Ever since my son Sage moved to Colorado three years ago, I’ve tried to make the most of my visits to see him by exploring the state on two wheels. I’ve studied heat maps, consulted websites, and reached out to cyclists for suggestions—and it was in doing so that I became acquainted with a particular mountain pass named Rollins.

This high-elevation, veritable wall of a mountain crossing, separating the Great Plains to the east from the deep canyons and high desert to the west, became something of an obsession. And why the fascination? In terms of bare stats, Rollins Pass is impressive enough at 3,559 metres or, given its location, a whole 11,676 feet tall. But this crossing isn’t just about numbers. Rather, it’s Rollins’ temperament, which is unusually wild and hardy, in part because it’s closed to motorised vehicles.

My first crossing of Rollins Pass was a windy, sleety, and blustery affair. Squint your eyes, and you could almost be toiling your way up and over a formidable Andean abra in deepest Peru.

The region is laced with layers of human history, too. It traces the former roadbed of the daring but short-lived Denver and Salt Lake Railway—for which trains had to be fitted with steam-powered rotary snow plows in the winter—culminating in a series of woodworm-pocked and rickety trestle bridges, remnants of this brief chapter in its diverse past—one that’s complete with a brief but testing hike-a-bike around a now barricaded train tunnel.

As for its Native American roots, it’s the high point of a 6,000-year-old hunting ground sacred to the Ute and Arapaho Native American tribes and has been a thoroughfare for human and animal migration for millennia. It crosses the Continental Divide, separating North America’s watersheds, lending it additional gravitas. And most surprising, all this rugged goodness is just 45 miles, as the bald eagle flies, from the metropolis of Denver and its 3,000,000 inhabitants.

My second time riding Rollins, along with Emma and our fluffy-tailed visitor.

So yes, Rollins Pass is storied and epic, and I’ve already ridden it twice since Sage moved to the area. Once was a solo outing when I made it to the fabled summit plaque, only to race back as a storm approached. The next time was with Emma, when we rode up and over the pass on the cusp of a Coloradan winter, when we cosied up in our sleeping bags, saw a huge moose on the horizon, and had a fluffy fox visit our campsite.

I was entranced by Rollins, which is probably why it didn’t take long for me to begin plotting a trip over it with Sage. Not that I live in Colorado or even the US, but a crossing of Rollins Pass feels like a rite of passage for anyone living in this state, like my son. I pictured it as the kind of character-building undertaking that could well become a reference point in Sage’s life—or at least, his cycling life—and help garner an appreciation for his wonderful backyard. Maybe, when he’s my age, he’d look up at the pass and say, “I did that with my dad when I was 13 years old.”

Sage the Teenager.

My last bike trip with Sage was in France last year, through the Gorges du Verdon, and while it ranks as one of his favourites for majestic views and refreshing river swimming spots, the heat and rolling terrain took their toll. So, when Sage suggested we visit a Coloradan summer bike park for our next visit, a plan soon hatched in my mind for us to do both—experience a fun form of mountain biking that would be new to us both and undertake a real journey to get there. After all, he’s 13 now, and I get it. Why sweat your way up endless climbs in your school holiday when you can enjoy infinite miles of sweet, gravity-fed singletrack!?

It was a tough first afternoon, and we were glad to kick back with a movie in the Circus Tent.

In keeping with this theme, our first day began with a bus ride from Boulder to Nederland, which gained us 900 metres of free elevation, depositing us off at 2,500 metres. Nederland is as magical as it sounds, old-worldly and a little sleepy in character, with an excellent coffee shop and a bike shop to top up our tyre sealant. We started late in the day, our intention simply to make it the first 20 kilometres to Jenny Creek, where we’d earmarked a camping spot for the night. Despite the modest distance, it’s not to say it was a particularly gentle introduction for Sage, especially as he was on a borrowed bike—Emma’s Esker Japhy—and hadn’t had a chance to ride since our trip to France.

Pavement gave way to dirt, and then we were winding through trails, gliding through dense forests of lodgepole pine and aspen groves between high-alpine meadows. Our first afternoon included a steep, loose, and stony push, savage in the mid-June heat and one I’d somehow forgotten about, along with 640 metres of climbing. But we made it, by hook or by crook, and we pitched our roomy shelter while Sage chomped on celebratory gummy worms, his brow beaded with summer sweat.

