Same Campsite. Different Bikepacker.

Returning to White Ranch: Four Months Later

My original plan for this bikepacking trip was to camp in Keystone, Colorado, at a dispersed campsite. But the weather had other ideas. Rain was expected during the time I planned to ride, and even while I would be camping, so I was forced to explore other options. One idea kept coming back: White Ranch.

White Ranch was where I took my very first solo bikepacking trip in May. At the time, I wondered if returning might be a fun way to see what I had learned since that first adventure. I also wanted to make this trip a little different. In May, I rode the trails on my Scott Spark full suspension bike. This time, I decided to take my Scott Scale hardtail and ride the road to the campground. That meant a whole lot more climbing. It also meant carrying a whole lot of water—in fact, all my water—along with everything I needed for the ride, dinner, breakfast, and a night alone at an isolated campground during what I loosely considered bear season.

Back to Where It Started

I carried water in my frame bag and my USWE pack, packed my food, calculated my estimated ride time and fueling requirements, and set off. The weather actually worked beautifully in my favor. It was cool and overcast, which made all that climbing considerably more comfortable. Even with the clouds hanging around, I made it all the way to camp without getting rained on. When I arrived, the campground was completely to myself again. On my first trip in May, deer greeted me. This time, my welcoming committee consisted of one very vocal blue jay. I'll take it.

Rain was still threatening, so the first thing I did was set up my tent. This was probably the first moment I really noticed how much had changed since May. I knew what I was doing. Yay! I recently looked back at a photo from that first trip, and my rainfly was definitely not as taut as it should have been. I'm grateful it didn't rain that night because I'm pretty sure I would have learned that lesson the wet way. This time? That rainfly was taut.

I set everything up with so much more ease and confidence. There wasn't the same feeling of Okay, what do I do now? Is this right? Did I forget something?

I had spent the summer bikepacking. I knew my equipment. I knew my systems. I knew how I liked to set up camp. And because I wasn't consumed with figuring everything out, I could simply be there. I listened to the birds. There wasn't much of a breeze, but the air felt definitely cool. I put on my beanie and rain jacket for a little extra warmth while I finished setting things up and ate dinner. The entire experience felt different. Not necessarily because White Ranch had changed. But I had.

Things That Go Squeal in the Night

I went to bed fairly early, and sometime during the evening the rain started. Then, around 10:30, I woke up to an unusual sound moving through the campground. It was almost a squeal or whine, and it kept repeating. I couldn't identify the animal making it. It didn't sound tiny like a mouse or another small creature—the sound had more volume behind it—but it didn't sound like an especially large animal either.

For a while, it seemed as though the sound was moving toward my tent. That certainly got my attention. But eventually it changed direction and seemed to move farther away. I listened, stayed aware of where it seemed to be going, and wasn't particularly concerned and fell back asleep.

Throughout the night, whenever I needed to leave the tent to go to the bathroom, I followed the same routine. Before stepping out, I looked around and scanned for movement. I took my bear spray with me, did what I needed to do, and returned to my tent.

Then came the owls. At around 11:30, I started hearing what sounded like three owls calling back and forth through the forest. They continued until somewhere around 2 a.m. At first, it was absolutely magical. The clarity and volume of their calls were astounding because virtually nothing else competed with them. No traffic. No people. No campground noise. Just darkness, forest, and these incredible owl calls traveling through the night.

Eventually, though, I remember lying there thinking: My goodness. This is LOUD.

Apparently the owls were having a party. And apparently nobody had informed them that I was trying to sleep. Eventually I managed to fall asleep despite my very enthusiastic neighbors.

Yo, Bear. I'm Here Too.

I woke up around 5 a.m. to go to the bathroom and climbed back into my tent afterward. Then, at 6 a.m., my phone alarm went off. I had forgotten to turn it off. Thank you, alarm, for announcing my presence to what I'm fairly certain was the entire forest. That's where the morning got particularly interesting.

Sometime between about 6 and 6:15, I heard what I believe may have been a bear moving through the campground. I can't know for certain what animal it was, but the first indication was a deep, rough woof or gruff sound.

Then silence.

Then I heard what sounded like a fairly substantial tree branch breaking.

Then another low, gruff sound.

I became very still inside my tent. My heart rate increased. My breathing became shallower.

But instead of panicking, I listened carefully—trying to determine where the sound was coming from and whether it was getting closer or moving away.

The third time I heard it, the sound seemed to have shifted in another direction.

Whatever was out there appeared to be moving through the campground, perhaps foraging, rather than taking any particular interest in me. That mattered. All of my food, toiletries, and scented items were safely stored in the bear box a good distance from my tent. I had my bear spray available. I knew what I would do if I needed it.

So while my awareness was definitely elevated, I wasn't overwhelmingly afraid. Had the animal started moving directly toward my tent, I'm sure my experience would have been different.

But instead it felt almost like a passing acknowledgment.Yo, I'm here.Yep. I'm here too. And then we both went about our mornings.

Coffee, Rain Clouds and the Ride Home

Once everything quieted down, I got up and made coffee. I was especially excited because I had brought coffee from Lachlan Morton, one of my favorite professional cyclists. He has a coffee company, Pretty Great Instant Coffee, and this was my first chance to bring some along on a bikepacking trip. It was delicious.

There was something especially satisfying about sitting alone in the forest after a night of rain, owls, and mysterious wildlife with a genuinely good cup of coffee.

But I didn't linger too long. The sky was growing increasingly threatening, and I could see weather moving in. With a heavily loaded bike and a long road descent ahead of me, I didn't particularly want to fly through wet corners while braking on a bike carrying all my gear.

So I packed up camp and got moving. Again, I got lucky. I avoided the rain. And by the time I descended toward Golden, the weather was beautiful. I was having so much fun riding that instead of heading directly home, I extended the ride. Why stop when you're having that much fun?

Four Months Makes a Difference

So what did I learn from returning to White Ranch?

Mostly, I realized how much my confidence and skills grew in just a few months. On my first trip in May, everything was new. I was learning how to pack the bike, how to set up camp, how my equipment worked, what I needed, what I didn't need, and what it actually felt like to sleep alone in the forest with my bike sitting outside my tent.

This time, those things weren't consuming my attention. I could simply experience the experience.

I appreciated that I had been diligent about wildlife practices. I stored everything with scent away from my tent. I had bear spray and felt confident that I could use it if I needed to. And whether the animal I heard that morning was a bear or something else, I was grateful to hear wildlife moving through the forest without it becoming an encounter.

I was grateful for the blue jay who greeted me.

I was grateful for the ridiculously loud owls who apparently decided to sing for me half the night.I was grateful for the rain hitting my tent.

And, as always, I really enjoyed using my equipment. That last part means more to me than it probably sounds like it should. Earlier this year, when I invested in all this bikepacking gear, I genuinely didn't know whether it would become something I loved or something I tried a few times and abandoned. I remember questioning whether I could even do it.

Since that first White Ranch trip, I've gone bikepacking repeatedly throughout the summer, sometimes once or twice a month. I've learned how my bike handles loaded. I've figured out how I like to pack. I've slept through heavy rain. I've navigated unfamiliar routes. I've made mistakes. I've changed things. I've gotten more comfortable being alone. And somewhere along the way, I stopped wondering whether I was a person who could go bikepacking. I just started going bikepacking. Returning to White Ranch made that difference surprisingly easy to see.

Same campground.

Same woman.

But definitely not the same bikepacker.

And yes, I'm already looking forward to the next trip.