Crust Fat-Biking: Assailing The Temporal

Crust Fat-Biking: Assailing The Temporal

-Bjørn Olson

Originally published in bikepacking.com

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It’s 3:00 AM. The moon is above my right shoulder casting a long shadow over the undulating snow. Riding my fat-bike, with my ruff pulled up and my hands tucked into large pogies, my shadow looks like some sort of half animal, half machine creature. My four friends and I are liberated from the trail, atop concrete-hard snow, picking any line we choose through the forests and meadows. I feel like an animal, like a wolf in a pack. We all hoot and holler with abandon.

 Spring crust riding is one of the many great joys experienced by a year-round fat-biker. A year in the life of our particular fat-bike culture goes something like this:

 June – August: Maintain and ride technical trails through local forests; half-day and full day beach rides (preferably on the most technically challenging terrain available); street sessions, e.g. curbs, benches, cylinders, steps, and other interesting urban lines and routes; several overnight trips (with or without packraft or partner); at least one big summer wilderness expedition with packraft and at least one partner.

 September – November: Milk as much summer as you can and ride as much as you did until the season finally changes; take advantage of early freezing conditions before the first snow flies by riding up creeks, over bogs, and connecting backcountry lines that are otherwise too wet to ride in the summer or filled in with snow in winter; rally the homeys for a week-long friend’s trip, with or without packrafts (fall seems to be when everyone can most often pull away from busy schedules); take advantage of trails that become too overgrown with brush to be any fun in the summer; ride on and over as much hard, compact, frozen ground as possible.

 December – February: Get your Black Metal fat-bike rides on; bundle up, strap on the headphones, blinker lights, headlights, and goggles; ride in every winter blizzard; remember how to stay warm, how to not sweat in your clothing, how to manage equipment in sub-freezing conditions; go camping on snowmachine trails every full moon; get strong.

 March: Cut all ties and go on an expedition. March is the month—the siren’s call to the wilds. Accept no substitute. March is the time when winter starts to relax her grip a little and the daylight returns. In any northern region, snowmachiners and dog mushers feel the siren’s call, too. Learn where their trails go; find creative ways to cover vast amounts of country on these hard-packed and fleeting winter trails. Spend weeks—or an entire month—covering country on snow. Invest in good gear and make these expeditions as pleasant as possible; learn from each one and improve technique, means, and creative route-discovery every year.

 April – May: Observe the snow and weather conditions and be ready to strike at the first hint that crust conditions are good to go. South facing slopes come first; eventually every aspect goes through the thaw-freeze cycle and the entire snowy world becomes a playground when it’s frozen. Wake up early and ride until the afternoon sun begins to thaw the snow again.

 …and repeat.

Every season contains a few fleeting days or sometimes mere hours of euphoric perfection. There are the summer afternoons, for example, when the ground is dry, the bugs are down, the air still, and the dirty sweat on your forehead and arms feels like a well-earned callous; when your ride into the alpine leads you to a cold, inviting lake; when you drip dry on the soft heather and watch a cumulonimbus cloud billow over a mountain summit across the valley; when the hermit thrush sing their lovely call to one another through the dwarf hemlock forest and fill the air with well-being; when you don your grimy clothing and sweaty helmet and bomb back down the hill with the last of the golden light of day. Summer magic.

 And in March when you find yourself far away from people and crowds; when the temperature is zero degrees and the air perfectly still; when the trail beneath your tires is rock hard and you have them pumped all the way up to 20 PSI; when an animal, maybe a coyote or an owl or a moose or a raven, crosses your path and you stop to watch it as it watches you; when you finally stop for the day, build a fire, cook a meal, share reflections, crawl into your warm sleeping bag, and go to sleep giddy with the insight that you get to do it all over again tomorrow. Winter magic.  

 In the spring, there is a lot of magic throughout northern regions. The world is returning from the long, dark, and cold slumber. With the additional light and warming air, life returns, animal and bird migrations begin, and sour moods get crowded out by the excitement of rebirth and renewal. For any outdoor enthusiast, spring is the time to strike, to forego sleep, responsibilities, and obligations. For fat-bikers, crust season is the magical and fleeting time period when everything else must be put on hold.

 Crust snow occurs when the daytime temperatures are above freezing, and nighttime temperatures remain below freezing. The snow crystals metamorphose into round grains, commonly called corn snow, and become saturated and denser than winter snow. At night, this corn snow re-freezes and becomes nearly rock hard. At first, this only occurs on sunny, south facing slopes. As the season progresses, the entire snowpack, from bottom to top, undergoes this metamorphic transformation.

