Date: March 15, 2024
67.7 Miles
4,158 Feet of Gain
Lake Henshaw Resort to Del Mar, CA

I snuggle deep into my quilt during the night. I awake multiple times to the patter and then sheeting of precipitation shedding from the winter storm down on our shelter. Even a little thunder. Each time, I just snuggle into a deeper sleep and pass the hours away. Morning comes with a faded glimmer. Janna's up before me to use the restroom. She comes rushing back into the shelter to wake me up and says all the hillsides are caked in snow. I throw on my puffy and race out of the shelter to go see for myself. I walk to the front of the resort entrance and stare at an amalgamation of parting clouds, the entrails of the winter fury, sagging over the hills and peaks of the Beauty Mountain Wilderness. In their clearing I can see the mountains caked in snow. Everything we had ridden through yesterday between Anza and here is covered in white. It looks like the snowline ends about 100 feet above our current elevation below Black Mountain. Had we camped any higher up last night, we'd be waking up to several inches on our tent. I look up the weather and see Idyllwild got nearly 6 inches of snow last night, with another 5 inches predicted to fall starting today. I mentally note how lucky we were to get out of there when we did or we'd be snowed in.

After the large elevation gain and miles of yesterday, we both move a little more slowly this morning. The urgency we felt to escape the storm yesterday has waned. We feel that we are in the clear. Today we will make the ocean and its Pacific warmth. Let's move with strength but not so much haste. We both straggle around, ultimately agreeing to eat a hot breakfast at the Lake Henshaw Resort Restaurant. We're waiting for them to open at 7 am. There is no rush until then as everything is soaking wet and needs shaken of droplets. Once packed, the two of us wheel our bikes around to the front to find the restaurant unexplainably closed. Disappointed, we head into the campground general store to assemble some snacks as breakfast. Right when we are at the point of paying, the sign flips next door indicating the restaurant has opened. I quickly put all the snacks back and head next door with Janna for a proper hot meal of breakfast burritos and pancakes plus hot chocolate. I look out the windows as the sulking cloud masses still hanging over the surrounding mountains. They drift and reveal the striations of snowfall up high. Now that I'm warm and fed, I'm itching to get going.

The two of us don multiple layers of clothing and head back out into the 30 degree temps to start a steep climb up the side of Black Mountain on Mesa Grande Road. My legs feel like jelly this morning. This weakness is prevalent enough that I decide to push my bike up most of the climb; this saves my knee and honestly, I feel faster on foot. The steep climb gets me sweating and shedding layers. It also carries the two of us by quickly-melting patches of snow. This uphill pavement ride continues for several miles as we crest the top amid a spread of pastures and farmland punctuated by oak. It's cool, but not too much, and the humidity has my sunglasses fogging over. But blue skies keep breaking through the clouds as we turn right onto unpaved Black Canyon Road. I have fond memories of this section and its spectacular beauty set amid a large chapparal-dotted canyon with creek striking the middle.

We pass through the overarching eaves of several large oak casting shade as farmland gives way to rutted gorge. I turn a bend to find Janna stopped, just gazing out over Black Canyon. The dirt road drops down into the canyon keeping above and paralleling the central creek. The rain and snow have provided some needed water for the high desert. In return, it is erupting into various shades of neon green and olive as striking new grass growth and tree buds pocket everywhere. Plus, it's all downhill; so we oblige by standing on our pedals and coasting through the beauty. Miles and miles flow by beneath our wheels as we stop to gaze up at the ridgelines and across the hillsides. So much spring green energizes us both. I'm personally renewed and find new strength to pedal hard and laugh. The Stagecoach 400 takes us down to the Santa Ysabel Creek where we turn off the well-maintained dirt road onto some rough and rugged dirt that crosses the creek and climbs up an adjoining hill. The Upper Santa Ysabel Road continues northeast on a windy and narrow track that ascends the topographic lines of Black Mountain's southwestern flank. It jolts up and down punchy small climbs that I end up hike-a-biking a good chunk of. But the overlooks amid the lefthand dropoffs are spectacular. The road takes us through thickets of oak-scrub along riparian corridors, climbs up more chapparal escarpments, and finally rolls down as chunky and eroded doubletrack off the mountain towards Pamo Road.

