No. of People: 4
No. of Days: 15
- In Mexico: 13
No. of Nights: 15
- In Mexico: 12
Total km driven: 4237
- No. of drivers: 2
- longest driving day: 961km (Playa Buenaventuras to Ensenada)
- shortest driving day: 0km (Playa Buenaventuras)
Places So Good We Returned For a Second Visit: 2 (Playa Buenaventuras and Hotel California at Todos Santos)
Cinnamon-Scented Vehicle Sanitising Sprays: 1
Police Encounters: 2
- Legitimate driving offences not charged: 1
- Trumped-up charges incurring fines: 1
Military Checkpoints: 14
- Vehicle searched: 9
- Large plastic bins in vehicle searched: 1
- Waved through with no inspection: 5
- Southbound: 4
- Northbound: 1
- Soldiers referencing World Cup: 4
- Inappropriate comments made to soldiers with guns: 2
- Inappropriate comments made to soldiers with guns: Janine/Anoushka/Nick: 0
World Cup Football Games Watched in Full: 5
- NZ games watched in full: 2
- Mexico games watched in full: 1
Scrabble Games Started: 4
- Scrabble games abandoned: 1
- People with one Scrabble victory: 3
- People with no Scrabble victories but tied for the lead when Game 4 abandoned: 1
500 Games Started: 4
- 500 games abandoned: 1
- People who were part of two winning combinations: 1
- People who were part of one winning combination: 2
- People with no 500 victories part of combination in lead when Game 2 abandoned: 1
Drinks drunk***: 266
- Bottles of wine by the bottle: 5
- Bottles of wine by the glass: 2
- Bottles or cans of beer: 202****
- Growlers of beer: 1
- Bottles of tequila by the bottle: 3
- Margaritas: 35
- Mojitos: 6
- Pina coladas: 12
Items for which numbers are not available:
- Meals Eaten (lots, of which lots were delicious, some were OK, few were disappointing)
- Digestive Health (don't ask, don't touch, don't tell)
- Dead Dogs Seen (many)
- Trucks Scarily Close to Reaper on Highway (many)
- Cows on Road (some)
* = Includes some non-Mexico ie everything south of and including LA
** = May not be entirely accurate
*** = Possibly wildly inccurate
**** = Almost certainly completely inaccurate
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
A Day in the Reaper
Short Version:We drive a long way.
Long Version:
Early start on the long drive was thwarted initially by sleeping through the alarm, then delayed further by Senor Moctezuma*. We eve
ntually got underway around 0700, and were in San Ignacio for delicious eggy breakfast by 0930, having seen our second roadrunner just before the incredibly stinky fishing town of Santa Rosario. O
n our way south, Santa Rosario had appalled us with the miasma emanating from the dump on the northern edge of town, but this time it was the fishing industry which kicked us in the noses. Indeed, the lack of smell round the dump was cause for comment as we passed by, mainly around how glad we were we'd managed to get away as early as we did, befo
re the heat caused the filth to start wafting particles towards travellers' nostrils.
As it turned out, it never did get hot - quite the opposite! After photos wit
h the whale skeleton at San Ignacio and a bird strike which came close to claiming our windshield, we carved further inland, and the temperature dropped, and dropped some more, and by 
the time we reached the west coast at Guerrero Negro it was 16 degrees, down from the 42 we'd been basking in at Playa Buenaventuras. The windows, which had been down while moving since we left San Diego, were clamped tight, and the soldiers at the highland checkpoint had their khaki polar-fleece scarves on. They still had their senses of humor, though, as evidenced by the ones who gave us the score update of the elimination match between Mexico and Argenti
na (0-0 after 5 minutes), then brandi
shed their machine guns and asked who we were supporting. We said "Mexico" quite quickly, which made them so pleased that they stopped searching the Reaper and waved us on through with big smiles and some laughing.
The rest of the da
y revolved around kilometres of 
Mexican desert driving, with trucks at close quarters on the open road interspersed with dead dogs in and around the towns**. We saw some beautiful scenery, including various desertscapes and some comparatively fertile valleys, which looked a lot like Central Otago.
Eventually we were
waved though our last military checkpoint of the day after a perfunctory search, and it was onwards and into Ensenada, where we found but didn't quite manage to stay at the Colon Motel for our last night in Mexico.
* = Aztec ruler at the time of the Spanish conquest of Mexico. Lent a variant of his name to "Montezuma's Revenge"; the colloquial term for any episodes of travelers' diarrhea or other sicknesses contracted by tourists visiting Mexico.
** = Still not entirely sure whether that's because they're the only critters around, or because there are so many dogs around that they eat everything else that ends up dead on the roads. Either way, we saw heaps of them, including one that had been burned after it died. We also saw some evidence of why there are so many dogs around the place, with every male dog fully-equipped with massive testicle sets, and one pair going at it in a service station forecourt. Admittedly, the receiving puppy was more interested in eating something from the ground and kept wandering off looking for more snacks, but the protagonist was undeterred.
Long Version:
Early start on the long drive was thwarted initially by sleeping through the alarm, then delayed further by Senor Moctezuma*. We eve
ntually got underway around 0700, and were in San Ignacio for delicious eggy breakfast by 0930, having seen our second roadrunner just before the incredibly stinky fishing town of Santa Rosario. O
n our way south, Santa Rosario had appalled us with the miasma emanating from the dump on the northern edge of town, but this time it was the fishing industry which kicked us in the noses. Indeed, the lack of smell round the dump was cause for comment as we passed by, mainly around how glad we were we'd managed to get away as early as we did, befo
re the heat caused the filth to start wafting particles towards travellers' nostrils.As it turned out, it never did get hot - quite the opposite! After photos wit
h the whale skeleton at San Ignacio and a bird strike which came close to claiming our windshield, we carved further inland, and the temperature dropped, and dropped some more, and by 
the time we reached the west coast at Guerrero Negro it was 16 degrees, down from the 42 we'd been basking in at Playa Buenaventuras. The windows, which had been down while moving since we left San Diego, were clamped tight, and the soldiers at the highland checkpoint had their khaki polar-fleece scarves on. They still had their senses of humor, though, as evidenced by the ones who gave us the score update of the elimination match between Mexico and Argenti
na (0-0 after 5 minutes), then brandi
shed their machine guns and asked who we were supporting. We said "Mexico" quite quickly, which made them so pleased that they stopped searching the Reaper and waved us on through with big smiles and some laughing.The rest of the da
y revolved around kilometres of 
Mexican desert driving, with trucks at close quarters on the open road interspersed with dead dogs in and around the towns**. We saw some beautiful scenery, including various desertscapes and some comparatively fertile valleys, which looked a lot like Central Otago.Eventually we were
waved though our last military checkpoint of the day after a perfunctory search, and it was onwards and into Ensenada, where we found but didn't quite manage to stay at the Colon Motel for our last night in Mexico.* = Aztec ruler at the time of the Spanish conquest of Mexico. Lent a variant of his name to "Montezuma's Revenge"; the colloquial term for any episodes of travelers' diarrhea or other sicknesses contracted by tourists visiting Mexico.
** = Still not entirely sure whether that's because they're the only critters around, or because there are so many dogs around that they eat everything else that ends up dead on the roads. Either way, we saw heaps of them, including one that had been burned after it died. We also saw some evidence of why there are so many dogs around the place, with every male dog fully-equipped with massive testicle sets, and one pair going at it in a service station forecourt. Admittedly, the receiving puppy was more interested in eating something from the ground and kept wandering off looking for more snacks, but the protagonist was undeterred.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
A Day at the Beach
Short Version:
New and improved relaxing day, now with extra fun!
Long Version:
Waking in the morning to a gorgeous sunrise and the knowledge that there's no travelling to be done that day is prett
y bloody good. The only shadows looming as we awoke that morning, other than our hangovers, were the knowledge that we were near the end of our time in Mexico and nowhere near the end of our kilometres; and the tummy effects which had started a few days earlier, and had been steadily increasing in both scope* and intensity.
Janine and I still managed to kayak round the island again, with critter-sightings including dolphins moving at a hell of a clip, some pretty cool bird of prey action, and heaps of leaping fish**. There were a bunch of fish doing crazy stuff back at Playa Buenaventuras too, with mass strandings and regular solo insanity displays from the little ones, both of which were greeted with beak-smacking approval by herons and pelicans and blue-footed boobies alike.
We'd picked up some goggles at Wal-Mart in La
Paz, and discovered the richness of the marine life in the area was even more striking when viewed at close quarters - bright colors galore, across a wide variety of fish, plants, and critters in-between.
In the evening, we sacrificed the firewood we'd accumulated in Oregon to the spectre of the impending US border crossing, and cooked quesadillas on the grill. I say "we" cooked, but really Janine and Anoushka did so, on the fire that Craig built. My capacity for independent thought and useful activity had been severely compromised by an entire afternoon sitting shoulder-deep in the sea on a plastic chair, drinking beer***, so my role became largely ornamental. Luckily, I was wearing Speedos, so was at my most aesthetically-pleasing.
Once the remaining tequila had been polished off, synchronised swimming may have occurred.
Scrabble was attempted, but thwarted by someone which may have been me falling asleep mid-game****, then it was off to bed, ready for the early start next morning, for the 900km+ driving day of doom: Playa Buenaventuras to Ensenada.
* = Craig was last to succumb, at least partly because he refused to do so
** = Including a solo enormous fish, seen by Janine, and a repeat-leaping school of 20ish small fish which we both spied
*** = Amidst schools of the tiny yellow-and-black fish we'd dubbed mini-Nonus, after their larger like-colored cousins, which we called Nonu-fish because they were yellow and black and looked like they were wearing eyeliner.
**** = I suspect that if I'd had any vowels I may have had more success at staying awake. Having said that, I was a long way off the scoring pace, largely due to a complete inability to recognise individual letters, let alone form words from random collections of the things.
New and improved relaxing day, now with extra fun!
Long Version:
Waking in the morning to a gorgeous sunrise and the knowledge that there's no travelling to be done that day is prett
y bloody good. The only shadows looming as we awoke that morning, other than our hangovers, were the knowledge that we were near the end of our time in Mexico and nowhere near the end of our kilometres; and the tummy effects which had started a few days earlier, and had been steadily increasing in both scope* and intensity.Janine and I still managed to kayak round the island again, with critter-sightings including dolphins moving at a hell of a clip, some pretty cool bird of prey action, and heaps of leaping fish**. There were a bunch of fish doing crazy stuff back at Playa Buenaventuras too, with mass strandings and regular solo insanity displays from the little ones, both of which were greeted with beak-smacking approval by herons and pelicans and blue-footed boobies alike.
We'd picked up some goggles at Wal-Mart in La
Paz, and discovered the richness of the marine life in the area was even more striking when viewed at close quarters - bright colors galore, across a wide variety of fish, plants, and critters in-between.In the evening, we sacrificed the firewood we'd accumulated in Oregon to the spectre of the impending US border crossing, and cooked quesadillas on the grill. I say "we" cooked, but really Janine and Anoushka did so, on the fire that Craig built. My capacity for independent thought and useful activity had been severely compromised by an entire afternoon sitting shoulder-deep in the sea on a plastic chair, drinking beer***, so my role became largely ornamental. Luckily, I was wearing Speedos, so was at my most aesthetically-pleasing.
Once the remaining tequila had been polished off, synchronised swimming may have occurred.
Scrabble was attempted, but thwarted by someone which may have been me falling asleep mid-game****, then it was off to bed, ready for the early start next morning, for the 900km+ driving day of doom: Playa Buenaventuras to Ensenada.
* = Craig was last to succumb, at least partly because he refused to do so
** = Including a solo enormous fish, seen by Janine, and a repeat-leaping school of 20ish small fish which we both spied
*** = Amidst schools of the tiny yellow-and-black fish we'd dubbed mini-Nonus, after their larger like-colored cousins, which we called Nonu-fish because they were yellow and black and looked like they were wearing eyeliner.
**** = I suspect that if I'd had any vowels I may have had more success at staying awake. Having said that, I was a long way off the scoring pace, largely due to a complete inability to recognise individual letters, let alone form words from random collections of the things.
There's tequila on my shag-pile cushion - I can feel it through my Speedos!
Short Version:
Delicious foods, dangerous driving, return to an incredible spot
Long Version:
Before the speedos made an appearance, we needed delicious foods, and none of us could be arsed cooking after the big driving day we'd had. So we hit the road again, heading north from Playa Buenevanturas to Bertha's, first culinary star of our southward path. It was closed. And there was a truck full of gun-toting soldiers cruising the El Burro beachfront. So we carried on, a couple more kilometres north, to Playa Santispac and Ana's Bar and restaurant, where we'd purchased tequila and ice on our way through the first time.
Wonderful setting on a beautiful beach, incredibly friendly waiter guy, and
pretty bloody good food (and long-overdue beer!) combined to have us feeling pretty good, up until I realised I was about to have a crack at night driving in Mexico for the first time. Looking back on the experience, it's not something I want to be doing on a daily basis, but not the extreme horror promised by travel guidebooks, although that's entirely possibly due to good luck rather than guidebook insincerity. Having driven around half of the roughly 3000km we've now put in on Mexican roads, I can see all-too-easily how night driving could go horribly wrong horribly quickly. Indeed, we saw a bunch of road-workers on our way to the bar, digging and doing some concreting (at 8pm). We passed the same group walking along the highway on our way back, in the dark, an hour and a half later. We didn`t see them until we were quite close, which was a bit scary, and highlighted just how real the prospect of meeting one of the random cows, goats, and dogs we`ve seen meander out onto roads in front of us and other vehicles was.
Still, we made it back in one piece, then proceeded to spend several hours playing Scrabble and drinking tequila and swimming in the sea, in warm water with phospherescence and full moons*. Doesn't get much better than that.
* = In the sky, and in the sea
Delicious foods, dangerous driving, return to an incredible spot
Long Version:
Before the speedos made an appearance, we needed delicious foods, and none of us could be arsed cooking after the big driving day we'd had. So we hit the road again, heading north from Playa Buenevanturas to Bertha's, first culinary star of our southward path. It was closed. And there was a truck full of gun-toting soldiers cruising the El Burro beachfront. So we carried on, a couple more kilometres north, to Playa Santispac and Ana's Bar and restaurant, where we'd purchased tequila and ice on our way through the first time.