 A lot of variables go into a good crust fat-biking season. How deep was the snowpack over the winter? What sorts of layers developed in the snowpack? Is the spring weather on a consistent trend or does it vacillate between spring and winter for weeks at a time? Is it going to rain all through April? Each of these considerations and more go into the perfect conditions. Often, entire years go by without this natural manifestation of ideal circumstances—all the more reason why it’s imperative to pounce when the stars do align.

 Over the last decade, my crew and I have tried to be ready, willing, and able for this ephemeral springtime riding condition. We approach crust riding in one of two ways: aimless forays into the most interesting terrain we can find, where the objective is pure, giddy fun, or long rides to cross a lot of otherwise impossible-to-traverse terrain. If the season is particularly good, this can go on for weeks.

 In general, we prefer to start our rides well before sunrise and, in some instances, we begin riding right after dark. It all comes down to when freezing starts to occur, how hard it freezes and, inversely, when it warms above freezing and how warm it gets. By obsessively observing the weather forecasts and spending time out in the country and on the snow, we begin, each spring, to develop a sense of what we can get away with.

 For this type of riding, you can use almost any bike with plus or fat wheels. When the conditions are really good, even a mountain bike with two-inch tires can work. However, I always prefer a fat-bike with the fattest tires possible, and although studs aren’t required for traction on the snow, there are often a lot of ice conditions that appear this time of year. Super fat tires are insurance for when the conditions degrade and, with big, low-pressure tires, rolling over obstacles is both a cinch and a riot of a good time. A dropper seat post is not essential, but the joy of riding steep and technical crust lines with one can’t be overstated.  

 I also prefer to ride crust with the least gear and weight as possible. A water bottle, snack, a flask to share, a multi-tool, and a camera are all that typically make the cut for fun rides. This sort of cycling feels incredibly liberating and it’s ideal to approach the terrain unencumbered, able to give your all. The traction and terrain can feel similar to Moab’s slick rock and our riding attitude is similar to the culture found in that part of the world.

 That said, overnight trips are fantastic during the crust season, too, assuming you entirely trust the conditions not to melt out from under you. Riding through the night under the stars and moon to a remote cabin over the snow on a route concocted entirely of your own imagination is the quintessential essence of what bikepacking can be. Loafing about, reading a book, napping, or chewing the fat while catching the afternoon rays and waiting for freeze up again add bliss to the complete experience.

 To feel as liberated as possible, I pare down my camping kit to the bare essentials. One puffy sweater, a hat, a lightweight summer sleeping bag, sunglasses, a Bic lighter, a titanium mug, a water bottle, snacks, instant coffee, multi-tool, pump, repair kit and, in our neck of the woods, a can of bear spray are essentially all that is required. Last year’s dry grass or spruce bows make fine sleeping pads and open fires do a remarkable job of bringing a cup of melted snow to boil for coffee. Another joy about this time of year is that many of the creeks begin to flow again and finding fresh drinking water is usually not a problem. There are typically many hours of the day and afternoon that are above freezing, and thus unrideable, so I typically splurge and bring a concentrated adult beverage (whiskey) and a small paperback book.

 For the most part there are very few pitfalls or hazards associated with crust riding, but there are exceptions. Often, the surface snow can hide holes, crevasses, or open water. Riding over glaciers, fast moving water, or terrain so steep that you can’t see the entire runout need to be approached with caution. It’s only a minor inconvenience to have your bike punch through a big pocket of empty air when riding over a patch of buried willows; it’s quite another thing to fall 50 or more feet into a crevasse or an open hole above a river. Common sense and familiarity with terrain features should always accompany the savvy backcountry explorer.

 Under the full moon, we instinctively begin playing a game of “follow the leader” through the forest. Whenever the leader’s line choice becomes too absurd and the terrain forces them to abandon it, another rider takes over. Up a spruce forest hillock, into a skate park dream gully, a log ride over a bent birch tree, a steep bomb-drop off a small cliff face to a beautiful transition, and finally into a patch of willows that offers no escape. “Your turn,” my buddy Daniel says. “Show us what you got!”

 Shifted into low gear, I raise my dropper post and power up a steep hill. When the angle reaches an even steeper degree, it’s my strength that breaks my line, not the traction. Before losing my fight with gravity, I turn to the left and ride an upward angle just shallower than what my hill-facing pedal will strike, and then I turn hard to right. Climbing the mountain like a backcountry skier on skins, I reach the summit. From the top, several downhill lines present themselves. I’m overjoyed to be the leader for this run. I drop my saddle, give two hard cranks, lean back, and bomb down through the trees.