I'm pretty excited for this next section as we swing a left onto a strip of singletrack to start the Coast to Crest Trail. This trail, still being constructed as a work-in-progress, stretches from the highlands of interior southwest CA to San Diego at the shore. When I rode the Stagecoach 400 two years ago, I found it an exciting and beautiful way to navigate from the mountains to the sea. This time looks just as beautiful as the trail meanders through neon green grasses under a wet sky. The area just drips of springtime. Janna loves the singletrack here in the Pamo Valley, and we relish what we ride of it before joining pavement. The climb up Pamo Road becomes as steep and unrelenting as I remember. It's the only pavement along the route I literally have to get off my bike and push up. It's so steep that I simply catch Janna as she is pedaling on her lowest gear by walking by. That prompts her to get off too.

We pedal down pavement through rural neighborhoods before merging onto the shoulder of HWY 78. I remember how vehicle-heavy and stressful the next 7 miles are. We pull over, put on our safety vests, and turn on our back flashing lights. I've dreaded riding this section again and feel the same sense of urgency I felt the first time I rode it: Get it done as quickly as possible to reduce the likelihood of getting hit by a car. We pull out and are greeted with a shoulder that quickly thins. The highway is downhill, and we pedal fast. The traffic is thick in both directions and thick with semis and trucks. I'm locked-in, focused on getting through safely. Suddenly, the highways turns into Clevenger Canyon and the road narrows up with a guardrail and absolutely no shoulder. It's two lanes in either direction with what feels like big-city traffic. We're both tense pushing hard. We swing into a pull-out where the guardrail gives and let a dense swath of traffic passes us. Janna and I jump back on our bikes and finish the last miles descending down to the San Pasqual Valley to join the Coast to Crest Trail again. As we take a left off the highway into the trailhead parking area, a massive wave of relief hits us both. We're safe and back on dirt. The two of us take a break, eat some snacks, use the restrooms, and apply more chamois balm. Rested, it's time to go. We pedal down the singletrack that starts among riparian thickets before swinging left towards the foothills and ultimately flitting through the narrow property boundaries of ranches and farms.

The singletrack climbs into the hills and becomes curvy, bendy, and technical in spots. Janna really enjoys it as a change-up from what we have been riding. But eventually, it descends and enters a broad flood-zone plain thick with grasses and wetlands. The sun is out strong now, and we are both sweating. The humidity is thick and palpable. After miles of flat riding, we see a sudden surge in other trail users. And with that, the trail wraps into a suburb of sprawling Escondido. The Stagecoach 400/Coast to Crest Trail merges with paved multi-use greenway that wraps through the most-urban part of the route we've experienced in days. It's a fantastic opportunity for eating and resupply, but we decide to push ahead. We pass under I-15 and immediately parallel a massive wetland chapparal-riparian strip that gives way to a the large reservoir of Lake Hodges. The route is back on dirt singletrack heading along the San Dieguito River Trail as it strikes across hillsides above the reservoir and dam and through thickets of cacti. The trail wraps southward along a lobe of Lake Hodges through a massive network of San Diego Country bike trails. It's gorgeous out, and we commit to riding all the singletrack even though pavement immediately parallels our riding. Two day-mountain bikers keep trading spots with us as we hopscotch along the shorelines and eventually climb to Lake Hodges Dam. We talk to the two for a bit when they see our packed rigs, and we ride with them for the next couple of miles. But we've got miles to go still, so we say goodbye and pump ahead.

Janna and I pedal into the San Dieguito River Park among woody thickets and grassy hillsides. Here, the trail begins to slide through parcels of public access among large suburban homes that have been built up around it. We weave and push our bikes with some hike-a-bike down sections of the singletrack that are absolutely eroded and washed out. The two of us climb down and up a famous set of constructed sharp switchbacks with railings along the now-joined Santa Fe Valley Trail. I crank it to the top and wait for Janna. But as I'm nearing the top of the last climb, my phone's emergency alarm begins to blare. I pull it out and see a significant weather advisory is being set for our area. A powerful thunderstorm cell is set to bear down with rain, hail, winds, and lightning. It is suggested everyone stay indoors and be prepared for falling trees and other debris. I'm dumbstruck because there are blue skies around us. I make for the top of the climb and turn back to look behind us.

