Stagecoach 400 - Day 3 - Anza-Borrego State Park: Sand, Mud Caves, Fish Creek, and Borrego Springs
Date: March 11, 2024
65.4 Miles
2,459 Feet of Gain
Agua Caliente Campground to Dispersed Camp outside of Borrego Springs
I lay in bed comfortably most of the night, torn between equal parts excitement to show the wild beauty of Fish Creek to Janna tomorrow, and a feeling of dread and doubt about the Santa Ana winds we read about the day before. Today will be the beginning of the winds, building slowly, surely, and then crescendoing over the next few days when we plan to climb to Idyllwild with wind forecasts building from 20 mph, to 40 mph, to nearly 80 mph in gusts. I sleep soundly but awaken mid-night to the rustle of fabric as gusts start in. Janna and I wake up early, pre-dawn in the cold blur of blue night and yellow dawn, to pack. There's a lot of sand on the menu today which could slow us dramatically, in addition to the big miles we plan. I also want to get as far as possible up Coyote Canyon to dispersed camp as I know tomorrow is the true crux of the route.
We eat breakfast with just fleece jackets; it's comfortable and quiet. The mountains warm with sunrise colors. We push off on water-loaded bikes from our campsite just as sun slips forward and steals a chance to shine across the broadside peaks. I feel alive, all buzzing with excitement for the otherworldliness of the arid bisection ahead - a crossing of the Anza-Borrego Desert through canyon and plain. I hit pavement and slip into a zone of feeling alive as I stare at the sun climbing in the east to my fore. It's been a good winter and I swivel my head to take in the greenness of plants all vibrant and singular along the spread of sand. This section of pavement extends for several miles across the Carrizo Plain, fronted on both sides by Mojave scenery including ocotillo, yucca, and purple blooms of verbena. When Dan and I rode down Fish Creek just a year ago on the Fully Anza-Borrego after a record-breaking winter snowpack, there was an utter superbloom of unimaginable proportions that painted the sands purple and yellow with petals. This year had a more typical winter snowfall - so the blooms are here although not as widespread. I'm aching to see more though, and smile as Janna and I turn onto the start of sand.
The pedaling continues for a mile until we stop to shed our wind jackets. The day is calm and worries about the Santa Ana winds subside - I know they're coming, but we'll make this sandy crossing sans them. The sand is firm from recent precipitation, making it feel effortless for us to down the roads. It smooth, easy, and fun as Janna and I hit the intersection with Vallecito Creek. Here, the route joins a broad desert wash with multiple jeep tread lines coursing down the heart of it. The banks are edged and elevated next to us where drapery of violet verbenas hang their green vines and flowers down. The pedaling feels ridiculously easy - even firmer than when Dan and I had rode this area last year. There's literally no traffic either - absolutely none. Last year was choked with vehicles out on holiday seeking blooms - this year is quiet desert for just Janna and I. The mouth of the Arroyo Tapiado funnels up in front of us as sloping peaks of rock and silt take us into their folds.
I'm excited again for the chance to show Janna the famous Mud Caves. We pull up to them as sun hits perpendicular to the slopes making them a wash-yellow cake hue as we park our bikes laterally to their entrance. We hike into the silty Mud Caves and poke around the crevices and slots before deciding to get moving again. Again, there are no cars. I keep flashing back to last year when Dan and I rode amid caravans 10+ vehicles thick as overlanders moved in droves through these box canyons. Now, it's just Janna and I dust-washed with wandering eyes tracing every unique surface of geology. The Stagecoach 400 meanders in and out of arid oxbows as the creek bed winds through miles of silt and stone. Large massifs of wall run adjacent to our riding. Its spectacular to see bouts of crossbedding as the hallways box up and then widen out on West Mesa. Here, they fall back into tumbling hills as the sand gets deeper and we finally need to hike-a-bike a bit. Janna and I fall into a rhythm of pedaling and hiking over the next hour or two as we leave the wash to climb up on West Mesa doubletrack that swerves among large stands of ocotillos. The day starts to feel earnestly hot at this point, so I reapply sunscreen and feel thankful for a high spread of wispy clouds that blanket a sunshield up in the troposphere.