Jenny Creek was a watery, slippery little trail.

Ahead lay Rollins Pass, which we got stuck into early the next morning. The 4×4 trail that we were first following, tracing Jenny Creek, was loose and slippery, until it connected us with the unpaved Rollins Pass Road, which winds its way between the town of Rollinsville and Rollins Pass itself. Soon, pines dwindled in number, and the road emerged into the ethereal Land Above Treeline—covered with rocky shards, studded with lakes, and infused with crisp, clear, high-elevation light. The surface became stone-encrusted, making pedalling harder work, so we stopped for a lunchtime picnic at Yankee Doodle Lake, rolling out our bandana and adorning it with tortilla chips, summer sausage, and cheese, before pushing on, often literally, off our bikes and our heads down.

From Yankee Doodle Lake, we pushed or rode our bikes, the speed similar.

Beyond the lake, the scenery opens up further with views towards distant peaks, and Rollins Pass Road drapes itself languidly across the mountainside, before ending abruptly at a now-closed railway tunnel. For the cyclist, this means turning onto a steep hike-a-bike trail to the side, along which we took turns pushing each other’s bikes. The scale of the landscape here was breathtaking, high, and exposed. Lichen-speckled rocks studded the earth, a faint trail weaving sinuously between them. The wind picked up too, turning our final crossing of the fabled railway trestles a blustery affair. Dutifully, Sage posed for me at the wooden marker so I could proudly snap his portrait, Rough-Stuff Fellowship style.

Another loose and scrambling push introduced us to the Land Above Treeline.

This was the third time I’d stood atop this mighty Rocky Mountain pass, and with each visit, I’m enamoured by it further. Rollins Pass is as rugged as they come, probably down to its closed tunnel and wobbly trestles that keep motor traffic at bay, sparing it the noisy, dusty ATVs and 4x4s so commonly seen at city-fringe trailheads. Like my first trip, it was too windy to linger long, so over the crest we rode, quickly freewheeling down past Corona, Pumphouse, and Deadman’s lakes. Instead of following the road down further, we then took a sharp turn down a steep and rowdy trail, saddles dropped, weaving between the tall pines that had appeared once more, until we reached a camping spot by a river, another 650 metres of climbing to our names.

Having already broken my toe while riding, I took extra care down this trail.

With that, the hard work to Winter Park was mostly over. Despite the name, a technical cross-country trail called Broken Thumb fed us safely and joyously almost all the way down into this small mountain resort town. But not before we stopped to chat to a fellow mountain biker who, on hearing about our plans, gifted us passes to the bike park we’d come to ride. Thank you, Jen!

The generosity didn’t end there. In Winter Park, I popped into San Util Design, a maker of bikepacking gear I’ve long admired. Not only did Adam make us feel incredibly welcome in his sewing shop, but he also gave us all the trail beta we could possibly need. Best still for Sage, he arranged a loaner carbon Kona Process 134, courtesy of his girlfriend, along with a set of knee pads. Thank you, Adam!

And, that very same day, just as we were picnicking after a Safeway resupply, a lady on an e-cargo bike, accompanied by her daughter and their dog, offered us two probiotic drinks from their cooler. Thank you, Lady and your entourage!

Throwing some shapes on the Kona Process 134…

Suffice to say, our next two days in Trestle Park rank amongst Sage’s all-time riding favourites. We took full advantage of the gondola and chairlifts, cramming in as much riding as we could. On our second day, we plummeted down eight runs and Adam, a far better rider than I am, joined us for the first few. From his Santa Cruz Bronson, he offered Sage tips on how best to rail berms and hit drops, advice that was assimilated quickly.

Between runs, we loaded our bikes on the chairlift, chatting with other riders, sharing our adventures, and getting pointers for which trail to ride next… until closing time.

In fact, despite not having a chance to ride his own bike in nearly a year—a rigid Surly Bridge Club—Sage took to the park like a natural. Each run felt a little faster than the one before, with berms taken more bravely or doubles landed more cleanly. Either Sage chased me down the trail, riding so confidently that there was rarely the need to turn my head and double-check if he was okay, or he took the lead and I chased him.

