March 10th, 2025 | by Stephanie Hall
Stephanie is an adventure forward cyclist in the Upper Valley, specifically, Bradford, Vermont. She moved here from Austin, Texas seeking mountains and sure does New England deliver. This year she’s part of the inaugural Experimental Bikepacking Team supported by Old Man Mountain Racks and Silca. What gets her most excited about riding is exploring new places and the ample opportunities right outside her door, the more class IV, the better. Her favorite ride snack is ice cream, in any season. You can find her on Instagram at @stephaniehall94
To listen to Stephanie tell her story and to see her hiking her bike through feet of fresh snow and whipping down snowy roads, check out the video at the bottom of the story!
Stephanie is an adventure forward cyclist in the Upper Valley, specifically, Bradford, Vermont. She moved here from Austin, Texas seeking mountains and sure does New England deliver. This year she’s part of the inaugural Experimental Bikepacking Team supported by Old Man Mountain Racks and Silca. What gets her most excited about riding is exploring new places and the ample opportunities right outside her door, the more class IV, the better. Her favorite ride snack is ice cream, in any season. You can find her on Instagram at @stephaniehall94
To listen to Stephanie tell her story and to see her hiking her bike through feet of fresh snow and whipping down snowy roads, check out the video at the bottom of the story!
There’s nothing I love more than a good type 2 adventure.
It’s around 8pm on our first day and we’re just outside Washington, Vermont, on an untouched snowmobile track. Nearly two feet of freshly fallen snow lands above the hubs of my wheels. The climb up has ripped my confidence to shreds as a wave of nausea sets in. I keep telling myself to breathe, go as slowly as I need. However, stopping in the cold is sub-optimal at best knowing I’ll cool down quickly. On the other hand, pushing up the climb is not sitting well, and the 15-hour ride day is catching up to me. There’s a noticeable drop in temperature attributed to the setting sun, and the climb up in elevation. It is sending me into what I can only describe as almost a panic. I’m not really cold, maybe uncomfortable, but it’s hard to tell the mind this when the air temp is cold enough to force my Garmin to shut off. (At or just below below -4F)
We find a culvert, pack the snow down, and set up camp. A wave of gratitude for the ground, the soft snow, my warm sleeping bag, and the stellar moonlight comes over me. It’s so beautiful I could cry. Emotions run to the surface when you’re under fueled and tired; but in a world full of ways to numb, I love it. One of my favorite parts of these adventures is how the ‘little’ things become so precious. Life feels better when you notice the little things.
There’s nothing I love more than a good type 2 adventure.
It’s around 8pm on our first day and we’re just outside Washington, Vermont, on an untouched snowmobile track. Nearly two feet of freshly fallen snow lands above the hubs of my wheels. The climb up has ripped my confidence to shreds as a wave of nausea sets in. I keep telling myself to breathe, go as slowly as I need. However, stopping in the cold is sub-optimal at best knowing I’ll cool down quickly. On the other hand, pushing up the climb is not sitting well, and the 15-hour ride day is catching up to me. There’s a noticeable drop in temperature attributed to the setting sun, and the climb up in elevation. It is sending me into what I can only describe as almost a panic. I’m not really cold, maybe uncomfortable, but it’s hard to tell the mind this when the air temp is cold enough to force my Garmin to shut off. (At or just below below -4F)
We find a culvert, pack the snow down, and set up camp. A wave of gratitude for the ground, the soft snow, my warm sleeping bag, and the stellar moonlight comes over me. It’s so beautiful I could cry. Emotions run to the surface when you’re under fueled and tired; but in a world full of ways to numb, I love it. One of my favorite parts of these adventures is how the ‘little’ things become so precious. Life feels better when you notice the little things.
Photo credit to Derek Ludwig for all images used in this blog post!
Photo credit to Derek Ludwig for all images used in this blog post!
It snowed on our sleeping bags overnight, just a dusting. We had a hike-a-bike to start the day. I thought a ‘normal’ hike-a-bike was challenging, oof was this trip a wakeup call, but we were getting more efficient. Leave 70lb bikes, hike ahead, turn around, return for the bike, and then push on the broken trail. It’s supposed to be hard. That’s the point. There’s joy in doing the hard things. Satisfaction with knowing your body and mind are strong enough to withstand whatever situations life throws at you. With a new winter storm system on the horizon for 7pm that evening, that promised to deliver another 6-10” overnight, staying safe was a priority for me. With a recalibrated sense of distance we’d be able to cover, I was certain we could make it to the Wrights Mountain shelter by nightfall.
