Explore the Best Mountain Bike Trails in Saluda
Nathan Galbreath is a real estate attorney. He understands closing costs, title transfers, plat maps, and the precise mathematics of turning raw acreage into profit. When he and his wife Mary Beth began acquiring land near the confluence of three Saluda River branches outside Greenville, South Carolina, starting in 2020, every developer within shouting distance could see the potential. Here was 900 acres of prime Carolina woodland, twenty minutes from downtown, platted and primed.
They didn’t sell.
Instead, they built mountain bike trails. Twenty miles of them, across 300 acres now open to the public as the Saluda Confluence Recreation Area. No gate. No fee. Just red clay, switchbacks, and a decision that defied every spreadsheet in the greater Greenville metro area.
This choice is worth examining, not because it’s sentimental or quaint, but because it’s increasingly rare. And because it runs directly counter to another story about land, profit, and access that nearly played out in Utah and Nevada where Congress quietly tried to sell off 500,000 acres of public land to the highest bidder.
The Backstory Nobody Tells
Mary Beth Galbreath is a Greenville native who taught English in four countries before settling back in South Carolina with Nathan and their three children. She describes herself as “a new and moderately competent mountain biker,” which could be an understatement.
Nathan, the board chairman of UGATA (Upstate Greenways and Trails Alliance), is a political science major turned real estate lawyer who loves trails, public-private partnerships, and outdoor recreation. Two of their kids ride competitively with NICA, the National Interscholastic Cycling Association. The family spent weekends shuttling to races, riding local trails, and watching development swallow the area one subdivision at a time.
The land they began purchasing in 2020 sits near Travelers Rest, where the North, South, and Middle Saluda rivers converge. It’s steep in places, dense with hardwoods and pine, and underlaid with that notorious Carolina red clay that turns to grease when wet and cement when dry. Trail builders will tell you it’s challenging stuff, prone to erosion, difficult to pack, unforgiving if you cut corners.
Housing developers will tell you it’s a gold mine.
The parcels had been eyed for residential development. Plans existed. Blueprints had been drafted for cul-de-sacs with names that sound like country clubs: River’s Crest, Oakstone Ridge, Saluda Heights. Dozens of homes, maybe a hundred or more. In a region where affordable land is scarce and population growth is relentless, this property represented millions in potential revenue.
The Galbreaths did something unusual. They bought it themselves. Not through a land trust. Not via a conservancy. They wrote the checks, took the title, and called Chandler and Giselle Weekes at Carolina Trailworks.
“We want trails,” they said.
What It Actually Costs to Not Cash Out
Let’s dispel the fairy tale version of this story right now. This wasn’t a feel-good gesture. It was expensive. Land this close to Greenville, with this much acreage and development potential, doesn’t come cheap. Estimates for similar parcels in the region run into the millions. Then there’s trail construction, which isn’t cheap either. Professional builders like Carolina Trailworks don’t work for goodwill; they work with machines, expertise, and an understanding of how soil behaves under repeated stress.
Add in parking lots, signage, insurance, maintenance, and legal structuring, and you’re looking at a significant capital outlay before the first rider ever rolls through. The Galbreaths had the means to do this, which matters. Wealth is the prerequisite here, not virtue. What’s notable isn’t that they had money. It’s what they chose not to do with it.
Selling to a developer would have been simpler. It would have been lucrative. It would have been entirely reasonable by every conventional economic metric. But they had kids who ride bikes. They had watched trails disappear under asphalt. They understood that once land is sold and subdivided, it doesn’t come back.
This is the calculus that rarely gets written about in outdoor media: the opportunity cost of not selling. Every acre of Saluda Confluence represents forgone profit. Every trail is a housing plot that will never exist. And in a housing-starved region, that’s not a trivial tradeoff.
But here’s the thing. Housing developments are replicable. Red clay singletrack near three converging rivers is not.
The Trail System That Emerged
Carolina Trailworks, led by Chandler and Giselle Weekes, approached the project with restraint. The clay wouldn’t tolerate carelessness. Slopes had to be assessed individually. Some terrain could support fast, flowy descents. Other sections needed to be left wild, too steep or unstable to hold trail without constant erosion. The result is 20 miles of carefully crafted singletrack designed for beginner and intermediate riders, with enough technical features to keep things interesting but not so much that newer riders feel shut out.
There’s a trail called Electric Ave. Another called Confluence. The names are functional, not precious. The trails flow through hardwood groves, cross small drainages, and wind along ridgelines with glimpses of the rivers below. Riders describe it as “fun but not flashy,” which is probably the best compliment a trail system can receive. It works. It holds up. It feels earned.
And crucially, it’s open. UGATA, which the Galbreaths founded in 2019, manages the area in partnership with them, coordinating volunteers, securing grants, and maintaining the trails. The organization’s mission is to expand the greenways and trails network across the South Carolina Upstate through public-private partnerships. The Saluda Confluence Recreation Area is their flagship proof of concept.
The Public Land Story That Almost Happened
Now contrast this with what nearly occurred in Utah and Nevada earlier this year. Buried in a nearly thousand-page budget proposal known as the “Big Beautiful Bill,” House Republicans proposed selling 500,000 acres of Bureau of Land Management land to generate revenue for infrastructure and housing. The amendment, authored by Rep. Mark Amodei of Nevada and supported by Rep. Celeste Maloy of Utah, framed the sale as a solution to a real estate problem: counties hemmed in by federal land that can’t be easily developed.
“This is a real estate problem,” Amodei said, referring to places like Washington County, Utah, where public land restricts development opportunities.
