Out of the seven days of the week, Monday probably takes the cake for least favorite day. The weekend is over, the hangover is rough and the average Joe goes back to a world full of people they spent the last three nights trying to forget about. Back to the stinky hallways and claustrophobic cubicles, forced conversations and the all-important meeting that for unknown reasons, requires your attendance. Mondays mark the return to the hell hole.

It was just another Monday morning as I scarfed a jelly donut while waiting for my carpool to pick me up from the parking lot at the Park City Dirt Jumps. Dustin Orem’s mini-van rolled up, so I downed the last of my coffee and took a seat next to Jonesy Fedderson and Riley Smith. We had one more stop in Coalville to pick up Matt Beringer before we’d be on our way to the Hell Hole. Not the same hell hole, however, that most people were commuting to that morning. None of us were agonizing over the thought of sitting at a desk for 8 hours, or correctly filing TPS reports. We only had thoughts of drinking full strength domestics and shredding some BMX bikes at the Hell Hole full pipe in Wyoming.

It might not be the secret spot it once was, but no one will tell you Hell Hole has lost its appeal. There’s something different, something special about venturing away from the perfectly sculpted concrete parks and over-sessioned street spots in urban neighborhoods. Sometimes we get trapped in our comfort bubble. Smooth transitions and effortless flow are hard to find in the middle of farmland, America. But, if you’re up for a little adventure and a challenge, spots like Hell Hole can not only humble you, but remind you of how rewarding it is to put in work for a few tube rides.

We arrived to find some newly installed gates blocking the service road that parks you right at the pipe. Perhaps a sign of the developed popularity of the spot. A little hike is always good for getting the blood flowin’ though, that, and some house cleaning. Lurkers find it amusing to toss rocks down the mouth of the elbow. Can’t say I wouldn’t be tempted myself if I wasn’t aware of the hellish nightmare I would create for anyone sessioning the pipe. Matt will tell you first hand, that nightmare sucks when it becomes a reality.

A quick sweep was all that was needed before the session was on. Everyone took turns charging up the tube, high marking the elbow before carving the 200 feet back out of the snake. It was all smiles, with every run feeling better than the last. Each new high mark was raising the stoke, and every fresh skid made a lasting impression. Jonesy threw down a couple flares and over-vert hand plants while Riley stacked some clips for an upcoming edit. Matt was typically creative in-between speed runs, rocket sliding the belly of the pipe from the elbow all the way out the spout, and Dustin couldn’t get enough flow rides, pumping the walls all afternoon. It was tiring just to watch him, but his energy never faded, nor did his big, bearded grin.

By afternoon, we had cranked enough pedals to clean any gunk out of the lungs. There were no more man-cans to crush and the graffiti lining the pipe was getting blurry, so we loaded the bikes back in Dustin’s van. High-fives for the good times were in order after some hard work on a Monday. No deadlines to meet today though, just the tough decision of what photo to gram on the drive home. There was only one thing left to do before we crossed back over Brigham’s border. A quick stop at the discount liquor store in Evanston was necessary to fill all the empty space in the van. Enough full strength to last until the next Monday!