A Jones LWB, jump seat, 3.25 tyres, and a basket… not the usual choice for a bike park. But I still had a lot of fun!

And I really did. I chalked some of the closeness in our speeds up to my rigid steel Jones being pitted against his carbon full-squish. But truth be told, Sage was riding so smoothly that we could well have been competing for Gilbert KOMs regardless of the bike I was riding. And with that thought, I felt a heart-opening dad moment of unparalleled happiness. There I was, in a bike park we’d reached by pedal power, mountain biking with my son. Racing down the trail in a way we’d never done before together. And on Father’s Day, no less.

Adam joined us for the morning, and Sage kicked back at the hotel in the afternoon, before getting down to some sock scrubbing.

That evening, Emma treated us to a night in a hotel—we’d camped every night thus far—and we rounded off our day with a platter of Mexican food, a welcome change from our usual menu of Idaho’s finest dehydrated potatoes. For dessert, we ate gelato at Charlie’s Frozen Treat Shop, as recommended by a mother and daughter we’d met on the chairlift, before retiring to a movie in the comfort of our hotel.

Thank you, Adam, you elevated our trip no end!

Sadly, we had to bid farewell to Winter Park the next day and ascend once more into the realm of Rollins, at least after a teenager’s lie-in for Sage, and a Minecraft session with his Boulder buddies. Thankfully, the grade was gentle, and to temper the heat, we stopped by streams, snacking on apples, cheese and onion crisps, and gummy worms, of course. I’d be fibbing if I said that Sage was thrilled to be back in the climbing seat again, but despite the road being “a bit of a grind,” as he put it, he did suggest we keep riding to a camping spot further than we’d planned.

It was the same pad I’d used with Emma the year before, and once we’d pitched our colourful Megamid, we kicked back and had dinner. The sunset was spectacular, and as if on cue, the very same fox I’d seen sauntered over, checked us out, and wandered off again.

Same fox? Scroll back and decide! Plus, hot choc campout and a morning challenge. How best to wake up a teenager?

Sage’s desire for extra climbing metres was mostly strategic. Evening route analysis is a part of our post-ride activities, and after studying the map, he was optimistic that a bigger ride that day would mean our last would be mostly easy descent. Unfortunately, I’d chosen a return route that funneled us down a series of rather burly trails, with an unremembered hike-a-bike in between. Thanks to his newly sharpened park skills, Sage aced the rough and tumble Boulder Wagon Road, a spectacular show of babyhead rocks and loose scree that plummeted off the pass top.

”How far is it?” Sage asked for the umpteenth time. “We’re as close as we can be, without actually being there”, I promised.

But the hike-a-bike was an awkward one and dropping down to Jenny Creek again was tough for us both, our tired bodies bouncing down puddly gullies and rock gardens. We did ride almost all of it, along with the West Magnolia trails that followed, and whilst I couldn’t have thought of a more fitting swansong to Rollins, it was hardly the easy last day Sage had envisaged. When the numbers revealed themselves, we saw that we’d descended 1,200 metres… but we also climbed over 600!

Our last day was supposed to be an easy descent…

Nederland High School marked the end of this rambunctious finale. During our initial planning, we’d entertained the idea of riding all the way back from there to Boulder, as it promised a net descent—a big tick in Sage’s Book of Bikepacking. But by now we were weary and beaten, and a bank of dark clouds overhead discouraged us further. Fortunately, the public bus we’d taken up to Nederland to begin this trip a week prior was about to head back down to Boulder. Decision made, we raced over to the bus, slid our heavy bikes into its bowels, then sank heavily into our seats with an air of relief and contentment.

The bus between Boulder and Nederland costs just a few dollars and is free for kids, plus there’s room for laden bikes aplenty.

What a week! There would be no riding the next day. Just rest, movies, and frisbeeing. Plus, of course, we’d bask in the satisfaction of riding mile upon mile of singletrack together, and successfully crossing a mountain pass of epic scale—one that I’d long hoped we would one day share.

Sage’s Camp Snap Gallery

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