I emerged from the desert at the trailhead, riding through the parking lot, avoiding eye contact with everyone. I was fuming and nobody needed to experience my irrational rage. I had just finished riding one of my favorite trails, only to discover it had become a victim of the dreaded “trail sanitation.”

This phenomenon happens when well-intentioned volunteers smooth out obstacles on a trail in the name of maintenance, consequentially making it easier.

I know there are legitimate reasons for trailwork. It’s necessary to repair erosion, prevent siltation in the watershed, and protect habitats. And many volunteers and trail crews are nothing short of modern saints. But why did it have to happen to this beloved trail of mine?

I’d ridden it so much that it was a part of me—a little piece of heaven that could turn any bad day around. Sure, it was rowdy in spots, but this is the Sonoran Desert. It’s supposed to be a little mean. It builds character. This felt personal, and I pouted about it like an angry toddler as I rode straight to the pub to find some riding buddies to vent my frustrations to.

There I sat, sulking, when my old friend Pete rolled up. He didn’t even have a chance to sit down before I let loose. Pete is extremely well-traveled; pedaling more countries than I will probably ever see in my lifetime has given him a level head and a unique perspective. I finished my rant and realized that he hadn’t said a word, so I bought him another round for his troubles. He sipped his pint before speaking.

“You know, Mother Nature has a sense of humor about these types of things,” Pete said. “Give it until the end of the monsoon season and let me know how it ends up.”

He said so little but was so right. In the desert, with no topsoil and little vegetation, the trails take a beating when it rains. All I had to do was wait it out, and the trail would revert to its chunky, challenging origins.

I thanked Pete for his sane perspective and headed home. Riding along the bike path, I thought about what he’d said, pondering the impermanence of trails. I passed the graffiti-covered walls of underpasses and couldn’t help but notice parallels in trails and graffiti.

Graffiti is generally reserved for the walls and trains of big cities and urban areas devoid of nature, while mountain biking occurs in deserts, hills, and forests. But, as both have grown in popularity, mountain biking has infiltrated urban areas, while graffiti has stretched out to the suburbs. The popularity and commercialization of both have led to each gaining a foothold in areas where, traditionally, they couldn’t be found before.

Painting a mural on a train car isn’t dissimilar from building a trail. Sculpting a trail through the landscape is every bit as expressive as painting with the need to focus on the line and style. And, like most art, there’s a large spectrum of quality, a pendulum that swings from pure trash, to mediocre, to creative brilliance.

Trails and art are constantly evolving. Graffiti paint on a train car will eventually fade in the sun or get washed clean by the rain. Trails will change too as riders find something new or lose them altogether due to access conflict. Their impermanence is undeniable. As Pete said, no matter how much we progress in bicycle technology or trailbuilding, Mother Nature will have a sense of humor about these things. As I pedaled home from the pub, I could only hope she’d have the last laugh with that dear trail of mine in the desert.