough for the night.

The campsite was typical of public campgrounds; picnic table, fire pit, mini fence to keep out the riff-raff, and the driveway guarded by a knee-high wooden stake adorned with a laminated white plastic card on which was written: ‘C. Benson’. After scoping out the flattest, most rock-free spot, I set up my tent and sleep system ( in bikepacking we don’t just say pad and sleeping bag, we say sleep system. Similarly with the lights. FYI ), and got down to some serious snacking.

I didn’t sleep well. My sleep system hadn’t been vetted. This trip was, in fact, the vetting process, and the sleep system came away unvetted ( failed vetting?). My super-light, blow-up pad didn’t hold air, partly my fault. And I wasn’t quite warm enough. I don’t know how cold it got in the night but I had been blowing breath clouds before getting into the tent. The sleep system wasn’t snuggly enough and would have benefited from the addition of one of those warm, fuzzy Bolinas Ridge pumas.

Day 2 — South Bound 6:14:00 moving time, 49.0 miles, 4723 ft climbed

Morning came around eventually and inevitably and I packed it all back up. The gear didn't go back into the same places they came out of but it all went somewhere. I neglected to get a picture before dismantling the campsite, but I did take one of this family of redwoods next to it.

From Samuel P. Taylor the route goes a couple of miles on the road, winding through a heavy redwood forest and following Lagunitas Creek, which is the outflow of Kent Lake [foreboding scary music]. The road, Sir Francis Drake Blvd, is named after… well, you can probably figure it out. In spite of having the Blvd and a fancy San Francisco Hotel named for him, Sir Francis Drake most likely never landed in California. In fact, the scant historical record of said landing is likely a hoax perpetrated by a well-known Cal historian ( Go Bears). Oh, perhaps you didn’t even know that Sir Francis Drake was purported to have landed in California in 1579 while on his expedition to circumnavigate the globe and claim it for England. He was, but probably didn’t, and actually landed in Oregon.

Anyhoo, after a few miles on Sir Francis Drake Blvd, the route turns off the pavement towards the dam that creates Kent Lake, but, before it hits the water it takes a left up a ridge line on the San Geronimo Ridge fire road. I, however, ignored the turnoff and stayed on Sir Francis Drake continuing into Forest Knolls because I desperately needed breakfast and coffee. It was another mile and a half to the Pump Espresso Bar, my new favorite place in Forest Knolls. I loved the Pump Espresso bar. A relaxed, local, woodsy kind of place where half the customers are greeted with hugs and a round of who-went-to-prom-with-who. I got a breakfast sandwich, two large coffees ( not all at once ), and power for my devices.

You may be surprised to learn that if this were an actual bikepacking race, hanging out in a coffee shop for breakfast would be totally legit. Bikepacking races have one main rule; you must be self-sufficient. Sort of. The interpretation of this rule is that as long as all racers can do the same thing then it’s allowed. You can refill your Slim Jim stash from a gas station along the route because everyone can do the same, but you can’t arrange for mom to bring you cookies or forgotten sunscreen.

When I left the café, instead of retracing my steps to get back to where I diverged from the official route, which I would have had to do if this were a race, I took a shortcut and went straight up a fire road that took me to the route on the top of the ridge. It was only 1.2 miles but it was a very strenuous pushing-the-bike-up-a-steep-hill kind of shortcut.

The ridge was a lovely shaded fire road through the trees for a short way and then I had to drop down the other side on a rocky rutted road that wove in and out of the trees but mostly out. It may or may not have occurred to me by then that perhaps, I should have spent more time practicing technical riding with a fully loaded bike. Seems obvious in retrospect. Down that hill, it was never quite so bad that I had to get off and walk but it was some slow, cautious, grippy riding. About halfway down, the route crosses over Big Carson Creek. [And finally, we get to the foreshadowed scary bit] Big Carson Creek is a tributary of Lagunitas Creek which feeds Kent Lake. It's the progenitor of Big Carson Canyon, or, as it was once known, the Black Hole of Marin.