The 500,000 acres weren’t empty. They included land near Gooseberry Mesa, one of the most iconic mountain biking destinations in the country. They included parcels adjacent to established trail systems, wildlife corridors, and recreation areas that host thousands of visitors annually. Selling them would have fragmented ecosystems, closed access points, and set a precedent for future disposals.
The backlash was immediate. Mountain bikers, hunters, conservationists, and trail runners flooded congressional offices with calls. The International Mountain Bicycling Association and Outdoor Alliance mobilized their networks. Even Rep. Ryan Zinke, a Montana Republican and former Interior Secretary, threatened to oppose the entire bill unless the amendment was removed.
It worked. The amendment was quietly struck during a late-night markup session. No drama, no speeches. Just a line drawn through the text.
But the logic behind the proposal remains. The belief that land not generating revenue is land being wasted. The assumption that private ownership is inherently more efficient than public stewardship. The willingness to trade long-term access for short-term cash.
The Uncomfortable Truth About Access
Here’s what makes the Saluda Confluence story complicated: it only exists because the Galbreaths had the resources to make it happen. This model doesn’t scale. Most families can’t afford to buy 900 acres. Most landowners won’t choose trails over profit.
Public lands exist precisely because we can’t depend on private benevolence. They’re a hedge against market forces, a recognition that some places should remain accessible regardless of profit potential.
The Galbreaths’ project works because they chose to align private ownership with public benefit. But it’s a choice, not a guarantee. If they sold tomorrow, the trails could vanish. If priorities shifted, development could resume. There’s no legal mechanism forcing perpetuity.
Compare that to actual public land. Gooseberry Mesa is accessible because it’s BLM-managed. The trails exist because the land is held in trust for everyone. Selling it would have transferred that access to whoever could afford the purchase price.
What Similar Models Exist
The Saluda Confluence model isn’t entirely unique. In Texas, several large trail systems operate on private ranch land through recreation easements. Station Bike Park, for example, exists because landowners allowed public access. But these arrangements are voluntary and revocable, dependent on continued goodwill rather than legal protection.
In Oregon, the Trust for Public Land worked with the Klamath Trails Alliance to protect a trail network previously built on private timber company land. When the timber company put the land up for sale, local zoning would have permitted development. The Trust intervened, securing the land and ensuring continued public access. That’s a stronger model, legally binding the land to public use.
In Colorado, the Coal Basin mine area offers another variation: reclaimed industrial land converted to trails through public-private collaboration. Former environmental hazards became recreation assets, though again, the arrangement depends on sustained commitment from all parties involved.
What these examples share is fragility. Private land can change hands. Owners can change their minds. Easements can expire. Without permanent legal protection or outright public ownership, access remains contingent.
Why This Still Matters
The outdoor recreation economy contributes nearly a trillion dollars annually to the U.S. economy. Mountain biking accounts for billions in tourism, gear sales, and local revenue. Studies show mountain bike visitors spend an average of $416 per trip.
But the economic argument, while useful, misses the larger point. Public lands and publicly accessible private lands aren’t valuable because they generate revenue. They’re valuable because they offer something the market can’t replicate: space that exists for its own sake, not for extraction or profit.
The Galbreaths understood this. They looked at 900 acres and saw not what it could become, but what it already was. Clay and water, ridgelines and rivers, space for their kids and everyone else’s kids to ride bikes.
They had every legal right to maximize their investment. Instead, they maximized impact.
The Threat That Hasn’t Gone Away
The amendment to sell 500,000 acres of public land was defeated, but the ideology behind it persists. Other bills will follow. Other parcels will be eyed for sale. The argument that land should generate revenue or be sold will be made again, probably with different language and different sponsors but the same underlying logic.
Advocates worry about “salami slicing,” the practice of carving off small chunks of public land across different bills to avoid scrutiny. Each individual sale might seem minor. Cumulatively, they erode the public land system piece by piece.
The outdoor community responded effectively this time. They flooded congressional offices, mobilized advocacy groups, and made it politically costly to support the sale. But vigilance requires constant effort. Eventually, one threat will slip through.
That’s why projects like Saluda Confluence matter, even as they highlight the limitations of private land models. They demonstrate that public access and land protection aren’t incompatible with private ownership. They show that people with means can choose stewardship over profit. And they remind us that the conversation about land isn’t just economic, it’s ethical.
What We’re Actually Protecting
On a recent morning at Saluda Confluence, riders arrived at dawn. Tires hummed on damp dirt. Someone cleared a rock garden they’d been working on for weeks. A parent coached a kid through a berm. The trails did what good trails do: they offered themselves without judgment, without gatekeeping, without cost.
This is what the Galbreaths protected. Not just dirt and trees, but the possibility of access. The chance for someone without land, without wealth, without connections to experience terrain that would otherwise be locked behind property lines or sold to the highest bidder.
It’s an imperfect solution. It doesn’t replace public lands. It doesn’t scale to meet national needs. But it exists, and in a region where development pressure is relentless and affordable land is scarce, that existence is worth noting.
The trail system isn’t a rebuke to public lands. It’s a complement. A demonstration that private choices can align with public good, when those making the choices prioritize access over profit.
The question is whether that model can survive contact with market forces, political pressure, and the relentless logic that says land should make money or be sold. The Galbreaths bet it can. Time will tell if they’re right.
For now, the trails are open. The clay is packed. The rivers converge. And somewhere in the distance, a chainsaw hums, waiting for the next parcel to come up for sale.