Wonderful setting on a beautiful beach, incredibly friendly waiter guy, and
pretty bloody good food (and long-overdue beer!) combined to have us feeling pretty good, up until I realised I was about to have a crack at night driving in Mexico for the first time. Looking back on the experience, it's not something I want to be doing on a daily basis, but not the extreme horror promised by travel guidebooks, although that's entirely possibly due to good luck rather than guidebook insincerity. Having driven around half of the roughly 3000km we've now put in on Mexican roads, I can see all-too-easily how night driving could go horribly wrong horribly quickly. Indeed, we saw a bunch of road-workers on our way to the bar, digging and doing some concreting (at 8pm). We passed the same group walking along the highway on our way back, in the dark, an hour and a half later. We didn`t see them until we were quite close, which was a bit scary, and highlighted just how real the prospect of meeting one of the random cows, goats, and dogs we`ve seen meander out onto roads in front of us and other vehicles was.Still, we made it back in one piece, then proceeded to spend several hours playing Scrabble and drinking tequila and swimming in the sea, in warm water with phospherescence and full moons*. Doesn't get much better than that.
* = In the sky, and in the sea
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Hell on the Road to Heaven
Short Version:
Soldiers are nicer than police officers, but we get to Playa Bueneventuras eventually
Long Version:
Leaving th
e air-conditioned luxury that is Wal-Mart La Paz for the incredible heat of the Wal-Mart La Paz parking lot was bad. Leaping into the oven-like Reaper was 
much, much worse. Luckily, some smarty-pants had bought a big bag of ice, and separated it out into four smaller bags, which went to live in hats,
around necks, and down shirts. And pants. We'd assumed the extra attention paid to us by the soldiers at the military checkpoints was because we're now heading north, but in retrospect the soaking wet clothes, hair, and van seats might also have been contributing factors.
No problemo with the army though - unlike the Police in Ciudad de Constitucion, who pulled us over, told me I'd been breaking the 40km/hr speed limit (I hadn't, at that particular point, having just pulled away from a traffic light), and took my driver's licence off me. "A guarantee," the older oficer with the large moustache told me. "You collect in the morning." Hindsight says I should have agreed, and left the thing there*, but the amount he wanted as payment for my "small infraction" wasn't high enough to justify the hassle, and the chance of incurring further, more serious untrue-but-prove-it charges meant we handed him the money. We think it was a tourist-fleecing lesson from older, more experienced (bigger moustachioed) cop for younger, less corrupt cop. With big gun.
Onwards, out of Ciudad de Constitucion**, through Ciudad de Insurgentes, and north-east, past Restaurant Miriam (Hi Miriam!), and back to Loreto, where last week's policia encounter had been much more pleasant, less scary, and less costly than this week's, despite having been based on an actual infringement (driving on the wrong side of the road) carried out in plain view of the policeman (Hi Officer Luis!).
No police action for us this time around, although we did hear a siren just after pulling a U-turn across a dual-carriageway. Not for us th
ough, which was nice. Stopped for beer and ice at Nick's Mini-Mart (Hi me!), then back on the road for the last 93km to Playa Buenaventuras, for another two days of beer in the sea, tequila, scrabble, kayaking, and reading books. Heaven.
* = Assuming, of course, that he was actually prepared to do the paperwork and make the false charge official. Suspect not, but not entirely displeased to have not put that to the test
** = Now renamed, intra-Reaper at least, to Ciudad de Cagar
Soldiers are nicer than police officers, but we get to Playa Bueneventuras eventually
Long Version:
Leaving th
e air-conditioned luxury that is Wal-Mart La Paz for the incredible heat of the Wal-Mart La Paz parking lot was bad. Leaping into the oven-like Reaper was 
much, much worse. Luckily, some smarty-pants had bought a big bag of ice, and separated it out into four smaller bags, which went to live in hats,
around necks, and down shirts. And pants. We'd assumed the extra attention paid to us by the soldiers at the military checkpoints was because we're now heading north, but in retrospect the soaking wet clothes, hair, and van seats might also have been contributing factors.No problemo with the army though - unlike the Police in Ciudad de Constitucion, who pulled us over, told me I'd been breaking the 40km/hr speed limit (I hadn't, at that particular point, having just pulled away from a traffic light), and took my driver's licence off me. "A guarantee," the older oficer with the large moustache told me. "You collect in the morning." Hindsight says I should have agreed, and left the thing there*, but the amount he wanted as payment for my "small infraction" wasn't high enough to justify the hassle, and the chance of incurring further, more serious untrue-but-prove-it charges meant we handed him the money. We think it was a tourist-fleecing lesson from older, more experienced (bigger moustachioed) cop for younger, less corrupt cop. With big gun.
Onwards, out of Ciudad de Constitucion**, through Ciudad de Insurgentes, and north-east, past Restaurant Miriam (Hi Miriam!), and back to Loreto, where last week's policia encounter had been much more pleasant, less scary, and less costly than this week's, despite having been based on an actual infringement (driving on the wrong side of the road) carried out in plain view of the policeman (Hi Officer Luis!).
No police action for us this time around, although we did hear a siren just after pulling a U-turn across a dual-carriageway. Not for us th
ough, which was nice. Stopped for beer and ice at Nick's Mini-Mart (Hi me!), then back on the road for the last 93km to Playa Buenaventuras, for another two days of beer in the sea, tequila, scrabble, kayaking, and reading books. Heaven.* = Assuming, of course, that he was actually prepared to do the paperwork and make the false charge official. Suspect not, but not entirely displeased to have not put that to the test
** = Now renamed, intra-Reaper at least, to Ciudad de Cagar
Todos Santos, Again
Short Version:
Hotel California is still awesome, we eat food, drink drinks, then leave Todos Santos again, with some things.
Long Version:
I've babbled enough about the Hotel California's general awesomeness already, so will restrain myself this time to mentioning only owner Debbie's particular marvelosity, and the next-level incredibleness of the top-of-the-line rooms she
put us in this time round. She said it was because she loves it when people come back, but I suspect she was extra-enamored if us b
ecause the Reaper started life as a CanadPost van - maybe it helped deliver her mail before she moved to Mexico. Whatever the reason, the rooms we had were something else! Massive balconies, massive beds, shaded areas and plants galore, and all done in a truly marvellous style.
We'd heard good things about a local eatery called Miguel's, so we walked there for dinner, along uneven concrete paths with occasional steps ranging in height from 2 inches to 2 feet. Miguel himself greeted us with handshakey activity, and thought it was hilarious when Janine pulled her hand away at the last minute and told hime he was too slow*. Good food, strong margaritas, and super-friendly staff. We were touched when a gringo woman and her 8ish-year-old daughter came in to eat, and the daughter had brought an A4-sized laminated photo of her and Miguel as a present for him. He had tears in his eyes as he gave her the massivest hug, and so did we, watching from two tables over.
The walk back from Miguel's to the hotel was a minor eye-op
ener. On the way there we'd taken the main streets, down three blocks and then over two. On the general principle that one should wherever possible take a different route on the way back, we hit some back streets, and saw a different side of Todos Santos, Dusty dirt roads and run-down shops that cater for locals rather than tourists. We finally got an answer to what a ferreteria was**, and saw a place which billed it
self as an "Ethnic Art Museum and Gallery," which had very few pieces, all dusty and all displaying a primitivism and style unlike anything we've seen elsewhere on the trip to date.
Next morning saw a return to Cafelix for breakfast, with Brasil v Portugal on the large television. Disappointing stalemate in the game, but great food and coffee. Then shopping, which was a mixed bag again - Craig and Anoushka had more successes than Janine and I. Then back to the hotel to pack and check out. It was even harder to leave than it was the first time around, but we had a plan that demanded we suck it up and hit the road***, northwards, to La Paz, and to Wal-Mart, for special things.
* = He repeated the trick on a later-arriving customer.
** = We'd assumed that it wasn't actually going to be a place that sold ferrets. It's not. It's a hardware store. Apparently the word comes from ferro, which is iron, and the most literal translation is "ironmonger"
*** = After one last futile attempt to negotiate the slightly odd guy at the big shop down to - or below - his colleague's original quoted price on the incredibly cool clay sculpture we'd been looking at. Arbol de la Vida - The Tree of Life - rendered in clay, painted matte black, this skull-festooned piece was very cool, and we totally should have bought it when we first saw it.
Hotel California is still awesome, we eat food, drink drinks, then leave Todos Santos again, with some things.
Long Version:
I've babbled enough about the Hotel California's general awesomeness already, so will restrain myself this time to mentioning only owner Debbie's particular marvelosity, and the next-level incredibleness of the top-of-the-line rooms she
put us in this time round. She said it was because she loves it when people come back, but I suspect she was extra-enamored if us b
ecause the Reaper started life as a CanadPost van - maybe it helped deliver her mail before she moved to Mexico. Whatever the reason, the rooms we had were something else! Massive balconies, massive beds, shaded areas and plants galore, and all done in a truly marvellous style.We'd heard good things about a local eatery called Miguel's, so we walked there for dinner, along uneven concrete paths with occasional steps ranging in height from 2 inches to 2 feet. Miguel himself greeted us with handshakey activity, and thought it was hilarious when Janine pulled her hand away at the last minute and told hime he was too slow*. Good food, strong margaritas, and super-friendly staff. We were touched when a gringo woman and her 8ish-year-old daughter came in to eat, and the daughter had brought an A4-sized laminated photo of her and Miguel as a present for him. He had tears in his eyes as he gave her the massivest hug, and so did we, watching from two tables over.
The walk back from Miguel's to the hotel was a minor eye-op
ener. On the way there we'd taken the main streets, down three blocks and then over two. On the general principle that one should wherever possible take a different route on the way back, we hit some back streets, and saw a different side of Todos Santos, Dusty dirt roads and run-down shops that cater for locals rather than tourists. We finally got an answer to what a ferreteria was**, and saw a place which billed it
self as an "Ethnic Art Museum and Gallery," which had very few pieces, all dusty and all displaying a primitivism and style unlike anything we've seen elsewhere on the trip to date.Next morning saw a return to Cafelix for breakfast, with Brasil v Portugal on the large television. Disappointing stalemate in the game, but great food and coffee. Then shopping, which was a mixed bag again - Craig and Anoushka had more successes than Janine and I. Then back to the hotel to pack and check out. It was even harder to leave than it was the first time around, but we had a plan that demanded we suck it up and hit the road***, northwards, to La Paz, and to Wal-Mart, for special things.
* = He repeated the trick on a later-arriving customer.
** = We'd assumed that it wasn't actually going to be a place that sold ferrets. It's not. It's a hardware store. Apparently the word comes from ferro, which is iron, and the most literal translation is "ironmonger"
*** = After one last futile attempt to negotiate the slightly odd guy at the big shop down to - or below - his colleague's original quoted price on the incredibly cool clay sculpture we'd been looking at. Arbol de la Vida - The Tree of Life - rendered in clay, painted matte black, this skull-festooned piece was very cool, and we totally should have bought it when we first saw it.
The Start of North
Short Version:
We escape from Cabo and Cabo, and become the youngest, slimmest non-locals at a fishing town
Long Version:
Started the day attempting to escape from San Jose del Cabo. Like La Paz, easier said than done, but soon enough we were back in Cabo San Lucas at the store we'd had recommended to us as the best place to buy "things." And many things there were, from person-high wooden faces to tiny plastic Day-of-the-Dead figures. Furniture, glassware, welded metalgoods and bins of tiles gave way to massive stonework out in the courtyard. Very little of it was what we were looking for, though, so we swung by Costco instead. It was air-conditioned, but again largely devoid of items of interest (except the pizza and churros on the patio outside).
So we hit the road east, past the massive resorts and luxury hotels, past the golf courses and the beautiful beaches, past San Jose del Cabo, then northwards and inland, past the Tropic of Cancer monument, and then we carved back to the coast at Buena Vista. We found ourselves a place to stay at Los Barriles, which had the biggest concentration of Americanos we'd seen the whole trip, excluding Cabo San Lucas. Very few womenfolk, probably because the place is entirely geared around sport fishing, which does tend to be a mainly blokes pursuit. So, the fat old American men with the enormous moustaches toddle on down to the beach in the morning, and are collected by whichever boat they're giving their dollars to. They're then taken out into the Sea of Cortez, where they catch a lot of fish. When they return, the fat Americans are unloaded first, and stand around watching skinny Mexican boys unload the day's catch and carry it to waiting pickup trucks. Especially large fish are weighed at the nearby game fishing club*. We saw only one such fish - a yellowfin tuna which we guesstimated weighed somewhere in the vicinity of 200 pounds - the vast majority of the critters whose lifeless carcasses we saw hauled from the boats were albacore tuna around 1-2ft long.
The room we nabbe
d was upstairs, with an ocean-facing balcony that caught the breeze wonderfully. We needed it, as it was pretty blimmin hot. We swam in both sea and pool, attempted table tennis and frisbee action, and ended up playing 500 while drinking pina coladas on the seawall. The evening saw not only more cards and significant lizard activity, but also beach walking and some swimming, possibly involving no pants.
NZ's last group stage match at the World Cup the next morning at 8, and we were at a bar. Drinking water. They didn't do breakfast, so by the time the referee blew time on NZ's participation in the tournament we were hungering. And as it turned out, the place we`d stayed at DID do breakfast, and did so really really well. The deliciousness was moving, and then so were we - northwards again, then back to the west for an hour, back to Todos Santos, and back to the Hotel California.
* = This place looked awesome from the beach at night, as its large covered deck was festooned with lanterns in a multitude of shapes, sizes, and colors.
We escape from Cabo and Cabo, and become the youngest, slimmest non-locals at a fishing town
Long Version:
Started the day attempting to escape from San Jose del Cabo. Like La Paz, easier said than done, but soon enough we were back in Cabo San Lucas at the store we'd had recommended to us as the best place to buy "things." And many things there were, from person-high wooden faces to tiny plastic Day-of-the-Dead figures. Furniture, glassware, welded metalgoods and bins of tiles gave way to massive stonework out in the courtyard. Very little of it was what we were looking for, though, so we swung by Costco instead. It was air-conditioned, but again largely devoid of items of interest (except the pizza and churros on the patio outside).
So we hit the road east, past the massive resorts and luxury hotels, past the golf courses and the beautiful beaches, past San Jose del Cabo, then northwards and inland, past the Tropic of Cancer monument, and then we carved back to the coast at Buena Vista. We found ourselves a place to stay at Los Barriles, which had the biggest concentration of Americanos we'd seen the whole trip, excluding Cabo San Lucas. Very few womenfolk, probably because the place is entirely geared around sport fishing, which does tend to be a mainly blokes pursuit. So, the fat old American men with the enormous moustaches toddle on down to the beach in the morning, and are collected by whichever boat they're giving their dollars to. They're then taken out into the Sea of Cortez, where they catch a lot of fish. When they return, the fat Americans are unloaded first, and stand around watching skinny Mexican boys unload the day's catch and carry it to waiting pickup trucks. Especially large fish are weighed at the nearby game fishing club*. We saw only one such fish - a yellowfin tuna which we guesstimated weighed somewhere in the vicinity of 200 pounds - the vast majority of the critters whose lifeless carcasses we saw hauled from the boats were albacore tuna around 1-2ft long.
