I feel like I'm inside out. Every intake of this empty, rarefied air is scraping the remnants of moisture from my throat while my skin is universally damp, as my internal organs ought to be. The vast majority of my blood seems to be pumping perilously close to the skin. My nostrils are like dusty, windblown caves. I could accept it if I was pedalling up a steep trail, but I'm ascending the merest of inclines. I have to remind myself I'm in the Utah desert. A desert which is over 1000 metres above sea level. And while it's not yet 9am, the temperature is over 30 degrees and rising. How am I going to make it to lunch?
This must be what people mean when they say 'Utah is a dry state'. I certainly had no trouble finding a beer - in Park City, I'd even managed to enjoy the epicurean delights of its famous Food and Wine Classic, with plenty of emphasis on the latter. But more on that later. Perhaps the myth that alcoholic liquids are illegal is borne of the psychological scars of dehydration.
It occurs to me that 1000 metres is the same altitude as Chamonix - Europe's alpine playground - where the elevation itself doesn't demand acclimatisation, but it is noticeable during any activity. But here, there is no snow, pine trees or cool mountain breeze, only burnt rock, scoured spiky flora and a sun that scorches the life out of everything it beats down on. But the thing that brings it home - that makes the journeys of those original pilgrims inconceivable - is the stupefying scale of the place.
I'd driven out of Salt Lake City - a conurbation that itself sprawls southward for 50 miles. But for the next four hours there was essentially nothing until the towns of St George and Hurricane - names which conjure the desolation their founders may have felt. Drive for four hours in the UK and you might cover 100 miles, but on an empty highway 15, the world is big.
Now, in the middle of it, after circling our 4x4 wagon and climbing into the saddle of my two-wheeled steed, that vulnerable isolation is itself the reward. "Beautiful isn't really the word, is it?" I asked of my guide, Matt, as we both stare into it like veteran cowboys. After 20 years living here, he can't find the words to describe it either. So we quietly start pedalling.
JEM? More like gem!
The JEM trail meanders around a deceptive plain - the distances between the towering mesas on all sides creating the illusion of being in a flat valley-bottom. This might seem a dull prospect for a mountain biker but presently I realise we've covered a long, almost imperceptible climb - easily accomplished in the middle chainring - and the red and white stripes on the walls of the Gooseberry Mesa are looming close. It's hard to measure distance when the only markers are a million scrub bushes dotting the red earth, and even a 600 metre wall of sandstone can creep up on you when you've got your head down, pedalling.
Even as we begin to descend I can still barely perceive the incline, but gravity doesn't lie. It is a pedally descent but super-fun on dusty, twisty singletrack and I quickly realise I need to switch my attention from the awesome landscape to the task at hand. We wind ever closer to the mesa and the conical mini-mountains - the Moenkopi formations - that seem to support the weight of the table-top like flying buttresses. These are what the lunatics on the Red Bull Rampage take on, just around the corner from the JEM trail, but even their smaller cousins are like a rollercoaster; very short, swooping drops down which my stomach struggles to keep up.
Still the singletrack drops, despite the flatness my eyes think they can see; pump-track rollers, berms and more outcrop ridges defying physics until we reach the car park from which I swear we've barely climbed.
Just as I am feeling content that I've survived the rigours of the desert, something lands at the back of our truck. Mid-sentence "what the hell is that?" bursts from my mouth. It's bigger than the hummingbird I saw earlier, but undoubtedly a massive insect.
Matt's tone does nothing to settle my nerves, "It's... it's... a Tarantula Hawk... The second most painful sting in the world." There is so much wrong with that concept I don't know where to begin processing my fears, so I simply walk 100 yards away and wait for Matt to come and pick me up. If you want to know what kind of monster this is, then Google it, but for me it's too horrifying to write about...
Remove from heat and rest...
At the Cable Mountain Lodge in Springdale a shower gives back 10 years to my skin and four litres of Powerade melts the sandpaper coating my organs. Even so I'm crispy on the outside and too hot in the middle. I feel a kinship with the deep fried chimichangas I had for dinner.
The following day we start before dawn to ride as much as possible before the blanket of heat becomes too heavy. Through some kind of biological miracle my body has somehow adjusted to the fierce conditions despite (or maybe because of) being 600 metres higher than the previous day, on top of the Gooseberry Mesa.
This new perspective only adds to the unfathomable scale of the place. Some landscapes you can stare at because they're pretty, but the really impressive ones hold your attention longer, simply because there is too much to take in. Riding along the rim of the mesa, we both do a lot of bewildered gazing. And I do a lot of braking, as the sandy void looms large at the edge of the trail.
We also do a lot of playing; the rim may drop the jaw, but the fabled slick-rock brings it up again into a fixed grin. A section of trail called 'Bowls and Ledges' delivers what it promises; something similar to a natural skate park, where the ground takes hold of your tyres and won't let go, the trail traverses off-camber slopes that rubber sticks to with the slightest of contact. 'Slick' isn't the most accurate description of the rock!
Again I'd have to classify the many Gooseberry trails as cross country riding, but it still holds a freeriding appeal; it's the kind of terrain that makes you eager to pedal faster, to carry speed through the features, and to get airborne at every opportunity.
Park life
The south-west of Utah delivers everything it promises and more; sculpted sandstone giants, endless desert landscapes and the chance of rattlesnakes at every turn. But if you're going to fly all that way, there is more to discover in the state than the postcards suggest.
