Communing with the Animal Kingdom: Disney Moments on the Mountain Bike

Think back for a moment to the early Disney movies: the pre-Pixar, pre-Toy Story era. Before Monsters, Inc., Shrek, and Finding Nemo.

Disney used to remake stories the Brothers Grimm penned 200 years ago: Snow White, Cinderella, and Little Red Riding Hood, to name a few. Remember Cinderella being dressed for the ball by mice and Snow White cavorting with butterflies? Remember Little Red Riding Hood speaking to the wolf, who was dressed as her gobbled-up grandmother?

In each of these (and countless others) Disney movies, the line between the human kingdom and the animal kingdom is blurred. Friendships are formed. Mice sew. Wolves wear pajamas. Butterflies land on fingers and stay there. Animals become personified, acting out the role of friend, support staff, or murderer. These moments of human-animal (or insect) bonding I have coined Disney Moments.

These moments are not, however, confined to the big and small screens; they can and have happened to countless nature lovers, including mountain bikers. Disney Moments are perhaps one of the coolest by-products of mountain biking. More John Muir than Cinderella, Disney Moments require frequent riding, keen observing, and an open mind.

My first Disney Moment occurred five autumns ago at the Apex Trail in Golden, Colorado. My friend Todd and I were testing out our new Yetis—our first foray into the full-suspension world. We had some trouble getting used to our back shocks bouncing on the tricky-rocky terrain that Apex is notorious for. The local flora was withering, turning into the grey-brown that blankets Colorado’s Front Range during the fall and winter. My attention was focused on my chain, which was clickety-clacking as I grew accustomed to a new gearing system. I entered into a grove of waist-high dying Colorado grasses when a covey of birds, who had been lazily lounging in the meadow, were suddenly brought out their slumber by the mechanical noises of an approaching stranger. In a move of solidarity, the birds rose vertically and hovered helicopter-style at the top of the withering grass. I stopped riding and marveled at the flap-flap-flap-flap-flap that cut through the still fall air. I watched my breath form puffy clouds as I laughed wondrously, surrounded by the birds of Snow White’s forest. In an instant, they were gone.

The following summer my friend Courtney and I were riding the sometimes-grueling, always fun Waterton Canyon-Roxborough State Park loop, which begins the 500-mile long Colorado Trail. On the tail end of the ride, the terrain goes from a pine-shaded canopy to a small meadow back to another canopy. It had rained the day before, so standing water dotted the meadow portion of the trail. As I approached the first puddle and steered myself to ride through it, I spied a few butterflies sipping cool Colorado water. As soon as my front tire hit the first puddle, the butterflies, much like the birds of the prior fall, fluttered skyward and hovered at my handlebars, jumping around my gloved fingers. They flashed their yellow, blue, and brown brilliance in front of my eyes, and we played in the same space as I rode through them, giggling like a twelve-year old. 

Disney Moment number three came on a short, early evening ride soon thereafter. Stinging from a recent breakup, I dragged my exhausted emotions and body out for the nearby, seven-mile loop at Matthew Winters, a stone’s throw from Red Rocks Amphitheatre. I was racing against dusk, watching the decreased intensity of the light bouncing off the red rocks that flank the trail. The mountain biking gods were with me because I was riding alone. Just me, my thoughts, and the setting sun. In the last mile, I was cruising along some widened singletrack that hugged the side of a small hill when a bird flew from out of the hill’s bushes and above the trail. We played follow the leader for about ten yards: him flying unsteadily above the singletrack and me pedaling in a fruitless attempt to catch him. At yard number eleven he flew off into the blue night and I finished the ride by myself but not alone.

Not all Disney Moments involve flying critters. In fact, my most memorable Moment involved an antelope. Two summers ago I was riding Los Mogotes, a collection of singletrack, cattle paths, and jeep roads just west of the historic town of Antonito, Colorado, which sits on the New Mexican border. The trail appears in a few guidebooks but is isolated and relatively unknown. The short climb to the top of the hill is on relatively easy singletrack. From the top of Los Mogotes hill are panoramas of the volcanic landscape that make up much of New Mexico: flat, brown terrain punctuated by igneous hill-mountains: the remnants of ancient, geologic outbursts. After admiring my surroundings, I left the hill and followed the cattle paths and jeep roads that headed west and skirted BLM and private land. The jeep roads were muddy and became impassable; after a few miles I turned around. Thirty yards ahead a herd of antelope crossed the road, leaving one of their own on his own. I stopped and he stopped. He looked at me. I looked at him. Our eyes locked for more than a few seconds. We understood that our paths had to cross.

We were equidistant from our intersection on the jeep road. We both knew he had to cross the road thirty yards in front of me. The question was, could he get there before me? In an instant, he sprang into action and I pedaled furiously in an attempt to reach our intersection before he did. He turned up the gas, possibly spooked by my response, and cleared the road a full fifteen yards before I did. Now safely with his brethren on the other side of the road, he cocked his head backwards to look at me. He had won. We both knew it. Then he sproinged away.

Do any of these sound familiar? If so, please share below in the comments section. If not, get out and ride. Disney Moments, like mountain biking, refresh the soul.

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