The room we nabbe
d was upstairs, with an ocean-facing balcony that caught the breeze wonderfully. We needed it, as it was pretty blimmin hot. We swam in both sea and pool, attempted table tennis and frisbee action, and ended up playing 500 while drinking pina coladas on the seawall. The evening saw not only more cards and significant lizard activity, but also beach walking and some swimming, possibly involving no pants.NZ's last group stage match at the World Cup the next morning at 8, and we were at a bar. Drinking water. They didn't do breakfast, so by the time the referee blew time on NZ's participation in the tournament we were hungering. And as it turned out, the place we`d stayed at DID do breakfast, and did so really really well. The deliciousness was moving, and then so were we - northwards again, then back to the west for an hour, back to Todos Santos, and back to the Hotel California.
* = This place looked awesome from the beach at night, as its large covered deck was festooned with lanterns in a multitude of shapes, sizes, and colors.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Skipping the Little Bit of Amerika at the End of the Baja
Short Version:
Futbol, things get hot again, we find a balcony
Long Version:
Next morning was an early start, due to Janine-is-hungry. No televisions anywhere on the hotel property, which meant a foray uptown to watch Mexico play Uruguay in their final group match. The time zone difference between here and South Africa means we're watching at breakfast time, which is generally awesome, and especially so when we're watching at a cafe with quality espresso coffee and top-notch delicious eggy goodness (huevos buenos!) like Cafelix in Todos Santos. The whole town seemed to pause for the match, with schoolkids stopping in the courtyard on their way to school, most shops shut until after the final whistle, and pretty much no traffic on the roads. Mexico went down 1-0, but progressed to the next round on goal difference, which is good for us, as football's a great conversational opener, and one which lends itself well to miming when the words run out. New Zealand's valiant but ultimately doomed efforts have reflected well upon us, and bowing out of the tournament after a respectable showing and with Mexico still in the running probably will too.
We headed back to the Hotel once the game was over, and relaxed in and around the pool until the checkout deadline hit and forced us to drag our reluctant selves and our bags out to the van. The bags stayed in it, but we hit the town in search of best-example-at-best-price hammocks and hammock-chairs, glass- and silverware, and other items of Mexicana we wouldn`t know we needed until we saw them. Like wrestling masks. We looked a
t LOTS of stores, but bought nothing, as we`d been t
ipped off about a warehouse-cum-store at Cabo San Lucas - our next port-of-call - which had more variety at better prices. So we paused at our first roadside taqueria and ate delicious foods, then hit the road, for the last southwards leg of the Mexico journey.
Not long before we reached Cabo San Lucas, the temperature both in- and outside the Reaper went up a notch or two as we carved inland, away from the Pacific Ocean. That translates to a change from near-perfect levels of warmth, with just enough cool breeze to feel exquisite, but not enough to disturb... to a blazing inferno. Once again, the wind in through the open windows was akin to an enormous hairdryer on full, and the desert on either side of the road started to look more and more hostile.
Then we reached Cabo San Lucas. We might as well have been in LA. It was horrible. We looked at a tourist spectacle or two*, then got the hell out, as the store we were looking for had closed for the day. Eastwards, past massive resorts and luxury hotels, past golf courses with incredibly verdant, lush green fairways separated by stretches of barren desert, past some of the most beautiful beaches imaginable, where no-one was swimming due to the well-documented unfriendly currents, and eventually to San Jose Cabo, which was a perplexing maze of one-way streets, and baking like an oven.
The first hotel we looked at was basically some dirt-poor people offering to move their kids out of a room to make way for the tourists. The second was really expensive. The third was full. The fourth had a decent-sized room for a decent price, a decent-looking restaurant with a reasonably-priced menu, and a shady balcony upon which we took up residence, partook of delicious foods and drinks, and played 500. For hours. The waiter was quite young, and really helpful and nice. We practiced languages on each other, with various levels of success**, and tipped him well enough to make up for accidentally stealing his pen. We sat there playing cards and mangling Spanish and watching the undertaker from across the road head out on late-night collection missions and listening to the mangos plummet from the tree above us and crash onto the roof of the balcony where we were ensconced, or that of the car someone had parked next to it, for probably slightly longer than we should have, but eventually we figured out that every other staff member had gone home, and every light was off except where we were sitting, and that we should probably make ourselves scarce.
* = One.
** = The bit where my `definitely vegetariano` meal arrived with a pork thing and some chicken was disappointing, but I had enough carnivores around that it wasn`t a major. And the guy obviously felt bad about it, as he brought me an additional cheesy jalapeno quesadilla to make up for it. And some mangoes, fresh from the tree, when we asked what the noisy bombardment fruits were.
Futbol, things get hot again, we find a balcony
Long Version:
Next morning was an early start, due to Janine-is-hungry. No televisions anywhere on the hotel property, which meant a foray uptown to watch Mexico play Uruguay in their final group match. The time zone difference between here and South Africa means we're watching at breakfast time, which is generally awesome, and especially so when we're watching at a cafe with quality espresso coffee and top-notch delicious eggy goodness (huevos buenos!) like Cafelix in Todos Santos. The whole town seemed to pause for the match, with schoolkids stopping in the courtyard on their way to school, most shops shut until after the final whistle, and pretty much no traffic on the roads. Mexico went down 1-0, but progressed to the next round on goal difference, which is good for us, as football's a great conversational opener, and one which lends itself well to miming when the words run out. New Zealand's valiant but ultimately doomed efforts have reflected well upon us, and bowing out of the tournament after a respectable showing and with Mexico still in the running probably will too.
We headed back to the Hotel once the game was over, and relaxed in and around the pool until the checkout deadline hit and forced us to drag our reluctant selves and our bags out to the van. The bags stayed in it, but we hit the town in search of best-example-at-best-price hammocks and hammock-chairs, glass- and silverware, and other items of Mexicana we wouldn`t know we needed until we saw them. Like wrestling masks. We looked a
t LOTS of stores, but bought nothing, as we`d been t
ipped off about a warehouse-cum-store at Cabo San Lucas - our next port-of-call - which had more variety at better prices. So we paused at our first roadside taqueria and ate delicious foods, then hit the road, for the last southwards leg of the Mexico journey.
Not long before we reached Cabo San Lucas, the temperature both in- and outside the Reaper went up a notch or two as we carved inland, away from the Pacific Ocean. That translates to a change from near-perfect levels of warmth, with just enough cool breeze to feel exquisite, but not enough to disturb... to a blazing inferno. Once again, the wind in through the open windows was akin to an enormous hairdryer on full, and the desert on either side of the road started to look more and more hostile.
Then we reached Cabo San Lucas. We might as well have been in LA. It was horrible. We looked at a tourist spectacle or two*, then got the hell out, as the store we were looking for had closed for the day. Eastwards, past massive resorts and luxury hotels, past golf courses with incredibly verdant, lush green fairways separated by stretches of barren desert, past some of the most beautiful beaches imaginable, where no-one was swimming due to the well-documented unfriendly currents, and eventually to San Jose Cabo, which was a perplexing maze of one-way streets, and baking like an oven.
The first hotel we looked at was basically some dirt-poor people offering to move their kids out of a room to make way for the tourists. The second was really expensive. The third was full. The fourth had a decent-sized room for a decent price, a decent-looking restaurant with a reasonably-priced menu, and a shady balcony upon which we took up residence, partook of delicious foods and drinks, and played 500. For hours. The waiter was quite young, and really helpful and nice. We practiced languages on each other, with various levels of success**, and tipped him well enough to make up for accidentally stealing his pen. We sat there playing cards and mangling Spanish and watching the undertaker from across the road head out on late-night collection missions and listening to the mangos plummet from the tree above us and crash onto the roof of the balcony where we were ensconced, or that of the car someone had parked next to it, for probably slightly longer than we should have, but eventually we figured out that every other staff member had gone home, and every light was off except where we were sitting, and that we should probably make ourselves scarce.
* = One.
** = The bit where my `definitely vegetariano` meal arrived with a pork thing and some chicken was disappointing, but I had enough carnivores around that it wasn`t a major. And the guy obviously felt bad about it, as he brought me an additional cheesy jalapeno quesadilla to make up for it. And some mangoes, fresh from the tree, when we asked what the noisy bombardment fruits were.
The Hotel California
Short Version:
If you go to the Baja Peninsula, you should go to Todos Santos, and if you go to Todos Santos, you should stay at the Hotel California.
Long Version:
Stylistically a perfect amalgam of traditional Mexican and various small eclectic touches, with appropriate modern amenities, we fell in love with the place at first sight, threw budgetary sensibility out the window, and didn't want to leave.
This is probably one of those parts of our trip where plastering a bunch of photos about is far more likely to convey just how amazing the place is, but we might have drunk just a wee bit too much tequila and broken the camera.
So, highlights conveyed with words:
- The pair of long conical sconces made of rusted metal hanging from a wall, wide end up, each with a sphere nestled in the mouth. These turned out, on closer inspection, to be the heads of little people sitting in the cones, with their little hands wrapped around the lip. The cones were perforated by strings of Spanish words, and at night they were lit from within, casting words written in light onto walls and onto the skin of close bystanders.
- The tiles. Bedroom and bathroom floors, as well as the innumerable outdoor patio areas and niches, and at least the lower half of many walls, were tiled, with a huge variety of colors, sizes, and finishes on display. Many of the not-tiled areas were bricks made from some soft stone which had been eroded in places by the passage of countless feet over the years*
- The sticks laid across beams to provide shaded outdoor areas were reminiscent of the shade structures on the beaches, but had bougainvillea and other plants growing over them, providing not only more comprehensive shade coverage, but also splashes of color absent from the landward portions of the seashores
- The pool. Circular, tiled in blue, with steps of different heights and depths. The water was clear and cool, and the hymn-singing from the Catholic church next-door provided a magical contrast to the sight** of hummingbirds in the hibiscus
We arrived late in the afternoon, and spent time in rooms and pool before heading out in search of delicious foods. Which we most definitely found, at a small restaurant run by a chap who looked very much like a slightly bigger version of Sicoff (Hi Simon and Liz!). This was, we think, the first evening meal where we`ve all had something we`ve rated really really highly, and I`m not just talking about the drinks, which were delicious, sizeable, and really cheap. Local fish dishes for the ladies, shrimp for Craig***, and vegetarian tacos for me. Tacos here are not the brittle, impossible to eat without spilling fillings all over yourself, flavorless nightmares they are in NZ - rather they`re soft and pliant and delicious. Wish I`d found that out sooner.
Post-dinner we hit the hotel bar for another drink, and found ourselves in another incredible setting. Really, at every turn, the Hotel California just kept pulling new awesomenesses out of the bag, including the really cool patio to which we retired with a really big bottle of really good tequila to round off a fantastic evening.
* = The place has been around for a LONG time - there are a few photographs from many many years ago dotted around the place, and our collective rudimentary knowledge of automobile history has left us thinking they`re shots from the 1940s. We know from speaking to the owner (Hi Debbie!) that it had been essentially derelict for four or so years before she and her late husband purchased the place in the early 2000s and refurbished it. We`re glad they did.
** = And sound. For those who haven`t been up close and personal with a hummingbird, they`re surprisingly loud. Kind of like enormous insects, only without the revulsion****
*** = An unusual event, in that he`s not a big seafood eater, and a fortuitous one, as the local `shrimp` turned out to be what in NZ would be termed `really enormous prawns`
**** = Feels very much like I`ve said that before.
If you go to the Baja Peninsula, you should go to Todos Santos, and if you go to Todos Santos, you should stay at the Hotel California.
Long Version:
Stylistically a perfect amalgam of traditional Mexican and various small eclectic touches, with appropriate modern amenities, we fell in love with the place at first sight, threw budgetary sensibility out the window, and didn't want to leave.
This is probably one of those parts of our trip where plastering a bunch of photos about is far more likely to convey just how amazing the place is, but we might have drunk just a wee bit too much tequila and broken the camera.
So, highlights conveyed with words:
- The pair of long conical sconces made of rusted metal hanging from a wall, wide end up, each with a sphere nestled in the mouth. These turned out, on closer inspection, to be the heads of little people sitting in the cones, with their little hands wrapped around the lip. The cones were perforated by strings of Spanish words, and at night they were lit from within, casting words written in light onto walls and onto the skin of close bystanders.
- The tiles. Bedroom and bathroom floors, as well as the innumerable outdoor patio areas and niches, and at least the lower half of many walls, were tiled, with a huge variety of colors, sizes, and finishes on display. Many of the not-tiled areas were bricks made from some soft stone which had been eroded in places by the passage of countless feet over the years*
- The sticks laid across beams to provide shaded outdoor areas were reminiscent of the shade structures on the beaches, but had bougainvillea and other plants growing over them, providing not only more comprehensive shade coverage, but also splashes of color absent from the landward portions of the seashores
- The pool. Circular, tiled in blue, with steps of different heights and depths. The water was clear and cool, and the hymn-singing from the Catholic church next-door provided a magical contrast to the sight** of hummingbirds in the hibiscus
We arrived late in the afternoon, and spent time in rooms and pool before heading out in search of delicious foods. Which we most definitely found, at a small restaurant run by a chap who looked very much like a slightly bigger version of Sicoff (Hi Simon and Liz!). This was, we think, the first evening meal where we`ve all had something we`ve rated really really highly, and I`m not just talking about the drinks, which were delicious, sizeable, and really cheap. Local fish dishes for the ladies, shrimp for Craig***, and vegetarian tacos for me. Tacos here are not the brittle, impossible to eat without spilling fillings all over yourself, flavorless nightmares they are in NZ - rather they`re soft and pliant and delicious. Wish I`d found that out sooner.
Post-dinner we hit the hotel bar for another drink, and found ourselves in another incredible setting. Really, at every turn, the Hotel California just kept pulling new awesomenesses out of the bag, including the really cool patio to which we retired with a really big bottle of really good tequila to round off a fantastic evening.
* = The place has been around for a LONG time - there are a few photographs from many many years ago dotted around the place, and our collective rudimentary knowledge of automobile history has left us thinking they`re shots from the 1940s. We know from speaking to the owner (Hi Debbie!) that it had been essentially derelict for four or so years before she and her late husband purchased the place in the early 2000s and refurbished it. We`re glad they did.
** = And sound. For those who haven`t been up close and personal with a hummingbird, they`re surprisingly loud. Kind of like enormous insects, only without the revulsion****
*** = An unusual event, in that he`s not a big seafood eater, and a fortuitous one, as the local `shrimp` turned out to be what in NZ would be termed `really enormous prawns`
**** = Feels very much like I`ve said that before.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Leaving La Paz
Short Version:
We almost buy nothing, fail to buy what we`d sought, and almost fail to leave town
Long Version:
We bought nothing at La Paz* except a stupendously delicious breakfast, despite the best
efforts of a number of vendors. They had some very cool public art along their seaside boardwalk, and a water park with hydroslides which made it onto our to-do-on-the-way-back list, and a Wal-Mart which we decided to visit in search of fuses for the van**. First, though, we happened to stop to let a Policia ute do a U-turn in front of us, and found ourselves outside a weaver's co-operative. So we entered, and wandered about, and got directions to the local Serpentario*** from a man with a significant tic, and left having purchased blankets, because that's what you need in places where the ambient temperature has been pushing past the 40-degree mark.