The sign for Diablo Drop appears. Last year when Dan and I rode through this area, a mass gathering of hardcore desert motorists had gathered at Diablo Drop - a cut off East Mesa that drops in a rocky, slick dusty, rolling, and rocky descent down to Fish Creek Wash; riding it successfully seemed a badge of honor - even more-so going up it. The stoke was high as we watched motorists with heavy wheels, hydraulics, and grit rev and dance their way up and down the technical incline. Today, Janna and I pull up to silence, seemingly alone in the Anza-Borrego Desert. It's been hours with us riding, nary a car to be seen since leaving Agua Caliente. The decision for us both is clear: we walk our bikes down the ridiculous decline. The bottom of Diablo Drop is studded with white primrose all cream amid beige. Fish Creek boxes up before spilling us along miles of the real thick sand - slow pedaling, quads rustling, and hands gripping handlebars straight along lines we attempt to cut through the soft grit.
The first vehicle in hours appears - a truck heading up against our direction of travel. The scenery along Fish Creek is stark: white high clouds above with faded blue-jean horizons all stretched thin across a bowl of desert sand, large smooth white boulders, and naked silt walls rising in a corridor occasionally punctuated by purple vines of verbena blooms. It's glorious to me. There's some big stretches of really loose substrate and I just get off and hike-a-bike, drinking in the beauty. It's getting on towards noon, and we ultimately are hoping to be at Ocotillo Wells no later than 1 pm for some food before a big push to Borrego Springs for dinner. There's speed now spelling in our muscles moving us forward.
And then ahead, Fish Creek Wash boxes up and enters one of the most iconic portions of the Stagecoach 400 as the route plunges into a canyon of the Split Mountains. Walls of rock come pouring up around us, reaching skyward amid shelves of split stratigraphy. Janna is wowed by it, which I love about being with someone in the backcountry: that moment they see a place for the first time and have nothing but raw awe. What keeps playing in my head is the absolute lack of vehicles compared to when I rode this before. Not a single one comes in either direction leaving the riding through Fish Creek Canyon just unimpeded. But somewhere near the exit on the north end of Fish Creek, just past the primitive camping area, horrendous and stagnation-causing washboard rises up. We both slow to a crawl. I'm just aching for pavement now. Sand is challenge and escorts you into beautiful places of the desert, but I enjoy the pace of change and want nothing more than to reach some firmament. Several trucks come driving up again our grain. We slowly catch up to an e-biker whose troubles along the rock, sand, and deep-cut washboard are equal to our own, slowing him a crawl. We all slowly move to the exit, single file, spread out, with heads down. My butt is taking a hammer from the washboard, so I simply get off and walk for good bits. Janna and I cross out of the boundary of Anza-Borrego Desert State Park and hit the paved intersection. It is pure joy.
The miles come easy and fast before the curve and straightaway to Ocotillo Wells. As soon as we turn north and leave the profile of the desert mountains, a wallop of wind comes on hard as a sidewind. It's the beginning of Santa Ana currents and promises of things to come.
We battle the crosswind, bike at angles, and pedal surely to Ocotillo Wells. The rising heat of the midday is swelling and I'm grateful for the remnant cloud cover over head. The two of us reach the Iron Door Restaurant just after noon and are disappointed to find it closed; no matter - we grab seats at the outdoor picnic tables and eat the snacks we have plenty of. It's also good to sit in the shade of the building that seems to also be cutting the wind. I pull up the route on RWGPS and note that we have a turn up ahead onto the shoulder of paved Highway 87. Unfortunately, the wind only seems to be gaining strength and coming perfectly west - the direction we're about to go. Weather reports indicate a constant 15-20 mph headwind for us with 25-30 mph gusts. There are 19 miles ahead of us until a proper meal and resupply at Borrego Springs - and we reason the smoothness of pavement will help to offset the wind to come. But are wrong.
