“Come ride this secret trail with me” is not a phrase one often hears on Colorado’s Front Range. With a population pushing past five million, the area stretching from Pueblo, CO, north to Cheyenne, WY has few secrets left for mountain bikers. Upon hearing of this clandestine singletrack, my silent disbelief must have been audible through the phone. “Trust me,” my friend said, “you’re in for a surprise.”

Two days later, I slow my car to a stop at a nondescript pull off, a few miles down a dirt road, somewhere between Denver and Fort Collins. My phone has lost service, but the “severe weather” alert I received on my drive up is still showing. As if this ride didn’t need any more drama…

With the sky starting to spit, we begin our ride up a double track that parallels a small stream. There are aspens groves; the columbines are in bloom. The fading green of summer has yet to reach these altitudes.

The jeep trail hooks right, but we go left, switchbacking our way up through the forest on tacky singletrack. There are glimpses of northern Colorado’s most prominent fourteener, it’s flanks holding back the impending storm.

Making our way to the eastern flank of the mountain, the forest thins, but does not end. There are views of the horizon to the east as we continue to climb. The trail is rough, yet flowy; the grade challenging, but manageable. There is purpose to its direction and it’s clear that amateurs were not involved in its construction.

“So when do I get my surprise?” I shout between labored breaths. “What goes up, must come down!” is hollered back at me, “Stop here.” “Where?” I ask, “The trail goes left.” “But we’re going right,” my friend says. A secret turn off within a secret trail? This bodes well.

We roll in off the side of a small boulder, foreshadowing things to come. Before we know it, the trail drops off the face of the earth, cascading down through a series of exposed rock slabs, each steeper and more exposed than the last. I can smell my brake pads as I shift my weight further over the rear wheel.

With an audible thud, my suspension bottoms out as my tires transition from rock back to dirt. All of our efforts to climb to the top of the mountain were lost in a matter of minutes, such was the precipitous pitch of the descent.

Pausing for a moment to let our adrenaline drop, I reflect on the effort of the trailbuilders to construct this hidden track. I can only hope that its riders will in-turn respect this effort with discretion. Not every ride needs geotracking. Sometimes the story is superior to the stats.

I take another drink; I catch my breath. After a moment my friend raises an eyebrow and asks, “another lap?” “Definitely.”