The Wal-Mart had no automotive fuses, but did have beer and wine and really good tequila, really cheap, all of which we purchased. Then back to the Reaper and onwards to Todos Santos!
Or not. In fact, it was onwards to a random back-street section of La Paz. And a retreat, to the enormous whale-tail monument near the Wal-Mart. Then onwards, to Todos Santos!
Or not.
It took us three attempts to get on the road out of La Paz. When we finally found it, we were bemused by just how close we`d been on our first attempt. Then we were bemused by the quality of the road - far and away the best we`d been on in Mexico.
Todos Santos was nothing like La Paz, which had proved to be a sprawling modern Mexican city. Rather, Todos Santos was a large Mexican town which had retained significant amounts of charm while availing itself of enough modernity to enhance the quality of life. We passed straight through on the way to the surf beach at Playa Cerritos, but not without resolving to return that night or in the morning to shop and eat delicious foods.
As it turned out, we returned that night, after a surf-swimming experience which wasn`t all we`d hoped; the surf was there, and we swam in it, but there were some grunty currents dragging us up and down the beach, and threatening to take us further out than we were
comfortable with. Kind of like Piha or Bethell`s on a grumpy day.
So back to Todos Santos we toddled, and after a wee bit of an explore we found ourselves checking in to the coolest hotel we'd seen since Bend: The Hotel California.
* = I REALLY wanted the enormous hammerhead shark for the roof of the van, but a) it
probably wouldn't have fit on the roof, let alone inside; b) it wasn't for sale; and c) possibly not the best way to avoid attracting attention from policia and military folks
** = Now named "The Reaper," by virtue of the insect harvest which now completely cakes the front end
*** = Snake and lizard showplace. We didn't go, yet - it's on the list.
We almost buy nothing, fail to buy what we`d sought, and almost fail to leave town
Long Version:
We bought nothing at La Paz* except a stupendously delicious breakfast, despite the best
efforts of a number of vendors. They had some very cool public art along their seaside boardwalk, and a water park with hydroslides which made it onto our to-do-on-the-way-back list, and a Wal-Mart which we decided to visit in search of fuses for the van**. First, though, we happened to stop to let a Policia ute do a U-turn in front of us, and found ourselves outside a weaver's co-operative. So we entered, and wandered about, and got directions to the local Serpentario*** from a man with a significant tic, and left having purchased blankets, because that's what you need in places where the ambient temperature has been pushing past the 40-degree mark.
The Wal-Mart had no automotive fuses, but did have beer and wine and really good tequila, really cheap, all of which we purchased. Then back to the Reaper and onwards to Todos Santos!
Or not. In fact, it was onwards to a random back-street section of La Paz. And a retreat, to the enormous whale-tail monument near the Wal-Mart. Then onwards, to Todos Santos!
Or not.
It took us three attempts to get on the road out of La Paz. When we finally found it, we were bemused by just how close we`d been on our first attempt. Then we were bemused by the quality of the road - far and away the best we`d been on in Mexico.
Todos Santos was nothing like La Paz, which had proved to be a sprawling modern Mexican city. Rather, Todos Santos was a large Mexican town which had retained significant amounts of charm while availing itself of enough modernity to enhance the quality of life. We passed straight through on the way to the surf beach at Playa Cerritos, but not without resolving to return that night or in the morning to shop and eat delicious foods.
As it turned out, we returned that night, after a surf-swimming experience which wasn`t all we`d hoped; the surf was there, and we swam in it, but there were some grunty currents dragging us up and down the beach, and threatening to take us further out than we were
comfortable with. Kind of like Piha or Bethell`s on a grumpy day.
So back to Todos Santos we toddled, and after a wee bit of an explore we found ourselves checking in to the coolest hotel we'd seen since Bend: The Hotel California.
* = I REALLY wanted the enormous hammerhead shark for the roof of the van, but a) it
probably wouldn't have fit on the roof, let alone inside; b) it wasn't for sale; and c) possibly not the best way to avoid attracting attention from policia and military folks
** = Now named "The Reaper," by virtue of the insect harvest which now completely cakes the front end
*** = Snake and lizard showplace. We didn't go, yet - it's on the list.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Heading South
Short Version:
We watch football then drive south, meet the police, and find a place to stay in the city
Long Version:
Playa Buenaventuras treated us well again the next day, which was dominated by the sea. Particularly, sitting in it on plastic chairs, drinking beer. Eventually it grew dark, and we took the chairs and the beer to the house, where we added Scrabble to the mix. Beds were rearranged in response to the recurring, relocated biting ants, and we hit the hay for a great night's sleep, interrupted on ly by the occasional truck ignoring the "No Engine Braking" signs.
Up early again, but this time to the bar instead of the kayaks, to watch Nueva Zelanda v Italia at the Copa del Mundo. We celebrated the draw like it was a victory, rescued a tiny lizard from the jaws of the Manx cat*, then hit the road, south, towards La Paz.
Crazy striated mountains, cacti, wandering cows, heat. Holding a hand outside the (non-airconditioned) van was like holding it in the airstream from a giant hairdryer on maximum.
We stopped at Loreto for gas and snacks, and added it to our list of places-which-look-cool-enough-to-visit-on-the-way-back-north. At the start of my encounter with the Loreto Policia, I was inclined to look at removing it from that list, but by the end of the discussion, with my traffic transgression** no longer top of the agenda, I was back to feeling positively-inclined towards the place. Hi Officer Luis!
Onwards and southwest, to Ciudad de Insurgentes***, where we stopped for a driver change and a wee, and saw a toxic waste dump and some intestines. Not far away, though, was the most modernized/Westernized area we'd yet seen, which we're guessing may have been a post-hurricane rebuild. The number of small**** tornadoes we saw near the road - one within 10 metres of the van - certainly indicated that wind effects were not unheard-of in the region.
We made it to La Paz late in the afternoon, and after some no-street-sign exploring found the hotel we were seeking, which turned out to be awesome. Then out for dinner, which was great - especially the bit where the super-friendly waiter force-fed tequila to the drinkers. Beer til late, then sleeping, and now we're up and about to go shopping for turista stuff. I hate haggling, and don't actually want any of the stuff, so have assumed the role of the "no, it's too expensive, come on, let's go" guy. Nice to be useful.
* = The cat was ultra-cute, and loved Nene. They played a game of jump-up/put-on-floor for a while, then bar owner Mark took the cat outside and told us to watch the reaction. The cat attacked the welcome mat while staring daggers (or claws, as the case may be) at him
** = driving up the wrong side of a dual-carriageway boulevard
*** = City of the Insurgents, I think, which is a GREAT name for a city
**** = We guesstimated 2-5m diameter and 50-250ft high
We watch football then drive south, meet the police, and find a place to stay in the city
Long Version:
Playa Buenaventuras treated us well again the next day, which was dominated by the sea. Particularly, sitting in it on plastic chairs, drinking beer. Eventually it grew dark, and we took the chairs and the beer to the house, where we added Scrabble to the mix. Beds were rearranged in response to the recurring, relocated biting ants, and we hit the hay for a great night's sleep, interrupted on ly by the occasional truck ignoring the "No Engine Braking" signs.
Up early again, but this time to the bar instead of the kayaks, to watch Nueva Zelanda v Italia at the Copa del Mundo. We celebrated the draw like it was a victory, rescued a tiny lizard from the jaws of the Manx cat*, then hit the road, south, towards La Paz.
Crazy striated mountains, cacti, wandering cows, heat. Holding a hand outside the (non-airconditioned) van was like holding it in the airstream from a giant hairdryer on maximum.
We stopped at Loreto for gas and snacks, and added it to our list of places-which-look-cool-enough-to-visit-on-the-way-back-north. At the start of my encounter with the Loreto Policia, I was inclined to look at removing it from that list, but by the end of the discussion, with my traffic transgression** no longer top of the agenda, I was back to feeling positively-inclined towards the place. Hi Officer Luis!
Onwards and southwest, to Ciudad de Insurgentes***, where we stopped for a driver change and a wee, and saw a toxic waste dump and some intestines. Not far away, though, was the most modernized/Westernized area we'd yet seen, which we're guessing may have been a post-hurricane rebuild. The number of small**** tornadoes we saw near the road - one within 10 metres of the van - certainly indicated that wind effects were not unheard-of in the region.
We made it to La Paz late in the afternoon, and after some no-street-sign exploring found the hotel we were seeking, which turned out to be awesome. Then out for dinner, which was great - especially the bit where the super-friendly waiter force-fed tequila to the drinkers. Beer til late, then sleeping, and now we're up and about to go shopping for turista stuff. I hate haggling, and don't actually want any of the stuff, so have assumed the role of the "no, it's too expensive, come on, let's go" guy. Nice to be useful.
* = The cat was ultra-cute, and loved Nene. They played a game of jump-up/put-on-floor for a while, then bar owner Mark took the cat outside and told us to watch the reaction. The cat attacked the welcome mat while staring daggers (or claws, as the case may be) at him
** = driving up the wrong side of a dual-carriageway boulevard
*** = City of the Insurgents, I think, which is a GREAT name for a city
**** = We guesstimated 2-5m diameter and 50-250ft high
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Buenaventuras!
Short Version:
We find a nice place to stay
Long Version:
We were woken by the twin sounds of skillsaws and pelicans diving for fish. Straight into the water for a swim, we were not long out when Janine broke the toilet, and we decided to hit the road southwards sooner rather than later. A stop at Bertha's for a second breakfast of delicious foods was rewarding, then back in the van, south a few more km, to the Hotel Buenoventura! It was closed.
The bar wasn't, though, and Craig managed to negotiate with the owners the rent of their spare house for a couple of nights for a wonderfully cheap rate. The house is on the beach, and has either 2 or 3 bedrooms, depending on whether you count the one with the toilet in it as a bedroom or a bathroom. The peninsula which forms the far (eastern) side of Bahia Concepcion* sits across an 8-mile stretch of crystal-clear water which is teeming with sea- and bird-life. The peninsula itself looks inimical to any forms of life save maybe cacti, but looking back in to the shore we're staying on from out to sea has the same effect, so we're assuming a similar habitable zone where land meets water exists over there as well.
We've spent a lot of time in the sea, which is incredibly warm, and some time on it - kayaking to and around a nearby island, in hot pursuit of a pod of dolphins - and next to it, reading books, drinking beer, and playing scrabble. We've seen eagle rays, angel fish, a dead turtle, and fishing dogs**. We've watched fish jump - including a boil-up which we all turned to look at because of the incredible sizzling noise it made - and we've seen pelicans and blue-footed boobies in action. The only negative so far was the infestation of biting ants that attacked Janine and I at 2am, but we slept the rest of the night comfortably enough on the couches, and the bedroom's been de-pested today. The food's great, and the bar owners took a trip into town this morning, bringing us back beer and delicious foods for tonight.
If this is Mexico, then Mexico is really good.
* = Conception Bay, which is kind of scary
** = Two of the three dogs (Mona Lisa and Zora) which live here spend hours standing in the shallows, snapping at the fish which cruise by. The other one, Gremlin, won't go near the sea, and spends his time hanging out in the bar near the parrot.
We find a nice place to stay
Long Version:
We were woken by the twin sounds of skillsaws and pelicans diving for fish. Straight into the water for a swim, we were not long out when Janine broke the toilet, and we decided to hit the road southwards sooner rather than later. A stop at Bertha's for a second breakfast of delicious foods was rewarding, then back in the van, south a few more km, to the Hotel Buenoventura! It was closed.
The bar wasn't, though, and Craig managed to negotiate with the owners the rent of their spare house for a couple of nights for a wonderfully cheap rate. The house is on the beach, and has either 2 or 3 bedrooms, depending on whether you count the one with the toilet in it as a bedroom or a bathroom. The peninsula which forms the far (eastern) side of Bahia Concepcion* sits across an 8-mile stretch of crystal-clear water which is teeming with sea- and bird-life. The peninsula itself looks inimical to any forms of life save maybe cacti, but looking back in to the shore we're staying on from out to sea has the same effect, so we're assuming a similar habitable zone where land meets water exists over there as well.
We've spent a lot of time in the sea, which is incredibly warm, and some time on it - kayaking to and around a nearby island, in hot pursuit of a pod of dolphins - and next to it, reading books, drinking beer, and playing scrabble. We've seen eagle rays, angel fish, a dead turtle, and fishing dogs**. We've watched fish jump - including a boil-up which we all turned to look at because of the incredible sizzling noise it made - and we've seen pelicans and blue-footed boobies in action. The only negative so far was the infestation of biting ants that attacked Janine and I at 2am, but we slept the rest of the night comfortably enough on the couches, and the bedroom's been de-pested today. The food's great, and the bar owners took a trip into town this morning, bringing us back beer and delicious foods for tonight.
If this is Mexico, then Mexico is really good.
* = Conception Bay, which is kind of scary
** = Two of the three dogs (Mona Lisa and Zora) which live here spend hours standing in the shallows, snapping at the fish which cruise by. The other one, Gremlin, won't go near the sea, and spends his time hanging out in the bar near the parrot.
Mexican TV, Mexican Roads, Mexican Foods, Mexican Tequila
Short Version:
We drive a long way, eat delicious foods, see things, drink a lot
Long Version:
Our first Mexican morning was hot. We watched some Mexican breakfast television, which was completely incomprehensible. It appeared to be total chaos, interspersed with insanity. I'm pretty sure that it wouldnèt have made much sense even if we DID understand what they were saying. We hit the road, and found a petrol station, at which a short woman (not Janine or Anoushka) made a valiant attempt at cleaning the van's high windshield and was tipped accordingly, then we carried on south, past some bloody big trucks travelling bloody fast on bloody narrow roads, and past wandering cattle and roadworkers, both of which were seemingly unconcerned at the imminent carnage heralded by the 130km/hr approach of the big white van. Had our first up-close-and-personal encounter with the local flora and fauna when we stopped for a roadside wee; Janine saw a snake, and a cactus bit me. Could have been worse; could have been the other way around.
We saw turkey vultures eating a dead dog, we saw volcanoes (The Three Virgins), we saw the oasis at San Ignacio, and eventually we saw the sea, although not before we'd driven through the odour cloud generated by the Santa Rosalita rubbish dump and that of the fish processing plant. Sought and stopped at the Gustav Eiffel-designed church and heard the cheers as Mexico beat France at the World Cup. Next stop was Mulege, which was the coolest-looking Mexican town we'd seen yet, with tiny shops nestled in next to each other, winding, narrow streets, and clear evidence of hurricane devastation being set to rights.