A steak breakfast sandwich from Topsham’s ‘Gramps’ filled my belly with warm joy and the anticipation of friends meeting us on trail revived my spirit. In the ethos of adventure (and a self supported nature), we didn’t have any official meet up times prior. It wasn’t until early afternoon we saw fat bike tracks on the Cross Vermont Trail, and shortly thereafter, Paige! I messaged Jason, my Alaskan training partner that we were skipping Tucker Mountain for fear it was untouched. He reported back immaculate conditions, but our decision was already made. Around 5pm we made it to the shelter, settled in, and ate. I had 2 ramen packets, and a handful of York peppermints. I heard from Derek, who generously came from Maine to capture some of the adventure, the gorgeous photos are his. It was fun to chit chat with him and Jason. I clearly did not make all the right choices, as my bag was partially damp from being snowed on the night prior. I was not cold, but certainly not warm, bundled up in my -5F bag.
It snowed on our sleeping bags overnight, just a dusting. We had a hike-a-bike to start the day. I thought a ‘normal’ hike-a-bike was challenging, oof was this trip a wakeup call, but we were getting more efficient. Leave 70lb bikes, hike ahead, turn around, return for the bike, and then push on the broken trail. It’s supposed to be hard. That’s the point. There’s joy in doing the hard things. Satisfaction with knowing your body and mind are strong enough to withstand whatever situations life throws at you. With a new winter storm system on the horizon for 7pm that evening, that promised to deliver another 6-10” overnight, staying safe was a priority for me. With a recalibrated sense of distance we’d be able to cover, I was certain we could make it to the Wrights Mountain shelter by nightfall.
A steak breakfast sandwich from Topsham’s ‘Gramps’ filled my belly with warm joy and the anticipation of friends meeting us on trail revived my spirit. In the ethos of adventure (and a self supported nature), we didn’t have any official meet up times prior. It wasn’t until early afternoon we saw fat bike tracks on the Cross Vermont Trail, and shortly thereafter, Paige! I messaged Jason, my Alaskan training partner that we were skipping Tucker Mountain for fear it was untouched. He reported back immaculate conditions, but our decision was already made. Around 5pm we made it to the shelter, settled in, and ate. I had 2 ramen packets, and a handful of York peppermints. I heard from Derek, who generously came from Maine to capture some of the adventure, the gorgeous photos are his. It was fun to chit chat with him and Jason. I clearly did not make all the right choices, as my bag was partially damp from being snowed on the night prior. I was not cold, but certainly not warm, bundled up in my -5F bag.
The shelter, being only a few miles from my house, made it a natural easy roll for the final day. We awoke to pure winter magic, more, new fallen snow, on the top of a mountain nonetheless! Trees were stacked high with snow, and an occasional wind would knock off huge chunks of snow, mesmerizing to watch as a waterfall of white would fall onto the gravel road. Ride home was short and bittersweet. Bittersweet to not be carrying on, but immediately grateful to jump into a shower, make coffee that wasn’t instant, and for the first time in 3 days, get out of chamois.
The shelter, being only a few miles from my house, made it a natural easy roll for the final day. We awoke to pure winter magic, more, new fallen snow, on the top of a mountain nonetheless! Trees were stacked high with snow, and an occasional wind would knock off huge chunks of snow, mesmerizing to watch as a waterfall of white would fall onto the gravel road. Ride home was short and bittersweet. Bittersweet to not be carrying on, but immediately grateful to jump into a shower, make coffee that wasn’t instant, and for the first time in 3 days, get out of chamois.
