I am already seeing the dark ascension through the La Sals, hearing the trickle of Hidden Canyon’s streams, and feeling the oppressive sun of Rabbit Valley. I  am wondering how I will feel when I cross Highway 128, with no Dewey Bridge to greet me across the river.  Am I being overly sentimental about that bridge?

Of course I am.

The sand. The wind. And the black muddy river. All of them haunt my nightly thoughts. Those imaginations between sleep and wake. Acting as hypnotics, visuals of far off places and personal records lull me to sleep each night.

It simply is not spring, without the Kokopelli. How quickly it has become part of my ritual. An annual rite of passage. A classic effort, and a microcosm of everything that I love about mountain biking.

And again, I am waxing overly sentimental. But the unspoken words and the nearly tangible presence of the ancient ones in these wide open spaces bring out the dreamer in me. And so, in spite of myself, I am once again pining for the Kokopelli. 

And so am I planning to be at the trail head, my wheels pointing toward the desert, my mojo firmly in tact?

Of course I am.