The Climb Out

By: Liz Dengler

From where you jump onto the Chisholm Trail in Moab, you can roll straight into the line—smooth flow, quick dips, and enough technical bits to keep it fun. Just rip and enjoy the sun on your shoulders. That’s the line we took: down Chisholm, around Big Mesa. It’s easy to chase the fun when it’s right in front of you.

But gravity’s a short-term loan. Sooner or later, you have to pay it back. For us, the bill came due on 7-Up.

It was an early spring day, perfect for riding. Mostly sunny, a few clouds to soften the heat, and just enough breeze to keep the sweat in check. It should’ve been one of those easy, feel-good days, and the descent was! 

Alas, right before the climb, I got tangled in someone else’s frustration. A couple of riders ahead started yelling about a pass that wasn’t mine. I caught the tail end of it, didn’t respond, and I just rode off, their frustration hanging in the air like the dust. It was one of those weird moments where you end up being the body people throw their anger at just because you’re nearby.

By the time I hit the base of 7-Up, the gap between my partner and me had widened. Not just on the trail. In my head, too.

I recently started a new project. Honestly, it’s probably a little bigger than I have any business trying to pull off. I believe in it, but that belief certainly feels fragile on days like this. The questions wouldn’t quit.

What if no one takes this seriously?

What if I screw it up in front of everyone?

How do I ask people to support something I’m not even sure I’m ready to lead?

How can I afford it?

7-Up’s not a challenging climb, technically speaking. There’s no exposure or big moves, just a steady grind. A perfect blend of solid rock, loose sand, and low-grade misery. You’ve gotta keep your weight right, your cadence up, your brain calm. And even then, the trail still takes more than it gives. It’s also the kind of climb where your thoughts get loud. You settle into rhythm, and suddenly there’s nothing left to distract you from whatever’s been gnawing at the back of your mind.

That day, it was the sinking feeling that I might’ve done this all backward. Maybe I should have started with the hard stuff—figured out the funding, the logistics, the pitch. Built the scaffolding before I leapt. Started with the climb so that the descent would be earned.

But I hadn’t. I’d let myself chase the fun. I dropped in fast. And now here I was, mid-climb, wondering if I’d run out of steam before I found my way back out.

Eventually, the trail eased up slightly. I took a breath. My legs were still burning, but I was moving again. Not just on the trail, but in my head, too. Things weren’t sorted, but they felt less tangled.

By the time we hit Mustang, I was wiped. The kind of tired that settles deep and doesn’t ask if you want more. The climb still wasn’t done, but the worst of it was behind me. The questions were still there, though they didn’t feel quite as loud anymore.

That’s what these long desert rides do. They don’t fix anything or hand you clarity on a platter. But they do give you space to contemplate. Just enough distance to feel yourself shift, even if only by a few degrees. Enough quiet to hear yourself think, even if you don’t like what you hear. 

The loop doesn’t finish with a descent. You have to climb all the way out. And maybe that’s the lesson. If you start with the climb, you earn the descent. If you start with the descent, you owe the climb. Either way, you’re getting both. Either way, you keep pedaling.

Some things don’t come easily. Some things you have to build the hard way, pedal stroke by pedal stroke, even when no one’s at the top waiting to say good job.

I still don’t know where this thing I started is going. But I’m moving. And for now, that’s enough.