Since moving to Vermont, and particularly Orange County, I’ve been enamored with riding here. It’s challenging, both in elevation and terrain, but some of the most rewarding vistas and ripping descents. During the ‘traditional’ riding season last year I started hosting group rides dubbed “Filthy Friday”, with the more class IV, the better. An effort to create an inviting, friendly, yet challenging environment for riders and myself! Then late last October I created a monster route, 189 miles and 25,000 ft of climbing, where 7 riders set off, and 5 completed. The ‘roads’ were all my favorites strung together, and by no stretch of the imagination easy. Relentless class IV roads, and truly heinous climbs. Afterwards, I had some guilt. I hadn’t yet ridden my route in its entirety, a qualification I held for other ‘race directors’. Then, I had an idea. With so much of the route consisting of VAST and VASA trails (snowmobile and ATV friendly trails) – ride it, in winter, on a fat bike. Logan Kasper expressed interest in joining, and it was comforting to have a friend who was well versed in winter adventures along for the journey. Inviting others to join along the way was an unexpected joy, as I typically adventure solo. The experience is different whether journeying deep into your own thoughts or accompaniment by others – and I learned a great deal about being kind to myself and my own abilities by challenging myself in riding with someone stronger.
It felt right to ride for something larger than myself and my own ego. I dedicated this Big Dumb Ride to a fundraiser for Protect Our Winters. POW is a 501c that educates on the climate crisis, passing climate legislation, and advocating to protect public lands. The work POW does could not be more critical than in the current political landscape we face today. I often feel small in my ability to create ‘real change’ in the world, and the existential crisis of hopelessness is hard to not give into. It’s an organization and issue I’m passionate about. We raised $642 dollars!
I’ve learned there’s no one correct way to train through a New England winter. There’s plenty of grit, willpower, and strength that can come from structured intervals on Zwift. For me, the most joy I find while riding is within exploration, finding discomfort and discovering the unknowns. Winter is quieter, animals and people fewer, and bugs nonexistent. Days are shorter, slower, and require patience. Nerding out on gear is essential, as is practicing with it. There’s thrill in the chill and makes shorter adventures out your door feel like grand expeditions.
The trip was somewhere in the neighborhood of 97 miles, and 14,000 feet of climbing.
This fatpack was supported by my good pals over at Otso, Ergon, Bivo, Old Man Mountain, Silca, and South City Stitchworks.
Since moving to Vermont, and particularly Orange County, I’ve been enamored with riding here. It’s challenging, both in elevation and terrain, but some of the most rewarding vistas and ripping descents. During the ‘traditional’ riding season last year I started hosting group rides dubbed “Filthy Friday”, with the more class IV, the better. An effort to create an inviting, friendly, yet challenging environment for riders and myself! Then late last October I created a monster route, 189 miles and 25,000 ft of climbing, where 7 riders set off, and 5 completed. The ‘roads’ were all my favorites strung together, and by no stretch of the imagination easy. Relentless class IV roads, and truly heinous climbs. Afterwards, I had some guilt. I hadn’t yet ridden my route in its entirety, a qualification I held for other ‘race directors’. Then, I had an idea. With so much of the route consisting of VAST and VASA trails (snowmobile and ATV friendly trails) – ride it, in winter, on a fat bike. Logan Kasper expressed interest in joining, and it was comforting to have a friend who was well versed in winter adventures along for the journey. Inviting others to join along the way was an unexpected joy, as I typically adventure solo. The experience is different whether journeying deep into your own thoughts or accompaniment by others – and I learned a great deal about being kind to myself and my own abilities by challenging myself in riding with someone stronger.
It felt right to ride for something larger than myself and my own ego. I dedicated this Big Dumb Ride to a fundraiser for Protect Our Winters. POW is a 501c that educates on the climate crisis, passing climate legislation, and advocating to protect public lands. The work POW does could not be more critical than in the current political landscape we face today. I often feel small in my ability to create ‘real change’ in the world, and the existential crisis of hopelessness is hard to not give into. It’s an organization and issue I’m passionate about. We raised $642 dollars!
I’ve learned there’s no one correct way to train through a New England winter. There’s plenty of grit, willpower, and strength that can come from structured intervals on Zwift. For me, the most joy I find while riding is within exploration, finding discomfort and discovering the unknowns. Winter is quieter, animals and people fewer, and bugs nonexistent. Days are shorter, slower, and require patience. Nerding out on gear is essential, as is practicing with it. There’s thrill in the chill and makes shorter adventures out your door feel like grand expeditions.
The trip was somewhere in the neighborhood of 97 miles, and 14,000 feet of climbing.
This fatpack was supported by my good pals over at Otso, Ergon, Bivo, Old Man Mountain, Silca, and South City Stitchworks.
Leave a comment (all fields required)