 Eventually, our party remembers that dawn is approaching and we’d discussed a long ride to the village of Ninilchick. We give up the game and head down Deep Creek Valley, leaving the well-worn snowmachine trail untouched. Each person choosing their own high-speed line–bunny hopping over little mounds, banking turns in the creek bed, wheelie dropping over short drop-offs, but forward, always forward.

Hours later, we reach the parking lot where the evening before we’d delivered my truck to shuttle bikes and riders back home. The bags below our underslept eyes crease upward with fat grins and we awkwardly attempt a clumsy and fatigued group high five. 

The next afternoon at 4:00 PM, my fiancé Kim and I finish our second cup of coffee and breakfast when both of our cell phones simultaneously chirp. The group text reads, “Crust ride?”

Fat-Bike To The Arctic - Gear Review

Bjrn and Kim pause on the Seward Peninsula for photo-op.

I have written a gear review of the equipment Kim and I used on our 1,000+ mile fat-bike expedition the the arctic of Alaska which has been published on Ground Truth Trekking

'Every expedition and trip reveals new insight about technique and equipment and we always hope to incorporate that wisdom on the next trip. ‘Fat-bike to the Arctic’ stood on the shoulders of our experimentation over the years and vicarious lessons from others.

Herein I will attempt to outline and review the equipment we used on our 1,000 + mile, winter fat-bike trip to the arctic of Alaska.'

Read more here. 

Kim's footwear for cold weather cycling

Kim has written a blog post about cold weather footwear.

Frostbite is unacceptable and toes are of special concern for winter cyclists. Considering the negative consequences, I have put a lot of thought and trial into my footwear system to be used in conjunction with platform pedals. I have tested this system in temperatures as low as -30º and it works.

The concept behind my set up is a thick layer of insulation that is water proofed inside and out. Waterproofing protects your insulated layers from getting soaked from your sweat and water from outside. The insulation will sustain its heat retaining ability for prolonged days on the trail.

 

The first layer that goes on the foot is a ‘sacrificial’ wool liner sock. This sock is thin and ends up getting wet from your sweat, and basically serves for comfort. On top of the liner goes a vapor barrier sock. Bjørn and I use Sephenson Warmlite, and had our VBL (Vapor Barrier Liner) socks customized to be tall, as to fit with our tall outer boots. Over the vapor barrier goes a warm, thick sock.

 

The VBL sock is a brilliant idea and can be applied to any footwear system. The purpose of this sock is to protect your insulation from your own sweat.

 

Unlike other parts of your body, it is impossible to temperature regulate your feet to keep them from sweating while on the go. Your foot will sweat until it is saturated. Without the vapor barrier, the insulation from your thick sock and your boot will wick sweat away from your foot, and your foot will continue sweating until your insulation is saturated. Sweat wicking is advertised in outdoor clothing as an advantage. But in cold temperatures, water wicked into the clothing doesn’t evaporate and disappear - it freezes. Clothes can become ruined until you get a chance to dry them out.

 

With the vapor barrier on, your foot will sweat until the liner sock is wet, then it will stop. Your insulative layers are safe.

 

On top of my three socks, I wear two boots. The first is a high-top Loben. This is a soft-soled felt boot that is very warm. This is the most debatable component of my set up, and I may experiment with something else in the future. The Loben is, in my opinion, not a very good boot standing alone. The sole is unsupportive, and the felt provides no protection from water or wind. But worn with this combination, it provides a lot of insulation and warmth.

 

On top of the Loben I wear an insulated Neo over-boot. This boot provides more insulation, a sole with excellent traction, and waterproofing against the outside elements. The kind that I have has a fold out gaiter that reaches to the knee. Mine are not studded, because that would be annoying on my bike pedals and add weight. The sole is pretty good on ice as is. There is room to put a chemical heat pack inside during extreme cold.

 

With all this on my feet, I feel like a storm trooper. But overall I can ride my bike and walk in comfort, without feeling cold. While I have more limited range of motion and agility, the sacrifice is completely worth it to me.

 

If you are considering a similar set up, my recommendation would be to get boots that fit well; not too small and not too big. If they are too small you will be compressing the insulation and losing heat. If they are too big, your foot will slip around inside the boot and it will decrease your efficiency, waste energy and maybe drive you a little crazy. My Lobens are a size too big and it is regretful. I took measures to fit them to my foot, but could have avoided it by getting a better fitting boot.


Kim McNett