One of the great things about Mulege was its proximity to our intended beachfront cabana destination. Instead of what we sought, though, we found Bertha's, a beachfront restaurant on Playa los Burros** which we liked a lot. The woman who waited and cooked looked appropriatey Bertha-like, and we noted that she snuck out the back and applied a lot of red lipstick when a group of Americanos arrived, but she cooked the best quesadillas, chimichangas, and other assorted delicious Mexican foods, and by the time we left she was among our favorite people in the world. She pointed us back up the road a few km to Playa de Naranjos*, where we found a cheap waterfront cabana to rent for the night.
And what a night! Apparently I ascended the van, claiming the stars would be clearer from the roof, all the while declaiming loudly about the relative merits of CHP Officers Jon and Ponch. I don't recall. I do recall some beer and some tequila, with some card games and some pelican-watching. A sheepish morning followed.
* = Orange Beach
** = Donkey Beach
We drive a long way, eat delicious foods, see things, drink a lot
Long Version:
Our first Mexican morning was hot. We watched some Mexican breakfast television, which was completely incomprehensible. It appeared to be total chaos, interspersed with insanity. I'm pretty sure that it wouldnèt have made much sense even if we DID understand what they were saying. We hit the road, and found a petrol station, at which a short woman (not Janine or Anoushka) made a valiant attempt at cleaning the van's high windshield and was tipped accordingly, then we carried on south, past some bloody big trucks travelling bloody fast on bloody narrow roads, and past wandering cattle and roadworkers, both of which were seemingly unconcerned at the imminent carnage heralded by the 130km/hr approach of the big white van. Had our first up-close-and-personal encounter with the local flora and fauna when we stopped for a roadside wee; Janine saw a snake, and a cactus bit me. Could have been worse; could have been the other way around.
We saw turkey vultures eating a dead dog, we saw volcanoes (The Three Virgins), we saw the oasis at San Ignacio, and eventually we saw the sea, although not before we'd driven through the odour cloud generated by the Santa Rosalita rubbish dump and that of the fish processing plant. Sought and stopped at the Gustav Eiffel-designed church and heard the cheers as Mexico beat France at the World Cup. Next stop was Mulege, which was the coolest-looking Mexican town we'd seen yet, with tiny shops nestled in next to each other, winding, narrow streets, and clear evidence of hurricane devastation being set to rights.
One of the great things about Mulege was its proximity to our intended beachfront cabana destination. Instead of what we sought, though, we found Bertha's, a beachfront restaurant on Playa los Burros** which we liked a lot. The woman who waited and cooked looked appropriatey Bertha-like, and we noted that she snuck out the back and applied a lot of red lipstick when a group of Americanos arrived, but she cooked the best quesadillas, chimichangas, and other assorted delicious Mexican foods, and by the time we left she was among our favorite people in the world. She pointed us back up the road a few km to Playa de Naranjos*, where we found a cheap waterfront cabana to rent for the night.
And what a night! Apparently I ascended the van, claiming the stars would be clearer from the roof, all the while declaiming loudly about the relative merits of CHP Officers Jon and Ponch. I don't recall. I do recall some beer and some tequila, with some card games and some pelican-watching. A sheepish morning followed.
* = Orange Beach
** = Donkey Beach
Let's go to Mexico!
Short Version:
LA, San Diego, Mexico, craziness!
Long Version:
The drive from Santa Barbara to LA ws surreal.
We set off at 1130pm, arrived at our LA hotel at 2am. By 3am we were asleep, having checked-in*, parked the van, purchased and consumed snacks**, and stood in the shower for ages. And drunk a celebratory `We survived beng lost in the desert' bottle of stout. We slept, unsurprisingly, rather heavily, right through to the bit where a jet-lagged Anoushka woke up 3 floors below us and tried to phone our room, via hotel reception. The caller we actually got was a somewhat surprised external party, and Anoushka was connected to an equally bemused different hotel guest. Eventually we were actually connected, and we met Craig and Anoushka in the lobby before heading to the dining room for our complimentary breakfast, which was surprisingly good.
After breakfast, we fluffed around a bit, and packed our stuff, and went to a mall, which was essentially a lot like a NZ mall only more so. We ate some relatively delicious foods***, then hit the road, bound for San Diego, which turned out to be full of enormous grey ships and homeless people. Also a really cool hotel which was cheaper than the nearby hostel, a classic car sales place with some seriously awesome vehicles, delicious foods, and Black Butte Porter poured from a growler while watching football on TV.
Next morning we were up early, moving the van from its overnight spot ($5 overnight, 6pm-6am. Compared to the $28 per-day parking at the hotel, getting up at 5:45am to shift the thing to a 75c kerbside spot right outside the hotel seemed like a good option). The hotel fed us a complimentary breakfast (bagel goodness) then we set off, Craig at the wheel, heading for the Mexican border.
We stopped briefly to purchase Mexican car insurance****, then headed to the border crossing. The Americans cared not one bit that we were leaving, but the Mexican Border Police found us intriguing enough to conduct a search of the van. They seemed particularly interested in the camouflage-colored backpack, which was unfortunate, as it was full of our filthy mountain-biking clothes. We think they must`ve found Janine`s sign language attempts at "We`re really sorry that our clothes smell so bad" kind of charming, because they waved us through soon after, although they may have just been so revolted by us that they wanted us gone.
Mexico!
With cries of 'Ayayayayayayayayayay!!!!' echoing through the van, we hit the motorway, rolling south. For about four minutes. Then we reached our first military checkpoint. The heavily-armed soldiers did some poking around in the van, and seemed especially interested in the camouflage-colored backpack, which was unfortunate, as it was full of our filthy mountain-biking clothes. One of them asked where we were from, and when told `Nueva Zelanda` he made a kicking motion with his foot and smiled, and waved us through. It`s good to be from a country which is playing in the football World Cup.
The rest of the day saw us drive around 800km through desert of various types. We hit many military checkpoints, some of which were kind of scary, some no problemo. At one the main soldier asked where we were going and why, and then asked if we were going to go surfing. We said no, just swimming, and beer. `Cerveza!` he said. ` Cerveza... and drugs?` I`d not been expecting that. `No, no drugs! Just cerveza!` He waved us through with a smile.
We saw some exorbitantly random driving (think Tauranga, only fast), dust, and cacti. Eventually, we reached the Vegetal Sanidad station at the northern edge of Guerrero Negro, where they charged us 10 pesos to spray the underside of the van with a cinnamon-scented liquid. Guerrero Negro lies on the border between north and south Baja, and is a town about which the guidebooks say "Unless you're here for the whale-watching*****, there's really no reasonm for you to stop, let alone stay." Harsh, maybe, but probably true. Unless, of course, your party has links to the salt industry, as Guerrero Negro is the source of one third of the world's salt. We didn't visit the salt flats, but we did eat disappointingly not-very-Mexican foods and drink beer from frozen pint glasses at the town's premier hotel, which had a very cool bar******, gourds growing on a trellis, photos of the salt works, and pieces of whale. And a room with some beds, in which we slept, soundly.
* = we'd found a special deal online and booked a Queen room, with free breakfast. Unfortunately for us, Air Tahiti were having logistical issues, and a number of their patrons were staying an extra night or three at our hotel, so the room we ended up with had two single beds instead of a queen. They could have given us a room with no beds and we'd probably have slept just as well
** = Corn Nuts! Why does no-one in NZ make and sell these? They are the awesomest, most delicious snack food. Especially the chili and lime ones, and especially at 3am. In LA.
*** = Americans seem to delight in listing what would, in NZ, be the primary meal feature as a secondary ingredient. "Lettuce Wraps" was chicken salad, with lettuce leaves one could wrap salad in, should one choose to do so. "Roasted Artichoke Pizza" features grilled chicken. Staying vegetarian requires extra vigilance.
**** = Canadian and US insurance companies refuse to cover your vehicle while it's in Mexico, so there's a whole separate industry based at the border where you can buy by-the-day or -week insurance to cover you during your visit
***** = It's not currently whale-watching season. We think we read somewhere at some point that the whales are here on their way up and down the coast during spring and fall respectively, but one of us may have just made that up.
****** = The pool table ate our balls.
LA, San Diego, Mexico, craziness!
Long Version:
The drive from Santa Barbara to LA ws surreal.
We set off at 1130pm, arrived at our LA hotel at 2am. By 3am we were asleep, having checked-in*, parked the van, purchased and consumed snacks**, and stood in the shower for ages. And drunk a celebratory `We survived beng lost in the desert' bottle of stout. We slept, unsurprisingly, rather heavily, right through to the bit where a jet-lagged Anoushka woke up 3 floors below us and tried to phone our room, via hotel reception. The caller we actually got was a somewhat surprised external party, and Anoushka was connected to an equally bemused different hotel guest. Eventually we were actually connected, and we met Craig and Anoushka in the lobby before heading to the dining room for our complimentary breakfast, which was surprisingly good.
After breakfast, we fluffed around a bit, and packed our stuff, and went to a mall, which was essentially a lot like a NZ mall only more so. We ate some relatively delicious foods***, then hit the road, bound for San Diego, which turned out to be full of enormous grey ships and homeless people. Also a really cool hotel which was cheaper than the nearby hostel, a classic car sales place with some seriously awesome vehicles, delicious foods, and Black Butte Porter poured from a growler while watching football on TV.
Next morning we were up early, moving the van from its overnight spot ($5 overnight, 6pm-6am. Compared to the $28 per-day parking at the hotel, getting up at 5:45am to shift the thing to a 75c kerbside spot right outside the hotel seemed like a good option). The hotel fed us a complimentary breakfast (bagel goodness) then we set off, Craig at the wheel, heading for the Mexican border.
We stopped briefly to purchase Mexican car insurance****, then headed to the border crossing. The Americans cared not one bit that we were leaving, but the Mexican Border Police found us intriguing enough to conduct a search of the van. They seemed particularly interested in the camouflage-colored backpack, which was unfortunate, as it was full of our filthy mountain-biking clothes. We think they must`ve found Janine`s sign language attempts at "We`re really sorry that our clothes smell so bad" kind of charming, because they waved us through soon after, although they may have just been so revolted by us that they wanted us gone.
Mexico!
With cries of 'Ayayayayayayayayayay!!!!' echoing through the van, we hit the motorway, rolling south. For about four minutes. Then we reached our first military checkpoint. The heavily-armed soldiers did some poking around in the van, and seemed especially interested in the camouflage-colored backpack, which was unfortunate, as it was full of our filthy mountain-biking clothes. One of them asked where we were from, and when told `Nueva Zelanda` he made a kicking motion with his foot and smiled, and waved us through. It`s good to be from a country which is playing in the football World Cup.
The rest of the day saw us drive around 800km through desert of various types. We hit many military checkpoints, some of which were kind of scary, some no problemo. At one the main soldier asked where we were going and why, and then asked if we were going to go surfing. We said no, just swimming, and beer. `Cerveza!` he said. ` Cerveza... and drugs?` I`d not been expecting that. `No, no drugs! Just cerveza!` He waved us through with a smile.
We saw some exorbitantly random driving (think Tauranga, only fast), dust, and cacti. Eventually, we reached the Vegetal Sanidad station at the northern edge of Guerrero Negro, where they charged us 10 pesos to spray the underside of the van with a cinnamon-scented liquid. Guerrero Negro lies on the border between north and south Baja, and is a town about which the guidebooks say "Unless you're here for the whale-watching*****, there's really no reasonm for you to stop, let alone stay." Harsh, maybe, but probably true. Unless, of course, your party has links to the salt industry, as Guerrero Negro is the source of one third of the world's salt. We didn't visit the salt flats, but we did eat disappointingly not-very-Mexican foods and drink beer from frozen pint glasses at the town's premier hotel, which had a very cool bar******, gourds growing on a trellis, photos of the salt works, and pieces of whale. And a room with some beds, in which we slept, soundly.
* = we'd found a special deal online and booked a Queen room, with free breakfast. Unfortunately for us, Air Tahiti were having logistical issues, and a number of their patrons were staying an extra night or three at our hotel, so the room we ended up with had two single beds instead of a queen. They could have given us a room with no beds and we'd probably have slept just as well
** = Corn Nuts! Why does no-one in NZ make and sell these? They are the awesomest, most delicious snack food. Especially the chili and lime ones, and especially at 3am. In LA.
*** = Americans seem to delight in listing what would, in NZ, be the primary meal feature as a secondary ingredient. "Lettuce Wraps" was chicken salad, with lettuce leaves one could wrap salad in, should one choose to do so. "Roasted Artichoke Pizza" features grilled chicken. Staying vegetarian requires extra vigilance.
**** = Canadian and US insurance companies refuse to cover your vehicle while it's in Mexico, so there's a whole separate industry based at the border where you can buy by-the-day or -week insurance to cover you during your visit
***** = It's not currently whale-watching season. We think we read somewhere at some point that the whales are here on their way up and down the coast during spring and fall respectively, but one of us may have just made that up.
****** = The pool table ate our balls.
The Last Ride
Short Version:
The Buckhorn Trail must once have been pretty cool to have been accredited IMBA epic ride status, but now exists only on maps and in memories.
We found this out the very hard way.
Thank you, Terry and Jan, for rescuing us.
Long Version:
The day started well, with a 730am start into a 2-hour climb up a dirt road. Snake and lizard tracks were visible, as were some of the critters themselves. Some great views, and both of us feeling strong on the climb. At the top of the hill, we turned onto the trail, and set off, gleefully, for the long downhill run into the beautiful Buckhorn Creek valley. Unfortunately, the trail quickly disappeared under a variety of plants, many of which had spikes. Wondering if we'd gone astray, it was reassuring that we kept seeing evidence of the trail's past existence as a rideable path, and it was bound to get better once we got to the valley floor, right?
Wrong. It got worse. Many places there was no trail at all, and where there was trail, it was fit for hardcore bush-whacking hiking at best. Machetes might've helped, but they'd've been something else to haul through the nightmarish 4 mile stretch. Which took us 4 hours. By the time we finally reached another trail sign, at Indian Creek, we were exhausted, I'd had two punctures, and we'd swapped roles of willpower donor and recipient for the first of several times.
I cannot adequately describe this horrible horrible section of the "ride."
The next few miles was almost pleasant - certainly by comparison to what we'd just endured! The sections where there was trail were mainly rideable, and there were almost as many sections with trail than without.
And then came the bad decision - we had the choice of riding the dirt road 10 miles back to a point halfway up the original climb and thence back down the road to the van, or carrying on as planned, down a riverside trail, past a reservoir, and onto the paved road near the campground below the ford. With the sun high in the sky and stupidly hot, we eyed the shady trees along the river and chose to carry on. Hindsight says: "You fools!"
