Rough Ride

Preservationists such as Carroll worry about the stress that hordes of mountain bikers might cause to the wilderness. Twenty years ago, mountain-biking technology was so primitive that riders needed the lungs of Lance Armstrong and Serena Williams's legs to get into the backcountry. Today, lighter material and better gearing mean just about anyone without a bum knee can wheel into the woods. IMBA estimates that about forty million people ride mountain bikes. And more bikes mean more eco-destruction.

Erosion isn't necessarily a perfect test to decide who gets in, though. Sprung points to studies showing that, on established trails, a bike causes little more wear and tear than the average hiker -- there are an estimated 70 million of those in the country -- and that both do less damage than pack horses, which are permitted in wilderness-designated areas. When it comes to pack animals, even Carroll admits, "The impacts are obvious. And, frankly, [horses] shouldn't be in some of the places they're going." But they are.

Another environmentalist concern is ambience: Do mountain bikers somehow tarnish the wilderness experience? Undoubtedly, they do for some. But that's a personal preference. Stroll says that after sweating his way into the wild, he gets irritated watching "massive pack trains of horses carrying sedentary people and cases of beer."

IMBA's new director, Mike Van Able, concedes it's unlikely that mountain biking will be permitted in existing wilderness areas in his lifetime. Instead, the organization has concentrated its efforts on new wilderness proposals. The fiercest battleground is in California, which is in the process of earmarking 300,000 acres -- home to 170 miles of prime single track -- on its northern coast as a wilderness area.

With so much at stake, neither side seems inclined to compromise. "The environmental movement there has this thing against mountain bikers," Sprung claims.

"We're agreeing to disagree," Carroll says politely.

Colorado has plenty of ground to argue over, too, although both sides insist they will play nice. Cross Mountain, an 18,500-acre plot near Dinosaur National Park that has been targeted as a future wilderness area, has an existing single-track trail running along its south side that IMBA would like to keep. The organization has proposed shifting the boundary of the proposed area slightly to keep the bike trail open without violating the integrity of the sacred spot.

Indeed, a little accommodation would go a long way toward mending fences between the two camps. Environmentalists need to focus on those territories genuinely worthy of being called "wilderness." There are plenty of official land designations that aren't as strict as those for wilderness areas but that nonetheless promise to maintain the character and eco-integrity of the terrain. Roadless Areas and National Recreation Areas all preserve wilderness without shutting out pedalers.

For its part, IMBA needs to realize that some places are worth keeping quiet. "Within the environmental camp, there is a fundamentalist strain," Stroll complains. "They're looking at this thing in a quasi-religious way -- wilderness as a cathedral, a place for quiet worship."

Sometimes, it is.