Golden Gate Canyon: A Bikepacking Overnight Close to Home

Golden Gate Canyon State Park, Colorado | August 12–13, 2026

One thing I am learning about bikepacking is that every trip has its own personality. Some adventures are about the riding: the miles, the climbing, the trails, and the challenge of getting from one place to another. Others turn out to be about something completely different. My overnight at Golden Gate Canyon State Park was definitely more about camping than riding, but in some ways that made it even more meaningful. It gave me a beautiful night outside, taught me more about my gear, and perhaps most importantly, helped me take another step toward making bikepacking a regular part of my life.

I chose Golden Gate partly because it is so close to home. My cat, Callie, was recently diagnosed with diabetes and now needs insulin twice a day, and this would be my first night away from her since her diagnosis. I knew she would be in good hands with my pet sitter, Sarah, but knowing something intellectually and feeling completely comfortable with it are not always the same thing. Choosing somewhere close reassured me that if I truly needed to come home, I could. At the same time, I didn't want Callie's diagnosis to mean that I stopped doing something I had only recently discovered I loved. One of my larger goals is to establish a rhythm where I can bikepack every month, and figuring out how to balance adventure with caring for the animals I love is simply part of creating that life.

I also had some practical objectives for the trip. I wanted to explore Golden Gate as a possible bikepacking destination, scout some of the trails, and especially get a feel for the road toward White Ranch and what the climbing would be like. I was curious about the primitive camping areas farther into the park and whether a route might eventually make sense coming in from the White Ranch side. Mostly, though, I wanted another night of practice: packing the bike, setting up camp, sleeping outside, figuring things out as I went, and becoming more comfortable with the entire process.

A Hummingbird Welcome

Almost immediately after arriving at the campsite, I received what felt like a little welcome from the wilderness. A hummingbird suddenly appeared and began flying around my head. It came so close that it hovered directly behind my right ear, and for a moment I thought I might actually capture it on video. Before I could, it darted away. I loved the whole encounter. There was something about arriving alone on my bike and immediately having this tiny, beautiful creature come investigate me that felt like the animal kingdom saying, Welcome. You're here.

And I loved the campsite itself. The site was tucked among beautiful trees, with a small stream flowing right through it and a gorgeous rock wall rising alongside it. The sound of the water, the trees overhead, and the feeling of being enclosed in this little pocket of nature made it feel much more secluded than I expected for somewhere relatively close to home. There was also a bear box right at the campsite, with drinking water and vault toilets nearby, which made everything wonderfully easy. Of the places I have camped so far, I think this may actually be the prettiest.

As I unpacked, I discovered another small bikepacking issue to solve. My saddle bag was occasionally hitting my rear wheel, so I need to check the pressure in my rear shock and determine whether I need more pressure, a dropper-post block, or possibly both. These are the kinds of things that have become part of the experience for me. I wouldn't describe myself as someone who has traditionally been obsessed with gear, but bikepacking is teaching me to understand my equipment in a completely different way. Every trip reveals another little adjustment that makes the next one easier.

Choosing Camp Before the Storm

I had originally planned to ride more that afternoon, but the sky was starting to look like rain, and I decided that getting my tent fully set up and my gear protected was more important than heading out to explore right away. I took a quick 30-minute spin instead, came back to camp, and settled in. That decision turned out to be a very good one because the rain arrived, and when it did, it absolutely dumped.

The storm became another lesson in learning my tent. I realized I needed to stake it out more firmly than I had been, pull the rainfly farther away from the body of the tent, and really tighten the small adjustment straps. I hadn't paid much attention to those straps on previous trips, but in a sustained rain they matter. Once I adjusted everything properly, the tent stayed completely dry despite how hard it was raining. The one issue was splashback from the rain hitting the ground and bouncing moisture onto the lower sides of the tent. My sleeping bag was touching one of those areas and became slightly damp before I noticed it, so I moved it closer to me, and everything was fine. It gave me one more thing to research and improve before the next wet trip.

There is something incredibly satisfying about being inside a tiny tent while the weather does whatever it wants outside and realizing your little shelter is working. The rain was heavy and steady for hours, but fortunately there wasn't much wind, and instead of making me anxious, the sound became incredibly soothing. I slept like a baby. In fact, I slept so well that when I woke up periodically during the night and realized what time it was, I found myself almost disappointed that there were only a few hours left until morning.

I love my tent. I love my sleeping bag. I love my pillows. Lying there warm and comfortable while rain poured down around me felt absolutely heavenly. At one point, rather than immediately going back to sleep, I became very aware of the ground underneath me. I let my body settle more deeply into it and imagined simply allowing the Earth to hold me and heal me. That feeling, being completely surrounded by nature rather than simply riding through it, is becoming one of my favorite parts of bikepacking. When I ride, I'm constantly moving through the landscape. When I camp, eventually everything becomes still enough that I begin to notice what is happening around me.