In a surprising twist, given the map's accuracy thus far, the riverside trail turned out to not exist, and pushing the bikes through the deep, soft silt took most of the last of our energy. Eventually we pulled the plug, hiked the bikes dispiritedly back upriver, clambered up a bank to the road, and set off for the Ranger Station, because Rangers are helpful. Bear in mind that the Ranger Station in question was not the Ranger Station kind of near our campground, and that as a general rule they don't put Ranger Stations very close together. At any rate, the Ranger Station at which we eventually arrived was gated and locked, and no-one answered our calls for assistance.
It was a sorry-looking, bedraggled pair who limped into the camp area near the Ranger Station. Terry and Jan, we're really really sorry we killed your evening, and we're so incredibly grateful to you both for setting aside your nearly-cooked dinner and driving us two hours out of the wilderness to the top of the dirt road that led us homewards.
The slow leak in my rear tire and the gathering gloom were problematic, especially once the road ended in a quite-deep body of water and we were forced to go in search of a path. Horse people, your instructions on how to get to the road were invaluable, and the wee torch you gave us was brilliant.
We made it to the van at 930pm, 14 hours after we left it. It was pitch black by the time we made our way through the ford, and we used that to our advantage while getting naked and bathing with cold water and dishwashing liquid - to get rid of the poison oak oil - before dropping off the bikes (five hours late) and hitting the road to LA.
The Buckhorn Trail must once have been pretty cool to have been accredited IMBA epic ride status, but now exists only on maps and in memories.
We found this out the very hard way.
Thank you, Terry and Jan, for rescuing us.
Long Version:
The day started well, with a 730am start into a 2-hour climb up a dirt road. Snake and lizard tracks were visible, as were some of the critters themselves. Some great views, and both of us feeling strong on the climb. At the top of the hill, we turned onto the trail, and set off, gleefully, for the long downhill run into the beautiful Buckhorn Creek valley. Unfortunately, the trail quickly disappeared under a variety of plants, many of which had spikes. Wondering if we'd gone astray, it was reassuring that we kept seeing evidence of the trail's past existence as a rideable path, and it was bound to get better once we got to the valley floor, right?
Wrong. It got worse. Many places there was no trail at all, and where there was trail, it was fit for hardcore bush-whacking hiking at best. Machetes might've helped, but they'd've been something else to haul through the nightmarish 4 mile stretch. Which took us 4 hours. By the time we finally reached another trail sign, at Indian Creek, we were exhausted, I'd had two punctures, and we'd swapped roles of willpower donor and recipient for the first of several times.
I cannot adequately describe this horrible horrible section of the "ride."
The next few miles was almost pleasant - certainly by comparison to what we'd just endured! The sections where there was trail were mainly rideable, and there were almost as many sections with trail than without.
And then came the bad decision - we had the choice of riding the dirt road 10 miles back to a point halfway up the original climb and thence back down the road to the van, or carrying on as planned, down a riverside trail, past a reservoir, and onto the paved road near the campground below the ford. With the sun high in the sky and stupidly hot, we eyed the shady trees along the river and chose to carry on. Hindsight says: "You fools!"
In a surprising twist, given the map's accuracy thus far, the riverside trail turned out to not exist, and pushing the bikes through the deep, soft silt took most of the last of our energy. Eventually we pulled the plug, hiked the bikes dispiritedly back upriver, clambered up a bank to the road, and set off for the Ranger Station, because Rangers are helpful. Bear in mind that the Ranger Station in question was not the Ranger Station kind of near our campground, and that as a general rule they don't put Ranger Stations very close together. At any rate, the Ranger Station at which we eventually arrived was gated and locked, and no-one answered our calls for assistance.
It was a sorry-looking, bedraggled pair who limped into the camp area near the Ranger Station. Terry and Jan, we're really really sorry we killed your evening, and we're so incredibly grateful to you both for setting aside your nearly-cooked dinner and driving us two hours out of the wilderness to the top of the dirt road that led us homewards.
The slow leak in my rear tire and the gathering gloom were problematic, especially once the road ended in a quite-deep body of water and we were forced to go in search of a path. Horse people, your instructions on how to get to the road were invaluable, and the wee torch you gave us was brilliant.
We made it to the van at 930pm, 14 hours after we left it. It was pitch black by the time we made our way through the ford, and we used that to our advantage while getting naked and bathing with cold water and dishwashing liquid - to get rid of the poison oak oil - before dropping off the bikes (five hours late) and hitting the road to LA.
Friday, June 18, 2010
California!
Short Version:
A long drive. A short ride. Ladybugs.
Long Version:
Bio-security check at the California state line saw our campfire wood sniffed but passed as OK. Bloody enormous snow-covered Mt Shasta dominated the landscape, and was beautiful, from the road and from parts of the campground we found on the shores of man-made Lake Siskiyou. Not from our campsite though - it was perfectly serviceable, but we learned a lesson about allowing counter-monkeys to select the site for us from the number of as-good-or-better sites which were empty and had views. We did have hordes of matte black, military-style lizards scampering around, chasing each other and playing in the food storage locker. And there were stars in the sky, and showers, for the first time since the Old St Francis School. That's one week exactly for those of you who lack the skills to add things up right*.
We left relatively early, with an eye on the Interstate and a run for the south, with another IMBA epic ride near Santa Barbara - The Buckhorn Trail - before putting the bikes into storage and heading to Mexico with Doctor R and her trained monkey. First, though, we needed gasoline. And, as it turned out, tacos. At 1030am. For 49c each.
Gassed-up and gassed-up, we jumped on the I5, pushed the needle up to 75, and motored. And motored. And motored.
10 hours, two rest areas, three dead coyotes, a bunch of miles and one sunburned arm per person later, we stopped for more gas at Atascadera, then hit the coast and found a campground, which was insanely expensive, right next to a heavily-used main road, and populated by some really strange groups of people. Between the feral cats and the feral teenagers, I feared a sleepless night, but I slept incrediby well, and woke bright and early and ready to surf the net on a stolen connection while doing laundry. In the fog, which wasn`t what we expected from California.
Then onwards, on highway 101, south to Santa Barbara, to a local bike shop for advice and a map and some new shoes and gloves for Janine. The bloke hadn't done the Buckhorn Trail himself, but it was marked on the map he sold us, and he recommended Romero Canyon as a nice short ride we could knock off that afternoon before heading out to the campground at the start of the Buckhorn. We got stuck in traffic on the way there, which proved fortuitous in the end, as it meant that we crossed paths with a young woman (Hi Amy!) who rode up the hill with Janine, leaving me free to ride at normal person pace. They, of course, gas-bagged the whole way up, and by the time I arrived at where they'd been waiting for agesarrangements had been made to meet after the Buckhorn, and for our bikes to live in her garage for the duration of our Mexico sojourn.
A quick blast back down the hill, with a brief stop at the spot where the thousands of orange ladybugs were congregated, then back into the van and back north through the city and east over the mountains to Paradise Road into the Santa Ynez River Valley. Past a bar, past the Rancho Oso RV park, past a couple of Day Use Recreation Areas, and a pause at the western edge of a ford to wait for the opposing traffic to get through. Eventually we tired of being the politer party, and decided it was our turn. We took the foot-deep curved concrete path somewhat slower than some of the others weèd seen, then we were off up a side-valley to the Upper Oso campground, where we set up and ate and prepared our stuff and cleared with the camp host** to leave the van in an out-of-the-way spot the next day without paying for an extra night, on the grounds that we'd be back by middayish, then hit the sack so we'd be raring to go for the morning's early start, riding the Buckhorn Trail.
* = Killdozer, "New Pants and Shirt"
** = He was a nice chap. He had the dirtiest fingers I've ever seen
A long drive. A short ride. Ladybugs.
Long Version:
Bio-security check at the California state line saw our campfire wood sniffed but passed as OK. Bloody enormous snow-covered Mt Shasta dominated the landscape, and was beautiful, from the road and from parts of the campground we found on the shores of man-made Lake Siskiyou. Not from our campsite though - it was perfectly serviceable, but we learned a lesson about allowing counter-monkeys to select the site for us from the number of as-good-or-better sites which were empty and had views. We did have hordes of matte black, military-style lizards scampering around, chasing each other and playing in the food storage locker. And there were stars in the sky, and showers, for the first time since the Old St Francis School. That's one week exactly for those of you who lack the skills to add things up right*.
We left relatively early, with an eye on the Interstate and a run for the south, with another IMBA epic ride near Santa Barbara - The Buckhorn Trail - before putting the bikes into storage and heading to Mexico with Doctor R and her trained monkey. First, though, we needed gasoline. And, as it turned out, tacos. At 1030am. For 49c each.
Gassed-up and gassed-up, we jumped on the I5, pushed the needle up to 75, and motored. And motored. And motored.
10 hours, two rest areas, three dead coyotes, a bunch of miles and one sunburned arm per person later, we stopped for more gas at Atascadera, then hit the coast and found a campground, which was insanely expensive, right next to a heavily-used main road, and populated by some really strange groups of people. Between the feral cats and the feral teenagers, I feared a sleepless night, but I slept incrediby well, and woke bright and early and ready to surf the net on a stolen connection while doing laundry. In the fog, which wasn`t what we expected from California.
Then onwards, on highway 101, south to Santa Barbara, to a local bike shop for advice and a map and some new shoes and gloves for Janine. The bloke hadn't done the Buckhorn Trail himself, but it was marked on the map he sold us, and he recommended Romero Canyon as a nice short ride we could knock off that afternoon before heading out to the campground at the start of the Buckhorn. We got stuck in traffic on the way there, which proved fortuitous in the end, as it meant that we crossed paths with a young woman (Hi Amy!) who rode up the hill with Janine, leaving me free to ride at normal person pace. They, of course, gas-bagged the whole way up, and by the time I arrived at where they'd been waiting for agesarrangements had been made to meet after the Buckhorn, and for our bikes to live in her garage for the duration of our Mexico sojourn.
A quick blast back down the hill, with a brief stop at the spot where the thousands of orange ladybugs were congregated, then back into the van and back north through the city and east over the mountains to Paradise Road into the Santa Ynez River Valley. Past a bar, past the Rancho Oso RV park, past a couple of Day Use Recreation Areas, and a pause at the western edge of a ford to wait for the opposing traffic to get through. Eventually we tired of being the politer party, and decided it was our turn. We took the foot-deep curved concrete path somewhat slower than some of the others weèd seen, then we were off up a side-valley to the Upper Oso campground, where we set up and ate and prepared our stuff and cleared with the camp host** to leave the van in an out-of-the-way spot the next day without paying for an extra night, on the grounds that we'd be back by middayish, then hit the sack so we'd be raring to go for the morning's early start, riding the Buckhorn Trail.
* = Killdozer, "New Pants and Shirt"
** = He was a nice chap. He had the dirtiest fingers I've ever seen
Stuffed Stuff
Short Version:
A beaver and a cougar and a volcano and dairy gluttony
Long Version:
Left Lake Toketee with a bunch of new additions to our list of places to go ride, courtesy of Seattle folks Scott and Wendy and Fiona and Lulu, who arrived while we were asleep and were settling in for a couple of days' riding. They'd been en route to ride at Ashland - our next destination - but one of their friends had got there early, and had fallen from his bike and lost most of his teeth. We changed our plans and headed to California via Crater Lake instead.
A quick stop at the Toketee Ranger Station to confirm roads were open yielded viewings of a stuffed beaver and a cougar in a box, both of which were rather impressive. The cougar had really big feet. Armed with a bunch more pamphlets, we set off eastwards. Stopped and looked at several waterfalls but didn't go run up any, saw some pretty lakes and a weird-looking mountain, then paid our fee to a Ranger named Nanette and started up to Crater Lake.
Crater Lake is, like Lake Taupo, a bloody great volcano which has filled with water. Unlike Lake Taupo, Crater Lake is small enough (60m2 to Taupo's 240m2) that its craterness is obvious. Being atop a bloody big snow-covered mountain helps. The lake water was a stunning color, especially near the shores of Wizard Island and the submerged youngest volcanic vent, the Phantom Ship.
Drove down the southeast side of the mountain and into the Rogue River valley. Stopped for eating at a scenic gorge, then decided we had room to gorge and purchased ice-creams from a tiny shop. The shape of the salespeople should have been a clue, but observant me, left to collect the cones once completed whilst wife purchased drinks from the store across the road, didn't notice until handed the completed items just how much frozen dairyness had been crammed in to and on to each cone. Mine, a small cone, was bad enough, but some piglet had ordered a slightly bigger one, and what she got was basically a sugar-cone with a ball of ice-cream the size of a rockmelon perched on top. She made a valiant effort, but the sheer size of the thing, especially in combination with the filthy Dr Pepper* soft drink she'd bought had her feeling a little the worse for wear. Perfect time, then, for some winding road action down the Rogue River valley, across a couple of lakes**, and into Medford, where we found a Safeway*** and the sun.
* = This stuff is vile. Do not go there.
** = Americans not only build bridges across rivers, they do it across inconveniently-located lakes as well.
*** = And, therefore, free internet and delicious foods
A beaver and a cougar and a volcano and dairy gluttony
Long Version:
Left Lake Toketee with a bunch of new additions to our list of places to go ride, courtesy of Seattle folks Scott and Wendy and Fiona and Lulu, who arrived while we were asleep and were settling in for a couple of days' riding. They'd been en route to ride at Ashland - our next destination - but one of their friends had got there early, and had fallen from his bike and lost most of his teeth. We changed our plans and headed to California via Crater Lake instead.
A quick stop at the Toketee Ranger Station to confirm roads were open yielded viewings of a stuffed beaver and a cougar in a box, both of which were rather impressive. The cougar had really big feet. Armed with a bunch more pamphlets, we set off eastwards. Stopped and looked at several waterfalls but didn't go run up any, saw some pretty lakes and a weird-looking mountain, then paid our fee to a Ranger named Nanette and started up to Crater Lake.
Crater Lake is, like Lake Taupo, a bloody great volcano which has filled with water. Unlike Lake Taupo, Crater Lake is small enough (60m2 to Taupo's 240m2) that its craterness is obvious. Being atop a bloody big snow-covered mountain helps. The lake water was a stunning color, especially near the shores of Wizard Island and the submerged youngest volcanic vent, the Phantom Ship.