There's an element of endurance to desert biking, and for all but the most hardened adventurer, a bit of pampered riding will come as a welcome respite. This is where Park City and its surrounding resorts come in.
Park City is awash with the kind of money you might expect in one of America's most celebrated ski resorts but it isn't immediately apparent; they don't rub your nose in it. There's a sophistication to the area that I didn't expect, but a distinct lack of snobbery.
My favourite by-product of a wealthy town is the abundance of great food, and I've arrived at the same time as the Park City Food and Wine Classic - an annual treat for the tastebuds. Now at an airy 2100 metres altitude there is no stifling heat to suppress my appetite, so the first thing I do is eat the pinkest tenderloin steak with horseradish cream and asparagus.
Wandering between the many bars and restaurants of Park City's historic and evocative Main Street, it's clear this place has long drawn travellers. The prospect of a roof and maybe a hot bath in a relatively prosperous mining town would have been as appealing to a weary pilgrim as the Squatter's Brewery ales are to me.
So let's clear this up. Utah is not a dry state, except in a climatic sense. State law says you can only buy alcohol to accompany food, but Park City was granted an exemption for the 2002 Winter Olympics (they must have assumed that European skiers enjoy a drink...) It seems that nobody specified an end date for that exemption, hence Bloody Marys on breakfast menus, excessive wine tasting at the Blue Sky Ranch, and an indescribable variety of cocktails. I mention this only as I extensively tested the idea that it's an effective place to rehydrate after the rigours of the desert...
Uplifting trails
It turns out the mountains above are the ideal place to soothe the consequences of a late night spent rehydrating. The alpine breeze strokes my throbbing temples with a cool touch while the chairlift gently introduces me to my playground for the day. How civilised.
As we float up the slopes of Canyons Resort, the extent of this playground hits home. Below the mid-station long trails drop 150 vertical metres, but above that is a wide choice of shorter blasts accessed by a quick chairlift. The common element is that all these trails are superbly built and show more willingness to cater for the summer visitor than is shown in many European ski resorts.
An easy start on the 'Flying Salmon' is enough to show me that these trails are made to be attacked. The dirt has recently been rained on, and is sticky loam from top to bottom, the jumps have nice run outs and the berms are built for speed. I instantly feel giddy and reckless.
'Wild Mouse' was a step up to a blue trail - designated as 'More Difficult' - and a series of table tops, switchbacks and boardwalks took us in and out of a beautiful Aspen forest which went by in a blur.
From the chairlift I took another look, and Blake, my guide explained "A stand of Aspen's is actually a single living organism; they share the same root system." One colony in Utah is thought to be the world's heaviest single organism and is around 80,000 years old. But Blake's appreciation of the trees was reserved mainly for the way the leaves "dance" in the wind.
The chairlift is much more than a lazy luxury, it's a chance to reflect on your surroundings - and on your riding. We talk through Wild Mouse before hitting it again and again, Blake giving me all kinds of tips, and me getting faster and higher on every descent.
Finally we drop 200 metres in under 3 kilometres on 'Ricochet' - another blue trail which just keeps going and going, through woods, into canyons, past the frighteningly huge Go Pro 'Double Down' competition run, and eventually ducking under the gondola to end right outside the Red Tail Grill, where more beers await.
Full of an excitable confidence I hit Deer Valley the following day. Just around the corner from Park City, Deer Valley is a piste skiers' dream and attracts the likes of Bill Clinton and Tiger Woods - possibly with its flattering terrain, but certainly with its superb slope side restaurants such as Royal Street Cafe. Blueberry mojitos, lobster towers and turkey chilli are on the menu, but first I have to earn it on the trails.
Arguably more expansive than Canyons, Deer Valley seems to have trails everywhere you look. The lift queue is busy after every descent, but we encounter very few people on the trails - a sign there is no shortage of riding.
We begin, inappropriately, on 'Homeward Bound', before diverting onto the much more hardcore-sounding 'Naildriver', which has mind-blowing views across to the mountains of Alta and Snowbird. Here I truly find my flow. Getting to grips - literally - with the tight berms has never been more fun than on this tacky red earth. The radius and camber are perfectly judged, one turn after the next, allowing ridiculous angles between bike and ground, and setting me up perfectly for the next trail; 'Bermy.'
We return to ride Homeward Bound in full for our final descent of the day. I've noticed two or three jumps loitering with intent, before the trail disappears into the woods. Earlier they looked huge, as jumps always do with fearless kids flying 15 feet above them. Flooded with adrenalin I figure I'll hit the first one at least...
Wrong. I'm in control, but my line is set, the second is already on me. I can't adjust my line even if I want to. By the third I'm having too much fun to deviate, but as the trail plunges into the trees those jumps just keep coming - maybe a dozen in quick succession. About halfway through I allow myself to think "Wow, I'm not dead yet" which is when I wobble on landing and slam into the dirt pile at the side of the trail. My shin takes the brunt, and I manage to keep some momentum and finish the run, with my face grinning more than my leg is bleeding.
It is the single best trail I've ever ridden. And there is a Squatter's 'Full Suspension' Pale Ale at the bottom. 'It really smooths out the bumps' as their tag line says.
I can't imagine anywhere in the world I could have such variety of mountain biking in less than a week. The desert landscape might be the post card picture draw for Utah, but there's way more than Moab.
After the pilgrims crossed the Utah desert, all they had to look forward to was more desert in Nevada and California. You get to look forward to Park City.