As soon as we turn onto the highway, the wind hits us at 20 mph undeterred speeds across the broad exposed plains of Lower Borrego Valley. It's a weird play of temperature comfort for me. The headwind is cold, but the sun cooks, such that my face is frozen but my back sweats. I laugh a bunch at this and take in the views of the expansive desert around us. Janna takes the rear so I can cut a draft. But that wind is relentless. At one point, 600 feet of gain and 6 miles takes us nearly 2 hours to do on pavement. The gusts are wind are so intense that I repeatedly get knocked off my bike; I squat on the side of the road for breaks. The whipping sound of air gushing past my ears is deafening, and I develop a slight headache from it. That convective interaction is also sucking water from my body, and I'm just so perpetually thirsty. I take few photos over the nearly five total hours it takes us to cover 19 miles between Ocotillo Wells and Borrego Springs in the headwind onslaught. Relentless, nightmarish wind. But it's a harbinger of more intense gales to come tomorrow.
When we get close enough to Borrego Springs to cross its city limits sign, we take one last break, amazed that it's nearly 5 pm. Urgency catches my breath as I realize we still need to grab dinner, a resupply, and bike miles outside the city to camp tonight. I accept we'll arrive this evening for rest well after dark. Beside us, in the golden sun of afternoon, stand the distant metalwork statues famous for this area. But the drive to get to town and get to camp means we agree to skip them today. We pull up to downtown Borrego Springs and head immediately for Los Jilberto's Taco Shop by 5:30. We both grab sizeable burritos and chips to replenish our salts and calories. Then, we beeline it over to Center Market for a resupply until Idyllwild. I grab several Gatorades and chug them after sweating and losing water all day. We sit in the dimming parking lot of spring evening as the wind continues to banter. It's now cold and we wear wind jackets while we repack and restock our supplies. An employee comes out from the store to chat with us and where we're riding. The temperatures are dropping and the wind continues to increase. That combo of cold and gusts zeros my focus in on getting to camp - and we push off into the gathering twilight.
The Stagecoach 400 takes pavement north out of town past small homes that transition to ranches and farms. It's not night-black and only our headlights provide illumination. A car pulls up behind us and slowly follows, shining its headlights. It doesn't pass, and I get a keen sense of worry. Then it speeds past us, turns around, and passes us going the way it came. I pedal faster. So does Janna. The maps indicate we have crossed the boundary from private land to public lands once more in Anza-Borrego Desert State Park. But I keep looking in my mirror for headlights in the dark to see if that car will return. We're heading uphill and the fear of that car encounter along with elevation gain means we both shed our layers. It doesn't return, but I don't truly feel relaxed until we the pavement becomes dirt and we pass several empty dispersed camping spots close to town. I always sleep well when I feel like I'm camped away from the potential eyes of others; no sight no fright. We turn slightly west and the wind is smacking us to a crawl once more.
It's nearly 9 pm now. We're far enough into Coyote Canyon that I feel comfortable looking for a place to camp. The problem is that every time we round some vegetation in the dark and see a great windbreak of rocks and a flat spot for a tent, a car or RV is already taking the spot. So the two of us keep riding. The math of campsite selection in the dark desert becomes a wager of whether we are passing workable spots when there might not be any good ones ahead. My headlight shines into a wash to on my right. I hope off and start walking up in, identifying a good place hunkered down among some vegetation to cut the wind. We start setting up the X-mid but the stakes and tent keep getting ripped from the ground by intense gusts of wind. After three attempts in three different spots, I stuff the whole shelter back in my panniers and we walk with our bikes down the dirt road in the dark. I see a flat spot next to a "Closed to Motor Vehicles" sign just tucked next to a foothill of rock. The ground is firm and the adjoining rock REALLY cuts the wind. I get the tent up spend some time drawing extra cord to the ground to make it windproof for the night. It's now 10 pm. We both get inside, completely spent and utterly exhausted, having been moving for nearly 16 hours. The wind slams hard against the shelter, but the superb design of the Durston X-mid coupled with some choice site selection on this firm level ground means only the shake of the silpolyester tarp impinges. All else feels comfortable and enjoyable. Janna and I both agree to wake up before dawn tomorrow for the crux of the route, the worst of the Santa Ana winds predicted to come, and the most elevation gain of the trip. I do some stretches, and Janna is asleep before I'm finished.