In the last few decades of the 19th century, the area was owned by Adolphe Maillard — whose father was personal secretary and confidant of Joseph Bonaparte, Napoleon’s Brother (not pertinent but interesting). High up on the ridge above Big Carson Canyon Maillard had a logging camp. Trees in the canyon were chopped down and dragged out of the forest to end up at the sawmills in Larkspur Landing. The loggers lived in ramshackle shacks along the creek. Now close your eyes and imagine standing in front of a diorama, like in a museum, with headphones on and you hear a re-creation of the sights and sounds of a nineteenth-century logging camp. It’s cool and dark in here amongst the big trees, the light barely penetrates the mass of foliage above our heads. You hear sawing, men talking, the occasional yell of ‘timber’ followed by a loud crack and the whoosh of falling foliage, and then… the scream of a man being stabbed.

In 1888, John Johnson, a cook in the logging camp, disappeared without a trace and was presumed murdered. In 1889 William Shields, logger, disappeared leaving all his gear behind and thought likely murdered. In 1892 Marcus Pisa stabbed and killed fellow logger Antony Lujar during an altercation and was subsequently arrested, convicted, and sent to San Quentin.

In 1899 French Pete disappeared shortly after fighting with his roommate James Dier. Everyone knew that Dier had killed Pete and he was arrested by the San Rafael Sheriff. But, for the lack of a body, the Sheriff had to release him. A few months later Pete’s corpse was discovered in the woods not 200 yards from their cabin, but by that time Dier was long gone.

Henry Abbott, the Deputy County Surveyor, after having been spurned by a Miss Troy, had an affair with a married woman that went bad. His ear was shot off by the woman’s husband and Abbott disappeared. He somehow contrived for 'his' body to be found two weeks later in the Sacramento River. His will was executed leaving his entire estate to Miss Troy. But Henry Abbott wasn’t dead. He worked in the area for some 37 more years splitting pickets for Maillard or cutting wood for the paper mill and living, for some of the time, in a lean-to built inside a giant redwood. He was known as "The Crazy Man of Lagunitas Creek".

Open your eyes back up and come back to the present, the trail bottoms out near the lake, Kent Lake, created in 1954 when Lagunitas Creek was dammed. The route weaves around the edge of the lake but never close enough for good water views and then leaves the Black Hole of Marin by taking a hard left perpendicular to the lakeshore and going up Pine Mountain Fire Road. It really goes up, immediately shooting up to over 20% grade, and then it goes up some more, and then we get out of the trees and into grassy humps and it goes up some more. I was pushing the bike for most of these three miles cursing the route designer the whole way. Some of it so steep with loose sand and rock that footing is treacherous. I hated this trail. I probably had Black Hole of Marin ghosts hanging onto my bike, trying to drag me back into the canyon.

At the highest point the route circles around Pine Mountain Peak (which doesn’t seem like a good name for a heavily logged peak in a redwood forest). It was nice up there, looking over the woods and grasslands, with Bolinas Ridge to the west and Mt. Tam to the southeast, and no buildings or humans to be seen. I wasn’t particularly tired but I was tired of pushing the bike. After the summit, it was three miles of downhill fire roads to a paved road and three miles of downhill paved road ( past the golf course ) and into Fairfax.

Once I hit Fairfax I cruised around on regular streets and bike paths looking for an inviting cafe or restaurant where I could charge my devices and have a safe (visible, preferably) place to park and lock my bike. Eventually, I ended up at Marin Coffee Roasters in a cute little shopping and food district in downtown San Anselmo. I had a vegetarian sandwich with fries and had an actual bike rack to secure the bike.

After lunch it was a simple matter ( simple but not quick or easy ) to get to the bike path by the bay, back up and over the bridge, and home. The actual route goes into and back out of the hills, but I had decided to take the more direct route. Didn't want to overdo it on my first actual bikepacking trip, y'unnerstand (I know, lame).

Overall I'd call the trip a success. Some fun, some hard work, and plenty of learnings. Unfortunately, one of the things I learned was that I had a lot to do to prepare for the race. I was slower than I had hoped or expected, needed more skills practice, and my systems needed dialing in. The route was challenging but took me to some spectacular locations. There was not much time left between this ride and the race to modify my training, even if I had fully figured out what I needed to do, which I hadn’t. There were some blind spots.

Thanks to Brian K. Crawford and the Anne T. Kent California Room for the article on the Black Hole of Marin.