Drove down the southeast side of the mountain and into the Rogue River valley. Stopped for eating at a scenic gorge, then decided we had room to gorge and purchased ice-creams from a tiny shop. The shape of the salespeople should have been a clue, but observant me, left to collect the cones once completed whilst wife purchased drinks from the store across the road, didn't notice until handed the completed items just how much frozen dairyness had been crammed in to and on to each cone. Mine, a small cone, was bad enough, but some piglet had ordered a slightly bigger one, and what she got was basically a sugar-cone with a ball of ice-cream the size of a rockmelon perched on top. She made a valiant effort, but the sheer size of the thing, especially in combination with the filthy Dr Pepper* soft drink she'd bought had her feeling a little the worse for wear. Perfect time, then, for some winding road action down the Rogue River valley, across a couple of lakes**, and into Medford, where we found a Safeway*** and the sun.
* = This stuff is vile. Do not go there.
** = Americans not only build bridges across rivers, they do it across inconveniently-located lakes as well.
*** = And, therefore, free internet and delicious foods
Blessings Upon the Tubs
Short Version:
A ride, some golf, a ride, a crash, a soak, and some fried-egg sandwiches
Long Version:
The North Umpqua River Trail is best done as a point-to-point three-day ride, starting at Digit Point and ending 79 miles downriver at Stillwater. We're keen to go back and do that, preferably with a support vehicle to carry all our stuff. This time, though, we were doing two out-and-back daytrips from our base at Toketee Lake.
Because I was weak as a kitten with a wasting disease, and had sore hips and back after having been poisoned by my lovely wife, we swapped the planned order of the two rides, and hit the less-strenuous Deer Leap Segment of the trail first. I'm told that it was beautiful scenery, and wonderful, wonderful trail - fast and flowing, wandering up and down across the face of the slope. I remember very little. We rode about 9 of the 9.7 miles downriver before Janine decided that I was too feeble to continue, and we turned back. Riding back the other way was apparently also great, but more uphill than down, which was exactly what I needed.
Wives planning to poison their husbands then make them go on an 18 mile ride take note: Janine has set the standard, and you WILL be expected to push your husband and/or his bike up the hills on the way back to camp.
Back at the campground, we ate delicious foods (my first solids for a day and a half) then busted out the disc golf discs, and played our way around the area. Saw a brown frog and some very cheeky chipmunks. It was still raining, so we dug some drainage channels around the tent before bed.
They seemed to do the trick, as we didn't wash away overnight, and we set off in the rain, upriver on the Hot Springs Segment of the trail. At 3.8 miles long, this is one of the shortest segments of the North Umpqua River Trail. It was pretty nice to ride, and dropped us out at a fallen-tree bridge over the river by the hot springs from which the segment takes its name. Although not marked as such on the maps of the area, the trailhead there has - unsurprisingly - developed into a campground of sorts, and a bunch of people were packing up and heading off as we passed through and onto the [dramatic music] Dread and Terror Segment.
13 miles long, the Dread and Terror Segment is the part of the trail we'd heard most about. For most of the three hours we spent riding up it I wasn`t entirely sure why, but once we turned at Baughman`s Bluff and started heading downriver - the direction in which most people ride the segment - I understood pretty quickly. I`d not realised just how much climbing we`d been doing until I got to ride down it - we were motoring along at a good clip, and it was great! Some challenging bits, but mainly fast technical descending. The curves were sweeping and fun at the speeds we were travelling, and we were having a ball. At one point I spied a bare human footprint, which was only mildly bemusing until Janine didn`t appear for so long that I started walking back up the trail looking for her, at which point the prospect of either a sasquatch with a hunger or a local yokel with a different kind of hunger became cumulatively scarier with each passing moment. Turns out she hadn`t been carted off to be eaten or beaten, but had instead clipped the cliff wall with a handlebar and fallen down the cliff towards the river, 30 feet below. Luckily, she'd landed on her back on a rotten log 10 feet down and was able to scramble back up, dust herself off, and continue on, albeit slightly slower than beforehand.
Thirty minutes later we arrived back at the Hot Springs trailhead. We hid our bikes about as well as we did at Rainey Lake, then climbed the steep rocky path to the hot springs proper. The awesomeness was boundless. Six pools of vivid blue water surrounded by multi-colored mineral deposits. The pools stepped their way down the hillside above the river in sequence, hottest at the top and gradually decreasing in temperature. The second-to-top was the perfect temperature, and had a fairly sound wooden structure built over it, which provided welcome protection from the still-persisting rain for us and our gear. We timed our arrival really well in that one group of peple were leaving as we arrived, and we`d snaked past the family from Kansas City in Missouri on the way up, so we got the best pool, and kept it. The downside was that Missouri family Dad managed to convey to us on the way up that theyèd really rather not encounter any of the nudity that the trailhead sign warned of, so we wore pants until they left. And then gave the campers across the river a show when we stood up to dry off (we could tell from the cheers).
Putting the wet, cold, muddy riding gear back on wasn't the best feeling ever, and we were pretty tired, but some tooting helped get us up the last few hills, and pretty soon we were back at camp, cooking up fried egg sandwiches.
A ride, some golf, a ride, a crash, a soak, and some fried-egg sandwiches
Long Version:
The North Umpqua River Trail is best done as a point-to-point three-day ride, starting at Digit Point and ending 79 miles downriver at Stillwater. We're keen to go back and do that, preferably with a support vehicle to carry all our stuff. This time, though, we were doing two out-and-back daytrips from our base at Toketee Lake.
Because I was weak as a kitten with a wasting disease, and had sore hips and back after having been poisoned by my lovely wife, we swapped the planned order of the two rides, and hit the less-strenuous Deer Leap Segment of the trail first. I'm told that it was beautiful scenery, and wonderful, wonderful trail - fast and flowing, wandering up and down across the face of the slope. I remember very little. We rode about 9 of the 9.7 miles downriver before Janine decided that I was too feeble to continue, and we turned back. Riding back the other way was apparently also great, but more uphill than down, which was exactly what I needed.
Wives planning to poison their husbands then make them go on an 18 mile ride take note: Janine has set the standard, and you WILL be expected to push your husband and/or his bike up the hills on the way back to camp.
Back at the campground, we ate delicious foods (my first solids for a day and a half) then busted out the disc golf discs, and played our way around the area. Saw a brown frog and some very cheeky chipmunks. It was still raining, so we dug some drainage channels around the tent before bed.
They seemed to do the trick, as we didn't wash away overnight, and we set off in the rain, upriver on the Hot Springs Segment of the trail. At 3.8 miles long, this is one of the shortest segments of the North Umpqua River Trail. It was pretty nice to ride, and dropped us out at a fallen-tree bridge over the river by the hot springs from which the segment takes its name. Although not marked as such on the maps of the area, the trailhead there has - unsurprisingly - developed into a campground of sorts, and a bunch of people were packing up and heading off as we passed through and onto the [dramatic music] Dread and Terror Segment.
13 miles long, the Dread and Terror Segment is the part of the trail we'd heard most about. For most of the three hours we spent riding up it I wasn`t entirely sure why, but once we turned at Baughman`s Bluff and started heading downriver - the direction in which most people ride the segment - I understood pretty quickly. I`d not realised just how much climbing we`d been doing until I got to ride down it - we were motoring along at a good clip, and it was great! Some challenging bits, but mainly fast technical descending. The curves were sweeping and fun at the speeds we were travelling, and we were having a ball. At one point I spied a bare human footprint, which was only mildly bemusing until Janine didn`t appear for so long that I started walking back up the trail looking for her, at which point the prospect of either a sasquatch with a hunger or a local yokel with a different kind of hunger became cumulatively scarier with each passing moment. Turns out she hadn`t been carted off to be eaten or beaten, but had instead clipped the cliff wall with a handlebar and fallen down the cliff towards the river, 30 feet below. Luckily, she'd landed on her back on a rotten log 10 feet down and was able to scramble back up, dust herself off, and continue on, albeit slightly slower than beforehand.
Thirty minutes later we arrived back at the Hot Springs trailhead. We hid our bikes about as well as we did at Rainey Lake, then climbed the steep rocky path to the hot springs proper. The awesomeness was boundless. Six pools of vivid blue water surrounded by multi-colored mineral deposits. The pools stepped their way down the hillside above the river in sequence, hottest at the top and gradually decreasing in temperature. The second-to-top was the perfect temperature, and had a fairly sound wooden structure built over it, which provided welcome protection from the still-persisting rain for us and our gear. We timed our arrival really well in that one group of peple were leaving as we arrived, and we`d snaked past the family from Kansas City in Missouri on the way up, so we got the best pool, and kept it. The downside was that Missouri family Dad managed to convey to us on the way up that theyèd really rather not encounter any of the nudity that the trailhead sign warned of, so we wore pants until they left. And then gave the campers across the river a show when we stood up to dry off (we could tell from the cheers).
Putting the wet, cold, muddy riding gear back on wasn't the best feeling ever, and we were pretty tired, but some tooting helped get us up the last few hills, and pretty soon we were back at camp, cooking up fried egg sandwiches.
Sick
Short Version:
My wife poisoned me.
Long Version:
The road from Black Butte to Oakridge passes the McKenzie River, and it was a big call not to stop so each of us could ride part of the trail while the other drove the van to a meeting point. In the end, we just drove on by, then hooked left and up into the hills past the Cougar Dam* and Terwilliger Hot Springs**, and through to Oakridge, which was kind of a weird place, but with some neat features*** and a friendly local bike shop guy (Hi Derek @ Willamette Mountain Mercantile), who not only hand-drew me a map to and of the best of the local rides, but also pointed us at the best of the local "dirtbag camping" spots, which was pretty bloody good, with an eagle fly-by and our first campfire. The only drawback didn`t become apparent immediately; turns out we were camped quite close to the point on the road where the logging trucks did their unmuffled engine braking. At 6am. I was mostly asleep initially, then thought it was some enormous tetchy carnivore expressing a combination of hunger and/or ire before it started eating its way through tent wall and then us. I was trying to figure out from which direction it was approaching so that I could hide behind Janine, but the noise was so immense and so close it was impossible to tell. Then it stopped, so we went back to sleep. Repeat x 4.
I`d been feeling slightly odd since the previous evening, but it wasn`t until we`d had breakfast, and coffee, and prepped for the ride, and secured the van that I figured out that I was actually kind of really not very well, and that riding was not necessarily a good idea. Or possible. So we desecured the van, and changed back into fashionable**** casualwear, and hit the road with Janine at the wheel for the haul through to the campground we`d had recommended as a good base for those riding the newly-accredited IMBA***** epic ride along the North Umpqua River Trail.
By the time we arrived at Toketee Lake, Janine had racked up a bunch of miles on highways, byways, and the Interstate, and had done so with only one near-miss. And that was my fault. Sorry, guy in the red pickup who was in the lane I said was empty! We`d failed to find internet access or much in the way of delicious foods, but given how far I`d descended into the madness of food-poisoning, I wasn`t too concerned. My usefulness at camp setup was even more limited than normal, and the sleeping started pretty much as soon as the tent was up. Janine says I had a raging temperature, but I remember being cold despite the multiple layers of clothing, blankets and sleeping bag. I`m still not sure what exactly I said or did (or failed to say or do) that finally convinced her to poison me, but it was obviously only a warning because some time in the middle of the night the fever broke, and in the morning I declared myself cured, although feeble and still disinterested in food. Which is, of course, a perfect setup for a day on the bike!
* = The tallest rock dam in Oregon, apparently, with an air intake that sucked so hard it created small waterspouts. Also home to a grumpy-faced matte black lizard with spiky scales and a short tail which looked very much like it was military spec.
** = Named after Sideshow Bob.
*** = Really just the red covered bridge
**** = May not have been fashionable
***** = International Mountain-Biking Association
My wife poisoned me.
Long Version:
The road from Black Butte to Oakridge passes the McKenzie River, and it was a big call not to stop so each of us could ride part of the trail while the other drove the van to a meeting point. In the end, we just drove on by, then hooked left and up into the hills past the Cougar Dam* and Terwilliger Hot Springs**, and through to Oakridge, which was kind of a weird place, but with some neat features*** and a friendly local bike shop guy (Hi Derek @ Willamette Mountain Mercantile), who not only hand-drew me a map to and of the best of the local rides, but also pointed us at the best of the local "dirtbag camping" spots, which was pretty bloody good, with an eagle fly-by and our first campfire. The only drawback didn`t become apparent immediately; turns out we were camped quite close to the point on the road where the logging trucks did their unmuffled engine braking. At 6am. I was mostly asleep initially, then thought it was some enormous tetchy carnivore expressing a combination of hunger and/or ire before it started eating its way through tent wall and then us. I was trying to figure out from which direction it was approaching so that I could hide behind Janine, but the noise was so immense and so close it was impossible to tell. Then it stopped, so we went back to sleep. Repeat x 4.
I`d been feeling slightly odd since the previous evening, but it wasn`t until we`d had breakfast, and coffee, and prepped for the ride, and secured the van that I figured out that I was actually kind of really not very well, and that riding was not necessarily a good idea. Or possible. So we desecured the van, and changed back into fashionable**** casualwear, and hit the road with Janine at the wheel for the haul through to the campground we`d had recommended as a good base for those riding the newly-accredited IMBA***** epic ride along the North Umpqua River Trail.
By the time we arrived at Toketee Lake, Janine had racked up a bunch of miles on highways, byways, and the Interstate, and had done so with only one near-miss. And that was my fault. Sorry, guy in the red pickup who was in the lane I said was empty! We`d failed to find internet access or much in the way of delicious foods, but given how far I`d descended into the madness of food-poisoning, I wasn`t too concerned. My usefulness at camp setup was even more limited than normal, and the sleeping started pretty much as soon as the tent was up. Janine says I had a raging temperature, but I remember being cold despite the multiple layers of clothing, blankets and sleeping bag. I`m still not sure what exactly I said or did (or failed to say or do) that finally convinced her to poison me, but it was obviously only a warning because some time in the middle of the night the fever broke, and in the morning I declared myself cured, although feeble and still disinterested in food. Which is, of course, a perfect setup for a day on the bike!
* = The tallest rock dam in Oregon, apparently, with an air intake that sucked so hard it created small waterspouts. Also home to a grumpy-faced matte black lizard with spiky scales and a short tail which looked very much like it was military spec.
** = Named after Sideshow Bob.
*** = Really just the red covered bridge
**** = May not have been fashionable
***** = International Mountain-Biking Association
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Black Butte
Short version:
Last ride at Bend - for now! - and Black Butte action
Long version:
We'd seen our first mountain before bed on that day of the beards, but it was gone again by morning. The trails weren't, though, so we broke camp and drove 400m to the main Phil's Trailhead, and set off for one last blast in the forest at Bend before moving on.
What a ride!