Morning Beside the Stream

At around five o'clock the next morning, the wilderness apparently decided I had slept long enough. I woke to an incredibly chatty little creature outside my tent and initially thought I was hearing a bird. Eventually I realized it was a baby chipmunk. When I got up, I saw a couple of them playing across the stream, and later one tiny chipmunk ventured surprisingly close to me while I was sitting at the picnic table. Between the hummingbird greeting me when I arrived and the chipmunks welcoming the morning, I felt as though I had been thoroughly acknowledged by the local residents.

The rain had conveniently stopped during the few times I needed to get out of the tent during the night, and by morning everything was quiet and beautifully damp. I started the day with my Transcendental Meditation practice, then emptied my bear bag and spread everything out so I could organize my gear and decide how I wanted to approach the morning. I made coffee, and this time I actually got it right. Sitting outside beside the stream with a good cup of coffee, some LMNT, bread with honey and a protein bar felt wonderfully simple.

Everything exposed to the damp air was still wet: the rainfly, some of my clothes, and various pieces of gear, and it became clear that nothing was going to dry quickly. I still wanted to ride, but I also realized that I didn't particularly want to haul all of my wet camping gear around the park just to prove that I could. So I packed everything back into my bikepacking bags, loaded the bike, rode down to the car, put my gear away and then headed back out for about an hour of riding.

That turned out to be another useful lesson. Bikepacking doesn't have to follow some rigid definition in order to count. I had carried everything I needed to spend the night outside, ridden my loaded bike into camp, taken care of myself through a significant rainstorm and packed everything back out again. Leaving my gear at the car before doing another ride didn't somehow diminish the experience. If anything, I'm beginning to appreciate that becoming more experienced at this means knowing when something serves a purpose and when I'm simply making life harder because I think I'm supposed to.

A Different Kind of Bikepacking Trip

I didn't accomplish all of the scouting I had planned. The trails I wanted to explore were farther from the campsite than I had realized, and given the weather and the wet conditions, I didn't feel like turning the morning into a long ride simply to complete an objective. I came away with the sense that Golden Gate Canyon may be more of a camping destination for me than a riding destination. I enjoyed the riding, but it wasn't the part of the experience that made me think, I can't wait to come back here.

The campsite did.

I would return for that little stream, the rock wall, and the trees. I would return for another evening sitting quietly outside while the light disappears from the canyon. I would return for the possibility of another hummingbird buzzing around my head or waking to chipmunks playing on the other side of the water. Golden Gate may not become one of my favorite places to ride, but it could easily become one of my favorite places to spend a night.

And perhaps that is part of what I'm learning as I become a bikepacker. I don't necessarily want every trip to be an epic riding achievement. Sometimes I want the riding to take me somewhere beautiful and then give way to something quieter. I want time to set up my tent, wander around camp, watch the animals, listen to the water, make coffee in the morning and experience what happens when I stay in one place long enough for the landscape to reveal itself.

Learning to Leave Home Again

The other part of this trip was happening back at home. I worried about Callie and my dog, Benny, even though Sarah was taking wonderful care of them. Callie's diabetes diagnosis is still new, and learning to give her insulin and monitor how she's doing has naturally made me more attentive to her. Leaving her for the first time required me to practice something that bikepacking seems to keep teaching me in different forms: trust.

Life rarely clears the calendar, removes every responsibility, and announces that now is the perfect time to go have an adventure. There will always be something that needs our attention. The challenge is learning how to care deeply for the people and animals we love without slowly abandoning the parts of ourselves that also need to be fed.

For me, spending a night outside has become one of those things.

Bikepacking gives me the physical experience I have always loved about cycling, but it is also giving me something I didn't expect. It asks me to become more self-reliant while simultaneously learning when to trust. It asks me to prepare carefully and then accept that weather, trails, equipment and life itself may change the plan. It gives me opportunities to solve practical problems and then, sometimes only a few hours later, invites me to lie completely still and listen to rain falling on my tent.

This trip wasn't particularly big. I didn't ride huge mileage or complete every scouting objective I had written down before leaving. It was, as I described it afterward, very camp-heavy, and I'm still looking forward to trips where I find a beautiful balance between long days on the bike and the pleasure of camping.

But I came home knowing that I could leave Callie for a night and she would be okay. I learned how to make my tent perform better in heavy rain. I discovered a campsite I would happily return to. I slept deeply while a Colorado storm moved through the canyon, woke to a baby chipmunk chattering beside the stream, drank coffee outside in the cool damp morning, and rode my bike.

Sometimes adventure expands our world through the distance we travel. Other times, it expands something inside us by showing us that our lives can hold a little more than we thought they could.

This trip did the latter.

And for one rainy night in Golden Gate Canyon, that was more than enough.