The Great Divide Diaries: Conquering the Basin to Reach Colorado
A Cold Start in the Vast Emptiness
Waking up in the Great Basin is an experience. It’s just after 6 a.m. and the air is so cold I can see my breath. Getting out of the tent this morning was a genuine struggle, requiring multiple layers just to face the chill. But as I pack up, I watch the sun begin its slow creep across the desert floor, turning the grey landscape into something golden. I camped in a spot with a fire circle, a silent testament to the many travellers who have passed this way before me. There’s a profound sense of solitude out here, but it’s peaceful, not menacing. I decide an extra-large serving of porridge and a hot chocolate are in order. My water situation is a constant calculation. I’ve added a two-litre Camelbak to my setup, bringing my total to just over five litres. It has to be enough. There’s no other option. The road is rough gravel, not fast, but the good news is there’s no sign of rain, which means no risk of the dreaded ‘peanut butter mud’ that can stop a rider dead.
The Beauty and the Beast
As I pedal away from Diagnus Well, the sun is already climbing. The landscape is breathtaking. I spot pronghorns, impossibly elegant, dashing across the road in front of me. In these moments, any fatigue or grumpiness vanishes. It’s just pure, unadulterated wonder. This is, without a doubt, the most incredible thing I have ever done. But the beauty has a sharp edge. The thought of breaking down out here, with no one and nothing for miles, is a sobering one. The road surface is unpredictable; one minute it’s manageable, the next a huge indentation appears out of nowhere, sending my water bottle flying. I pass the nodding donkeys of the Bison Basin Oil Field, their rhythmic creaking the first mechanical sound I’ve heard all day. It’s a strange intrusion in this otherwise silent world. By 10 a.m., I’m only 17 miles in, and I’m already carefully monitoring my water against the mileage. The term ‘basin’ is misleading; it’s full of hills. This isn’t a gentle bowl, but a rumpled blanket of earth that demands effort for every mile.
Right now, being out here doing this is the most incredible thing I’ve ever done; it’s astounding.
The Relentless Sun and an Unexpected Haven
By early afternoon, the heat is becoming a serious opponent. It’s relentless. Eating becomes a chore; energy bars turn to ash in my mouth, but I know I have to force the calories down. The mountains in the distance look spectacular, a hazy purple promise of a different world, but here in the basin, there is no shade. Just sun. The nearest town is another 21 miles away, and even that’s not a proper town. My plan had been to aim for a reservoir, but the thought of more exposure to this sun is draining. Then comes the final challenge: a stretch of road that is more like a beach. The sand is so deep my bike wheels sink, and I can’t move. It just stops you dead. Pushing a fully loaded touring bike through deep sand is a uniquely soul-crushing experience. My energy evaporates.
Just as I’m starting to despair, I manage to get a phone signal and speak to someone in the small town of Bairoil. They tell me cyclists can stay at the local church. It adds ten miles to my day, but it’s a lifeline. Arriving there, hot, exhausted, and demoralized, is like finding a true oasis. The kindness is overwhelming. A shower, a kitchen full of food, and a comfortable bed. I meet two other cyclists, Elizabeth and Tim from Belgium, and we share a meal. The generosity of the Bairoil Community Baptist Church is a powerful reminder of the good in people.
Climbing Out and Looking Back
Leaving the church the next morning, I feel restored. The experience in the desert was thrilling, but also slightly strange. I’d found myself experiencing pareidolia, seeing human-like shapes in fence posts and rocks. It’s apparently a normal response when the brain is seeking patterns in the emptiness. As I start the long climb out of the basin, I reflect on the communities out here. They are spread across vast distances, yet the sense of mutual support is incredibly strong. It has to be.
Breaking down on any of these roads on a hot day or in the dead of winter could be a life-changing or life-ending event, and I suppose when you’re faced with that every day, it changes the way you think.
The climb is a beast. My strategy is simple: low gear, music on, and find a rhythm. Just keep the pedals turning. The basin doesn’t let you go easily; just when my GPS tells me I’ve cleared the last climb, another roller appears on the horizon. But eventually, I do make it to the top. I arrive in Rawlins, find a motel, and enjoy the simple luxury of a comfy chair. The next day, after mailing some excess gear home to save weight, I’m back on the road. The kindness continues. A family pulls over to offer me an apple and water. A little further on, I find a cooler left by the side of the road-a ‘water stash’ for cyclists and hikers, left by a local named Jim. It’s full of ice, drinks, and snacks. It feels like magic.
Into the Aspens and Towards the Springs
After days of open, arid plains, the landscape begins to change dramatically. I climb and climb, and suddenly I’m surrounded by trees. I’ve entered a forest of Aspens, and the air is filled with an amazing, earthy aroma. It’s a complete sensory shift. The wide-open spaces were magnificent in their own way, but this feels like coming home to something deeply comforting. I camp for the night among the trees with Elizabeth and Tim. The next day, I cross an invisible line. There’s no big sign, but I’m in Colorado. The state greets me with more hills, but also with the promise of Brush Mountain Lodge, a legendary stop for GDMBR riders. Kirsten, who runs it, is fantastic. The place is set up specifically for tired cyclists, with a bunkhouse, cabins, and an incredible breakfast. It’s another example of the incredible support network that exists along this route.
The wide open spaces were great, but it’s nice to be back in a forest with its amazing aroma; it’s totally different.
The final day into Steamboat Springs is the biggest yet. The climbing starts immediately and just doesn’t stop. The road deteriorates into mud and rocks. Eventually, it becomes so steep that the only option is to get off and walk, pushing the heavy bike for over a mile to the summit at nearly 10,000 feet. The downhill that follows is my reward, a sketchy but thrilling descent that gradually improves as I get closer to civilization. I stop at a small store in Clark for a celebratory ice cream and Gatorade, just before the sky opens up. The last 15 miles into Steamboat are a grind through wind and rain, but I’m riding with Tim now, taking turns at the front. We finally roll into town, soaked but triumphant.
Colorado. A new map. A new chapter begins.
