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Smells Like Monkey -
Part 2 |
Waking up in a place like Santa Maria would normally be no hardship but the previous night's festivities had left us all a bit cotton mouthed and light sensitive. While being administered a warm breakfast we were informed that we'd helped empty the town of Imperial so with some pride we loaded into the van. Hangovers were soon forgotten as we cheerfully began our drive to the trailheads above the sleepy little town, the entire way reminding each other of our antics from the previous night.
The trails Paulo has built are a mixed bag of epic fast single track, steep exposed lines and slow technical descents through sharp volcanic rock. Another safety speech was soon left behind, as we charged through the jungle where the previous night's hurt was replaced with the joy of being back in the saddle under the warm equatorial sun. We railed through grassy valleys and skied rear tires through steep, technical dirt-chutes before dropping into the gently rolling foothills above the town square.
Clean and white on the outside, Smells like monkey on the inside. Photo ~ Brian Gioa
By the time we rolled into Santa Maria I was already thinking about the next lap, hoping that we could sneak in another ride before my hangover could make a reappearance. We quickly refueled and shuttled back to the trailhead for a second lap that went much the same as the first except the smiles were bigger and my thirst for a cold beer had returned safe and sound. Everyone was exhausted but suitably impressed by what we had just ridden, never expecting to find such perfect riding in this small corner of the world.
The trip is designed to get more intense in terms of the difficulty as the week goes on. Over dinner that night I suddenly begin to feel the last 3 days of heavy riding catching up with me. With the Peak of Death looming large in my mind I began to worry about fatigue, so after a short beer I went off to bed with fresh trails large in my dreams.
Cattle track or Trailhead.. Photo ~ Johannes Frøysaa
Our second morning in Santa Maria would be our last here and marked the middle of the trip. I was a bit disappointed to be leaving this beautiful little town before I really had a chance to know it. Today we would be christening a fresh trail that was so new that it hadn’t been named. Paulo simply referred to it as the cow trail because a cow had fallen to its death along one of the exposed lines that we would soon be riding. The trail proved to be as difficult as promised featuring some more amazing single-track and I was feeling pretty good until I slipped a pedal and spiked my leg and bled all over myself. I missed the second lap to put a cold Imperial on my wound but it offered me the opportunity to relax, see a bit of the countryside and get to know my guides.
Simmons performing for the crowd in Provedencia. Photo ~ Johannes Frøysaa
The Cerre de Muerte - The Peak of Death. I had been waiting for this day since I first read about this trip. In the week previous Chris Winter described it to me as a monster DH and the trails were intimidating in length and difficulty. To say I was intrigued would be an understatement. I stumbled out of my hotel room that first morning in the Shadow of the Peak of Death wanting to ride. After a 5-star breakfast and more good Costa Rican coffee we all piled into the van, only to discover that the smell of our bike gear was nearing critical mass. Shortly after carefully loading our bikes onto the roof, Nene climbed into the van with a curse that unfavourably compared the odor to monkey stench. He quickly stomped on the gas to get air moving through the vehicle and after a 3 hour drive to the top of the Cerre de Muerte the smell and altitude had become measurable in the shortness of every foul breath. Our reward for putting up with these small hardships was truly unique and worth every rancid moment.
Out in the rain on the Peak of Death. Photo ~ Johannes Frøysaa
 4-legs good - 2 wheels are ok too. Photo ~ Johannes Frøysaa |
Tight twisty trails littered with flat rocks the size of dinner tables and steep volcanic boilerplate gave way to more of the wonderfully smooth single-track that characterized so much of the trip to me. I am getting exactly what Chris promised before booking this trip and the day isn’t even half over. For 2 more hours we descended before bottoming out in a small valley that demanded a forced death march that was definitely longer than the 30 metres Paulo so casually threw around. I felt myself getting surly about 30 minutes into the climb and way past the 30 metres we had been told. In the middle of this a pair of brightly dressed ranchers passed me on horseback with warm smiles on their faces. I took a moment and looked around and realized where I was. Despite being bone tired I was stunned by the natural beauty of those mountains - and suddenly recharged. |
The whole trip was an original experience. From riding virgin trails to seeking shelter from a tropical storm in a horse shed high in mountain passes. And all the while rolling switch-backed cattle paths carved into the green hillsides by decades of hoofed traffic - and since widened by Paulo’s shovel to accommodate riders. Wheeling into the small mountain town where we found Nene and Ricardo waiting I remember saying that I felt like I had just ridden 3 mountains. I had just taken a pull from a cold Pilsen (we were out of Imperial) and looking up at the foggy peaks I felt privileged to be there but also somewhat intimidated by what I had just ridden. The Peak of Death was everything it was cracked up to be and I had two more days of it to come.
Eye spy with my little eye.... Photo ~ Dave Smith
 Point Break Hotel. Photo ~ Dave Smith |
I woke up the next morning beat up and feeling like I needed a day off, but the Peak of Death was waiting and it would not be put off. The stench of the van and the aches in my body seemed to magnify as we got closer to our drop off point. Looking around me at the quiet faces in the van I saw my feelings echoed in the other riders. The previous day had been tiring and at times humbling so in anticipation of another long day I was reluctant to use up any energy on anything more than napping. |
We dropped into a trail that featured terrain similar to the previous day but as we dove deeper into the too green jungle the trails became more defined. The smile I had worn previous to this morning returned to my face as I began to implement the teachings of the Godfather. A unique bonus to this trip was to learn from a gifted rider and teacher who preached a philosophy akin to Bruce Lee’s. Crash and flow, work with the natural terrain and original line choice were Wade’s mantras. The words weren’t new but my devotion to them was, so I implemented these teachings on one of the best trails I’ve ever put rubber to. It was pretty much the perfect trail, a combination of bone jarring technical descents and high speed single-track that would plant a smile on a dead man.
Pura Vida Sunset. Photo ~ Dave Smith
To highlight the perfection of the day we came hollering and cheering through a sharp corner to find a frantically gesturing Tico asking us to be quiet. He was guiding a group of bird watchers who were all gazing at branch above us. Nested high on the limbs of prehistoric tree we spied the iridescent blue plumage of a Quetzal. The Quetzal is one of the world’s rarest birds and we had spied one without even meaning to. I tried to be cool and unimpressed by the moment so when Conrad, a real estate agent from Calgary, proclaimed that he was going to get a field book and simply tick Quetzal off his list and be done, I couldn’t help but laugh. It was an awesome day of riding so on the last day when we were given the choice to ride another trail or the same trail that had served up the goods the day before there wasn’t even a debate. We all wanted to get another taste of the pure life before we had to return to our lives of punching clocks and fulfilling responsibilities. The day passed much like the previous one and ended with a number of handshakes and promises to come together again for another trip. A few of us would continue to the beach for a week of sun and surf while the others would board planes for home taking with them memories to last until the next big mountain adventure.
As I write this 6 months later, I’m about to head for the Shore and looking outside at the liquid sunshine pouring from the grey Vancouver sky I can feel the damp and cold creeping seeping into my bones already. Packing my rain gear and dry clothes into my bag, the Peak of Death seems a long way from here, but I can’t help but be warmed by my daydreams of loam, sweet Costa Rican jungle loam.
Pura Vida.
Dave Smith
Who doesn't want to go to Costa Rica to ride after that? To hook it up check out Big Mountain Bike Adventures.Anything more to say now that you have read the whole story?
