Not far from where I sit there exists a route, difficult to describe, that has captivated my imagination for the better part of two decades.
It is not accurate to call it a trail. Although access is via derelict mining track, beyond that track there is seldom an actual path to follow. The route perambulates an ocean of naked rock within the looping bend of a meanderful river, overarched by yet more rock and distant islands of frosted mountains. It is never straight, never marked, never the same from trip to trip. Despite that, bicycles seem to be the ideal means for conveying our bodies up, down, and across it.
The above paragraph hints at why it continues to captivate; It doesn't seem possible to grasp the whole when I repeatedly fail to grasp the individual parts.
A few days ago we spent all available daylight out flitting across this rock. The ride isn't 'big' in an enduro geek sense, but if you're able to not stare at your front wheel it is difficult to call it anything other than huge. Lift your gaze for long and it becomes difficult to keep moving; The panorama insists that you squeeze brakes, place foot on rock, and fixate with a soft focus. You know--gawk.
There's a lotta red out there, but the hue is somehow dwarfed by the scale.
Words can't begin to explain it. Images aren't much better. Only actually being out there is good enough.
I love it when that happens.
Perhaps the images I borrowed that day will inspire you to explore your own nearby yet somehow unknown 'red route'; The one that calls out, captivates, and defies categorization.