As fall starts rolling in the South Central Mexican Mountains, the soil gets moist, mornings get colder and the forests get ready for a yearly celebration of life on two wheels. If you roam about in Oaxaca City around these times, you will find the scent of orange and purple flowers, skulls made out of sugar, and “papel picado,” a colorful paper decoration. This is when riders from all over the world travel, to subliminally celebrate life on two wheels, slicing through soft, deep, organic, high-altitude Oaxacan soil. But how did this riding area get so popular?

In this interview, trailbuilder Willard Bruce reflects on his journey from BMX roots in the U.S. to shaping trails across Europe. Now based in Barcelona, he shares insights on Spain’s growing MTB scene, the challenges it faces, and why more local trailbuilders are urgently needed.

Trail builders need gloves that can handle real work. We tested Trail Manos’ leather work gloves while scouting trail damage and fixing drainage, and they delivered. No break-in needed, solid grip, and all-day comfort. Whether you’re a pro or a volunteer, these gloves are worth the upgrade.

Rogue trails are everywhere: hidden behind neighborhoods, winding through forest hillsides, and quietly passed from rider to rider. But what’s the cost? This article explores the world of unsanctioned trail building—why they exist, who builds them, the risks to access and ecosystems, and how we might bridge the gap between rebellion and responsibility.

A few years back, I found myself riding in the Oakridge-Westfir area of Oregon at Mountain Bike Oregon. It’s the kind of place that makes you believe in second chances, not just for old logging towns, but for entire communities looking for a new way forward. The singletrack was (and is) world-class, and the ridgeline views were unforgettable. But what struck me most wasn’t the trail—it was the people. A small, tight-knit community that had weathered economic downturns and reinvested in itself through the simple act of getting people out on bikes.

That didn’t happen overnight.

If you’re a rural town dreaming about becoming the next trail destination, the reality is this: building a network of mountain bike trails is a long, bureaucratic process. It involves securing access to land, navigating environmental and zoning approvals, funding construction, and then maintaining those trails season after season. It’s not just dirt and tools. It’s diplomacy, funding cycles, and a whole lot of patience.

And yet, there’s good news.

Before the first tool scraped dirt or the crew finished their first jokes, the kettle in Nacho the Van was already on.

It was one of those Pacific Northwest mornings—the kind that clings to your flannel and seeps into your bones. My van was parked just off a gravel spur road, pine needles crunching under boots as everyone trickled in. Tools rattled, mugs clinked, and the aroma of fresh coffee started cutting through the cold.

Lighthouse from Treeline Coffee Roasters is a single-origin Guatemalan with notes of strawberry, cola, and a winey finish. But tasting notes aside, it just hits right in the stillness of a trailhead morning.

A few years ago, Trail Builder Magazine was just an idea scribbled in the margins of a notebook after a long day shooting photos at a trail work party. I remember it clearly—sitting back at my van, soaked, boots caked in mud, coffee in hand.

In that quiet moment, it hit me: the stories of trail builders—the real, gritty, inspiring ones—deserve a place to live. That’s where this all started.

Since then, Trail Builder Magazine has grown into something much more than a publication. It’s become a platform to elevate the people, places, and passion behind the trails we ride and build. And now, we’re taking the next step: offering magazine subscriptions.

But this isn’t about selling magazines—it’s about sustaining a movement.

Trail building is often a quiet act of devotion—a labor that takes place early in the morning, in the rain, or long after the last rider has left the trailhead. For Gerry Creighton, what began as clearing brush in Southern New Jersey has evolved into leading build crews in Bellingham, WA, where he now stewards trails like Swirlz and Brown Pow. His work is rooted in a deep love for the ride, shaped by personal loss, and sustained by community. We caught up with Gerry to hear more about his journey, the evolution of his trail work, and why raw loam still makes his heart race.

Three years ago, I launched Trail Builder Magazine with a simple dream: to tell the stories no one else was telling.

Stories of people quietly shaping the landscapes we ride. Of advocacy and dirt. Of purpose built into every turn, every climb, every hand tool. It was never meant to be flashy. It was meant to be real.

And in so many ways, it has become exactly that.

On a recent trail scouting mission, I strapped the Clyde Jr to my pack and hit the trail. The route had seen better days—ruts forming, water not shedding properly, and a few stretches that clearly needed drainage work. I wasn’t out there for a dig day. I was scouting. But the Clyde Jr changed the way I approached the task.