Dear god. There is a black-gray cell of momentous proportions coming our direction, immediately to our tail. The clouds are so dark that they obscure the distant landscape like a veil of evening. And it's kicking out massive bolts of lightning flying everywhere. Janna reaches the top and I direct her to turn around.

"Shit!" she yells. We hastily agree to move as fast as possible. I'm thinking back to the section ahead from two years ago and how it's low in a flood zone and then high near metal powerlines - all less than ideal given the storm coming. We calculate, based on the radar, that we have 20 minutes before it'll be on us.

"We need to cover as many miles as possible in the next 20 minutes to get to someplace to shelter," I say. With that, it's downhill on broken singletrack through Lusardi Creek Country Preserve towards blue skies and green grass ahead while a monster of a storm licks our heels. I remember an upcoming significant, unavoidable creek crossing from years ago that's playing a sense of concern in my head. But I don't see it. I convince myself it's drier this year and unlikely to be up ahead. We round corners of dense grasses along Lusardi Creek, spook several deer, and pedal around a massive tarantula on the trail. Then, we turn one last corner, and I see the stream crossing. No way around it but to go through it. I don't even hesitate or try to mess with the poorly spaced and slippery stones. I hoist my entire bikepacking rig over my shoulder and plunge right in with my shoes on, sloshing knee-high across. Janna tries to navigate the stones for dry feet but ultimately just also wades across with her bike. There's no time to spend drying gear at a stream with the storm outflows whipping around us about to pour. We jump on the bikes with wet shoes and push off. Now, we're pedaling up an exposed hillside amid giant metal powerlines while lightning starts streaking overhead. The darkness of the storm is all foreboding as it gathers behind us in a dark curtain about to slam. And with another half-mile of pedaling, we arrive at paved San Dieguito Road that aims to carry us on buttery smooth pavement with an excellent bike lane into the heart of Rancho Santa Fe.

It's downhill to the ocean from here, and we intend to use that to our advantage to outpace the storm which has begun to sprinkle amid violent gusts of high-powered wind. We're on the outskirts of rurality merging with urbanity. Janna quickly shouts at me, "Let's stop at the first place we think we want to eat dinner - that way we can get food and get inside someplace safe from the storm." I quickly agree as we pedal hard, turning a corner and finding our first palm trees silhouetted against a backlit sky that is blue and cloud. Behind us wraps the premature evening brought on by rain. We coast by a shopping center parking lot and see Leucadia Pizzeria in Rancho Santa Fe; in unspoken agreement, we turn hard into the parking lot and make for the restaurant. We find a place with a slight overhang from the rain to park our bikes safely within-sight of the pizzeria's windows. I charge inside right behind Janna as the rain begins to gush and whip. We're quickly seated to a booth with a front-row show to a slamming mix of lightning, horizontal spray, and winds that blow debris across the parking lot. Our pizzas and salads arrive to immense satisfaction: we've covered the miles, beat the storm, and got some amazing dinner. All of this is accomplished before night.

The storm rages on but paces with our meal. As soon as we finish eating, the rain lets up. But night is quickly on us for real. I pay while Janna and I don raingear for the worst of the lazing pools across every surface. Before coming out, we had talked about whether we really wanted to bike north to South Carlsbad State Beach - our intended camping spot several miles off-route. After the rain, with the threat of more storms tonight in the forecast, we both agreed to just pay for a hotel along the urban coast, on-route, and nearby. We stick to the Stagecoach 400 which meanders along protected estuaries on sandy singletrack marsh before it dead-ends at closed trail construction. It's pitch black out, accentuated by the storm clouds overhead muting all starlight. We bike down the side of road in the dark, but decide to just pull over and check our maps to make sure we are heading to an area with lodging. Except, we happen to pull over near the drive of some property where a car comes flying out towards us with headlights on. Quickly, we pedal away while someone jumps out waving a phone.

We just stick to bike lanes and head west knowing that we'll hit the shoreline. When we do, we turn south and pass some possible options for lodging that turn out to be too expensive and too swanky for two dirty bikepackers. So we head south along the PCH - road of our memories. It takes us into Del Mar just north of Torrey Pines where we find the relatively more affordable Best Western Premier Hotel Del Mar, which has no concerns about letting two muddy bikepackers and their bikes into a room for the night. It's perfect. We get inside, undress, take long luxurious hot showers, and then pass out for our last night on the Stagecoach 400.