For a while, I followed the same paved trail where I’ve run since I moved to the valley, sometimes riding to Bridal Veil Falls and back, for a ten-mile total, other days continuing up and adding another dozen miles to the trek.

I immediately began taking the little dirt trail turn outs that let the tires taste the earth and gave me a little better workout by adding another hundred feet of elevation rise and fall. Every week or so, I’d follow the dirt roads and trails higher and higher into the foothills, leaving the paved river trail farther and farther behind.

Five hundred feet above the canyon floor, I found a dirt road wrapping along the mountain next to a large green water pipe. From then on, I gave up riding to the falls and rode here instead, letting the sweat pour freely as I cranked through the uphill stretches and enjoying the cool rush of the downs.

Then came the day when I rode beyond the high road. I had to dismount and push the bike up a steep section that had kept me from attempting this sooner, but after a hundred feet of pushing, I discovered the heart of the foothills.

Nestled above the steep lower canyon below and the sharp rise of the mountains above is a wide series of drainages full of long flat ridges and narrow meadows. Trails wrap around and around through the scrub oak. Smooth earth makes the riding easy and enjoyable here, interspersed with invigorating quick sprints up and over ridge tops. I rode to the highest road of all—twice as high as the green pipe—and looked down to see miles of the best trails I have ever ridden.

I never thought of myself as a mountain biker till I discovered the foothills. Biking simply provided an alternative to running. It got me outside and got me exercise and that was good enough. But here I fell in love with the feel of the wheels coasting over smooth or rock-strewn trails and the sudden G’s and the ground rushing up to meet me when dipping quickly in and out of ravines.

I loved exploring new trails and revisiting familiar hollows. I loved the quiet and the solitude. I loved the sweat and continual cranking to climb the hills and the rush of flying effortlessly down.

Over the days and weeks that followed, the ride grew easier and easier. My legs and lungs grew stronger. No doubt my technique improved as well. I memorized the curves and steeps and flats along the road, knew how fast I had to go to make it up ridges and knew how long till I could expect a rest.

Soon I had the entire area mastered, and I looked up again. There I found another trail. I rode up a little ways at first, then farther and farther. The first few hundred feet above the highest road rose sharply, but above that I found even more trails, better surfaces, more wildlife, and greater solitude. The lower foothills couldn’t compare to this. I couldn’t help climbing farther and farther every day until my throat was parched and my legs turned to jelly.

The foothills are now my favorite place in the valley. My most common retreat. In autumn I left the bike at the edge of muddy sections where new snow melted on warm afternoons. I found fresh cougar tracks and followed them on foot to where they disappeared.

In winter I follow the elk herd that drops lower to feed in the shallower snow. I bring my snowshoes and run along the ridges overlooking the biking trails.

I’m looking forward to spring when grasses and flowers chase back the receding snow and fill the foothills with color and life.

But no matter the season or my mode of transportation, these foothills have filled my life with joy, my eyes with beauty, my mind with clarity, and my heart with peace.