I love origin stories. Most of us do. Whether it was Spiderman being bit by a genetically modified spider, Batman responding to his parents’ murder before his very eyes in a violent city, or Captain America given super strength through a scientific experiment we all love a backstory. Besides, we have our own.
No, none us us have been scientifically enhanced with super powers, but we have stories in our past, our history, that define and shape us today. Some of these happened early on and set us on a trajectory in life. It could be related to a career or hobby. Maybe it was that first time your friend took you mountain biking and you showed up with an underwhelming bike you picked up from Walmart years ago. Even though you struggled under the sheer weight of a bike that would be better suited as a boat anchor something within you was stirred. You point back to that moment which set in motion your love for riding.
A couple weeks ago I went back to Tucson where for me it all began. While I had been mountain biking for years previously something changed. I went from a “guy who rides a mountain bike” to a “mountain biker.” It was a quick trip back to see my Mom so I didn’t have time to ride. Besides, I wanted to spend time with her more than anything else. I knew if I went with the mindset to ride I’d be gone all of the time. However, I did squeeze in time to drive to the trailhead of a beloved trail network that I had wracked up innumerable miles and hours on.
Sentimentalism is powerful. I was almost shocked to feel a wave of emotions well up as I drove into the parking lot. As a former mountain biking guide I counted I had ridden or hiked this trail network over 600 times. That’s a lot of time spent out on these trails … and a lot of memories. Lots of laughter, conversations, and much blood loss over the years. Whether it was from encounters with a cactus or rocks or slicing my leg open on a chain ring (long before the 1x revolution) I have scars from these outings which today are keys to unlock these memories every time I look at them.
I parked my rental car, grabbed my camera, and strolled out on the trail.
This trail system is far removed from the polished and well-manicured trails that I now ride here in the Pacific Northwest (not that these photos are indicative of this). These trails were and are raw, not very flowy, but are near and dear to my heart. Many of them followed old cattle and horseback trails. Since this was the early 2000s the bikes I rode had short travel compared to today. The rock gardens were truly a challenge for short-travel XC bikes. But I didn’t know any better.
I walked, I stood, and I stared. My eyes followed the familiar line of Samaniego Ridge as it forms the western wall of the Santa Catalina Mountains. It was a welcome sight. Often times in the dead of summer it was easy to dream of ascending the flank of the mountain to escape the heat. But there it was, like a giant sentinel, staring down at me. Our eyes met.
As I’ve shared before, this is also the origin story of Loam Coffee. While I didn’t start Loam Coffee until I moved to Portland it was from countless hours spent out on the trail daydreaming where it came about. Back then I dreamed of simply owning a combination bike shop and cafe. Since I had to start somewhere I started with coffee and roasting which was actually unintentional and almost accidental … but that’s for another story.
Place has a powerful shaping influence on our lives. Whether it was the house or community we grew up in that formed us, the university campus where we blossomed into young adults, or the place we moved to for our first big career move we attach memories to places. They are the receptacles of these memories. When we move away these memories almost become locked in time and in that place. So when we visit it is no wonder why memories and even emotions flood back.
I didn’t spend too much time out on the trail that day. Enough time to pause, reflect, and find the familiar Hohokam pottery shards that litter the desert floor. Even after all of these years away my eyes could easily spot them. The touch and feel were also familiar.
We all have our origin stories. Each business has one too. I do know this: if it wasn’t for the countless hours spent out on the trail in the Sonoran Desert there would be no Loam Coffee.
Thank you for journeying with us.
Words and Photos by Sean Benesh
Founder of Loam Coffee