No Bridge Ahead: A Bikepacking Story from Arizona’s Backcountry

By Jenny Cusick

Another bikepacking adventure with an ideal riding partner. Another test of resilience, judgment, and mutual trust.

Last year, a group of us rode the Sky Islands Odyssey near the Arizona border—a dramatic desert loop that delivered every variety of challenge: steep climbs, unpredictable weather, border patrol checkpoints, and, in the final stretch, a freezing winter storm on Mt. Lemmon that verged into type III territory. For the uninitiated: Type I fun is enjoyable before, during, and after. Type II is difficult but rewarding in retrospect. Type III is misery—where lessons may be learned, but often only after surviving the consequences of a poor decision.

This year, Tara and I returned to Arizona to escape the cold Northeast and break in our new mountain bikes—rigs built for tougher terrain than the gravel bikes we’d ridden on the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route. Our plan was to ride the Queen’s Ransom, a route east of Phoenix that promised technical trail and desert solitude.

From the start, we were tested. A stripped derailleur, bent brake disc, and a fork installed backward on the handlebars slowed us down before we even began. We’re not beginners, but the new equipment—and maybe a little aging uncertainty—threw us off.

We proceeded cautiously. The terrain demanded it, and mistakes were met with cholla cactus spikes buried in our legs. Tara called them “the leeches of the desert”—hard to remove and always drawing blood. We shortened our route using Ride with GPS to substitute rugged dirt roads for sections of the Arizona Trail. Not all detours proved easier. Some barely resembled roads.

The final reroute brought us to the Gila River, just 15 miles from Florence. There was no bridge.

I filtered water and checked the map again and again. It showed a crossing—locals typically drive across in shallow water. But this was not shallow. A dam upstream had been opened to release snowmelt. The desert had been bone-dry until that moment. We hadn’t seen a drop of water in days. But now, the river was wide and fast.

Tara remained calm. She always does. A nurse by training and an experienced bikepacker, she’s strong, capable, and quietly generous—always carrying more weight than me, sharing food and water, pushing my bike when I couldn’t.

And we don’t cry. Even when we realized we might need a Search and Rescue (SAR) helicopter extraction. For me—a former SAR volunteer—it was a reluctant conclusion. We weren’t injured, just out of options. With only a granola bar, a bit of peanut butter, and a crushed packet of crackers left, we had no safe route forward or back.

We first called the local fire department, then 911, hoping for a boat. Instead, SAR offered a helicopter. I asked to speak to someone familiar with the terrain, hoping they might guide us to a safer crossing. But the water was too high. The helicopter was the only option.

Tara hates flying. Hates heights. Still, we agreed—accepting the extraction was better than risking injury in a swollen river or failing desert retreat. The SAR team lifted us, then our bikes, across the river. They were kind, unassuming, and nonjudgmental. “You couldn’t have known,” they said.

But I think we should have.

That night we camped without dinner, watching a helicopter fly overhead around 9:20 PM. They had our InReach location—maybe checking in on two aging women left in the desert once again.

We made it home. The return trip included a shared bout of food poisoning, a final twist in an already humbling adventure. But despite the setbacks—logistical, emotional, and gastrointestinal—we’re not done. We’re planning to ride across British Columbia this August.

The challenges seem to mount with age, but so does the clarity: the value of experience, the comfort of a dependable partner, and the simple fact that we’re still out there—riding, adapting, learning, and pushing forward.