Rode up the original Phil's trail, which was a near-perfect up trail (and proved almost as fun on the way back down) then a forest road to the top of Whoops, which we'd heard about from our McKenzie River shuttling Canadians. Turns out their high praise and repeat runs were not unjustified, and we also rode back up the road for another crack at it once we were done on the first run. Such a sober description really doesn't do justice to the sheer fun of the trail - it was great! Big berms on really really fast sections, tabletop jumps, and more flow than I can adequately describe. At the top was a combination seat/structure, which was slightly too scary to ride, and full of locals reclining when we first saw it, but which proved comfy when we perched on it for a photo before heading down the second time... which was even better than the first run, as we knew a bit more about what was coming, so rode just that little bit faster. After the second Whoops we powered straight into Ben's Trail, which was flatter and faster and almost as good. Then VooDoo into Grand Slam, which gave us some technical rock-riding, and then back down Phil's to the trailhead.
The friendly locals - who seemed to have a penchant for hardtails and 29ers - were the first we've met who've offered opinions on US foreign policy as part of their idle chit-chat, and recommended a local micro-brewery, which we hit before leaving town. They gave us small samples of 8 different beers, which got Janeine slightly pissed, which meant she bought heaps of stuff. Nice sales technique! I'm not complaining though - I ended up with a fancy new "Black Butte Porter" cycling shirt to ride in.
We headed northwest through Sisters and camped in the woods at the foot of Black Butte itself, next to a massive orange-trunked pine. I believe the Amerikans call these "white" pines. The forest was very cool, and even more so in the morning with sun on it, once it had risen over Black Butte. Pancake breakfast and some trip planning then we set off up Black Butte to see what we could see.
What we could see, as it turned out, was lizards and mountains and burned trees and glacial valleys and historical structures and friendly locals (Hi Ron Ross! Hi William Bartholemew Coleman Horsell Jr VII!). The sun was out, and it was warm except where the alpine wind whipped across whichever face we were on. Awesome views from the top, with a bunch of the Cascade Range volcanoes showing their faces; Broken Top, two of the Three Sisters, Gnarled Butte, Belknap Crater, Mt Washington, Mt Jefferson, and even the top of far-off Mt Hood, where we stayed and rode what seems like an age ago. Lizards galore, big fat chipmunks*, and a bird having a bath in a puddle complemented the three ages of fire-watch structures, the need for which was evidenced by the large areas of burned forest visible both on and around Black Butte. Unlike NZ, where they're lit by subhumans, forest fires here are generally lightning-induced, apparently, which makes it seem less tragic and offensive than otherwise.
Back to the trailhead for noodles, then off to Oakridge to ride their apparently stupendous trails - hoorah!
* = For some reason, the chipmunks in and around the Bend trails were all tiny. And had a penchant for running out in front of bikes. Maybe the two are connected.
Last ride at Bend - for now! - and Black Butte action
Long version:
We'd seen our first mountain before bed on that day of the beards, but it was gone again by morning. The trails weren't, though, so we broke camp and drove 400m to the main Phil's Trailhead, and set off for one last blast in the forest at Bend before moving on.
What a ride!
Rode up the original Phil's trail, which was a near-perfect up trail (and proved almost as fun on the way back down) then a forest road to the top of Whoops, which we'd heard about from our McKenzie River shuttling Canadians. Turns out their high praise and repeat runs were not unjustified, and we also rode back up the road for another crack at it once we were done on the first run. Such a sober description really doesn't do justice to the sheer fun of the trail - it was great! Big berms on really really fast sections, tabletop jumps, and more flow than I can adequately describe. At the top was a combination seat/structure, which was slightly too scary to ride, and full of locals reclining when we first saw it, but which proved comfy when we perched on it for a photo before heading down the second time... which was even better than the first run, as we knew a bit more about what was coming, so rode just that little bit faster. After the second Whoops we powered straight into Ben's Trail, which was flatter and faster and almost as good. Then VooDoo into Grand Slam, which gave us some technical rock-riding, and then back down Phil's to the trailhead.
The friendly locals - who seemed to have a penchant for hardtails and 29ers - were the first we've met who've offered opinions on US foreign policy as part of their idle chit-chat, and recommended a local micro-brewery, which we hit before leaving town. They gave us small samples of 8 different beers, which got Janeine slightly pissed, which meant she bought heaps of stuff. Nice sales technique! I'm not complaining though - I ended up with a fancy new "Black Butte Porter" cycling shirt to ride in.
We headed northwest through Sisters and camped in the woods at the foot of Black Butte itself, next to a massive orange-trunked pine. I believe the Amerikans call these "white" pines. The forest was very cool, and even more so in the morning with sun on it, once it had risen over Black Butte. Pancake breakfast and some trip planning then we set off up Black Butte to see what we could see.
What we could see, as it turned out, was lizards and mountains and burned trees and glacial valleys and historical structures and friendly locals (Hi Ron Ross! Hi William Bartholemew Coleman Horsell Jr VII!). The sun was out, and it was warm except where the alpine wind whipped across whichever face we were on. Awesome views from the top, with a bunch of the Cascade Range volcanoes showing their faces; Broken Top, two of the Three Sisters, Gnarled Butte, Belknap Crater, Mt Washington, Mt Jefferson, and even the top of far-off Mt Hood, where we stayed and rode what seems like an age ago. Lizards galore, big fat chipmunks*, and a bird having a bath in a puddle complemented the three ages of fire-watch structures, the need for which was evidenced by the large areas of burned forest visible both on and around Black Butte. Unlike NZ, where they're lit by subhumans, forest fires here are generally lightning-induced, apparently, which makes it seem less tragic and offensive than otherwise.
Back to the trailhead for noodles, then off to Oakridge to ride their apparently stupendous trails - hoorah!
* = For some reason, the chipmunks in and around the Bend trails were all tiny. And had a penchant for running out in front of bikes. Maybe the two are connected.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Hairy Luxury
Short Version:
Clean, fed, and watered, we soak in a hot pool, sleep like the dead, then hit a mobile human zoo before going feral again
Long Version:
Most people checking in to the Old St. Francis School Hotel probably don't look - or smell - quite so feral as we did. To his credit, the bloke at the front desk* took it in stride, and gave the impression of taking a shine to us. He gave us the facilities talk, and the art tour basics, and set us free to roam around and do stuff.
And boy, did we do stuff! We clogged their internets, and we showered**, and then we went to the front pub and we drank delicious beer and we ate delicious foods and then we repeated both of those things. In response to a slightly wishful-thinking question, our helpful serverman*** told us we were not allowed to take glass into the soaking pool
, nor alcoholic beverages, but suggested that if we were to pour our recently-purchased pitcher of brewed-on-the-premises delicious Terminator Stout into the handy, opaque paper cups he just happened to have lying around, nobody in a position of rule-enforcement would be any the wiser vis our nefarious activities. And he was mainly right, as the challenge, when it came, came from front-desk* man, and consisted of a smiling "That's water in those cups, right?"
A mumbled reply saved us from outright lies in the pursuit of libation, and we were soon making our circuitous way past two separate outdoor smoker-banishment areas, one theatre-pub, and one busy bar to the soaking pool, which was Turkish-styled, with tiled frescoes on the walls, a fountain in the middle, and stone lion-things spouting water from their mouths. Oh, and a skylight open to the stars.
It was very cool, but was almost the scene of a horrific occurrence; I realised just as I started to remov
e my hotel robe that when we'd gone back to our room to change from fashionable**** out-in-public clothing to swimwear-under-hotel-robes, I'd neglected to complete the transition, and was, in fact, not wearing anything under the hotel robe. Which suddenly felt awfully flimsy and hospital-gown-revealment-inclined as I scuttled back through the bars, and the corridors, and past the women who said I was cute and tried to peek under my robe, and eventually to the Dolores Friberg Room*****, which has, I`m sure, never been quite such a welcoming sanctuary as it was for me that night. Finally, pants were mine! I almost stopped at the bar on the way back to the pool, such was my newfound chutzpah. Instead, I slipped into the pool area, conducted one final make-sure-there-are-pants check, picked up my paper cup and stepped into the pool, and into bliss. Nene was already zoned-out on how awesome the hot water felt on sore muscles, and it didn`t take me long to catch up. Before long, though, the warm water on top of the hardcoreness of the day had us drowsy, so back to Dolores Friberg we trundled, and into the enormous bed, where we both crashed, near-instantly, and slept past the alarm I`d set for the morning`s mass hot-air balloon launch.
When we did arise, there was a flurry of activity, mainly from Janine, who`s planning our Mexico trip. Eventually she tired of the whining, and we went and ate delicious foods, then she did some more planning while I made some sneaky feral-preparations in cahoots with the morning front-desk* guy, who was only a few months into a 'normal' lifestyle, having lived free in the woods for the last couple of years.
All-too-s
oon it was time for one last pool soak before checkout and then we were paying our bill and hauling our crap to the van. Set off - in the SUN! - to see the town, and walked straight into the Team USA - World Beard and Moustache Championships Procession. We just about died from the sheer awesomeness; hundreds of fantastically-bearded and -moustachioed men (and a few women) parading through the city centre en route to the (massive!) convention centre, where the competing and judgi
ng - by Miss USA herself, no less! - and all-night partying was to take place. We tagged along, massive grins alternating with wonderment on our faces as the fluidity of the procession brought an ever-changing spectacle of hirsuteness before our wandering eyes. Before long, we`d walked a mile in their company, and were a-thirsting. Luckily, `twas the day of good things happening to those who are clean, and 'our' parade ran headlong into the Balloons Over Bend Festival, where we found a) a place to stop, and rest a while, and photograph the beards as their caretakers paraded them past us, b) refreshments, and c) delicious hot sauce in a bottle, which we purchased from a cheerful blind negro man******.
All bearded out and hot-sauced-up, we meandered back to the van, drove out to the woods via a laundromat with free wi-fi and a by-the-slice pizzeria next-door. Pitched our tent in an isolated spot and slept like logs til late the next morning.
* = Which was kind of at the side, and visible from the back, but not from the front.
** = probably clogged the drains, with the amount of forest and planet that came off us
*** = I've long been an opponent of tipping waitstaff, on the grounds that they're being paid already out of the moneys I'm already laying down for my drinking/dining experience; i.e. I'm already giving them moneys to service my needs. I'm starting to change my tune, though, as I'm exposed to the kind of service one receives when the amount of moneys the servitor receives is directly pinned to the type of service they provide.
**** = May not have been fashionable.
***** = Named for the school`s first secretary, who held the post for 25 or so years. The portrait in the room made her look like a very nice lady. From the photos we saw elsewhere in the complex, I think I`m glad we were in Dolores, and not in Father Luke.
****** = may not have been blind.
Clean, fed, and watered, we soak in a hot pool, sleep like the dead, then hit a mobile human zoo before going feral again
Long Version:
Most people checking in to the Old St. Francis School Hotel probably don't look - or smell - quite so feral as we did. To his credit, the bloke at the front desk* took it in stride, and gave the impression of taking a shine to us. He gave us the facilities talk, and the art tour basics, and set us free to roam around and do stuff.
And boy, did we do stuff! We clogged their internets, and we showered**, and then we went to the front pub and we drank delicious beer and we ate delicious foods and then we repeated both of those things. In response to a slightly wishful-thinking question, our helpful serverman*** told us we were not allowed to take glass into the soaking pool
, nor alcoholic beverages, but suggested that if we were to pour our recently-purchased pitcher of brewed-on-the-premises delicious Terminator Stout into the handy, opaque paper cups he just happened to have lying around, nobody in a position of rule-enforcement would be any the wiser vis our nefarious activities. And he was mainly right, as the challenge, when it came, came from front-desk* man, and consisted of a smiling "That's water in those cups, right?"A mumbled reply saved us from outright lies in the pursuit of libation, and we were soon making our circuitous way past two separate outdoor smoker-banishment areas, one theatre-pub, and one busy bar to the soaking pool, which was Turkish-styled, with tiled frescoes on the walls, a fountain in the middle, and stone lion-things spouting water from their mouths. Oh, and a skylight open to the stars.
It was very cool, but was almost the scene of a horrific occurrence; I realised just as I started to remov
e my hotel robe that when we'd gone back to our room to change from fashionable**** out-in-public clothing to swimwear-under-hotel-robes, I'd neglected to complete the transition, and was, in fact, not wearing anything under the hotel robe. Which suddenly felt awfully flimsy and hospital-gown-revealment-inclined as I scuttled back through the bars, and the corridors, and past the women who said I was cute and tried to peek under my robe, and eventually to the Dolores Friberg Room*****, which has, I`m sure, never been quite such a welcoming sanctuary as it was for me that night. Finally, pants were mine! I almost stopped at the bar on the way back to the pool, such was my newfound chutzpah. Instead, I slipped into the pool area, conducted one final make-sure-there-are-pants check, picked up my paper cup and stepped into the pool, and into bliss. Nene was already zoned-out on how awesome the hot water felt on sore muscles, and it didn`t take me long to catch up. Before long, though, the warm water on top of the hardcoreness of the day had us drowsy, so back to Dolores Friberg we trundled, and into the enormous bed, where we both crashed, near-instantly, and slept past the alarm I`d set for the morning`s mass hot-air balloon launch.When we did arise, there was a flurry of activity, mainly from Janine, who`s planning our Mexico trip. Eventually she tired of the whining, and we went and ate delicious foods, then she did some more planning while I made some sneaky feral-preparations in cahoots with the morning front-desk* guy, who was only a few months into a 'normal' lifestyle, having lived free in the woods for the last couple of years.
All-too-s
oon it was time for one last pool soak before checkout and then we were paying our bill and hauling our crap to the van. Set off - in the SUN! - to see the town, and walked straight into the Team USA - World Beard and Moustache Championships Procession. We just about died from the sheer awesomeness; hundreds of fantastically-bearded and -moustachioed men (and a few women) parading through the city centre en route to the (massive!) convention centre, where the competing and judgi
ng - by Miss USA herself, no less! - and all-night partying was to take place. We tagged along, massive grins alternating with wonderment on our faces as the fluidity of the procession brought an ever-changing spectacle of hirsuteness before our wandering eyes. Before long, we`d walked a mile in their company, and were a-thirsting. Luckily, `twas the day of good things happening to those who are clean, and 'our' parade ran headlong into the Balloons Over Bend Festival, where we found a) a place to stop, and rest a while, and photograph the beards as their caretakers paraded them past us, b) refreshments, and c) delicious hot sauce in a bottle, which we purchased from a cheerful blind negro man******.All bearded out and hot-sauced-up, we meandered back to the van, drove out to the woods via a laundromat with free wi-fi and a by-the-slice pizzeria next-door. Pitched our tent in an isolated spot and slept like logs til late the next morning.
* = Which was kind of at the side, and visible from the back, but not from the front.
** = probably clogged the drains, with the amount of forest and planet that came off us
*** = I've long been an opponent of tipping waitstaff, on the grounds that they're being paid already out of the moneys I'm already laying down for my drinking/dining experience; i.e. I'm already giving them moneys to service my needs. I'm starting to change my tune, though, as I'm exposed to the kind of service one receives when the amount of moneys the servitor receives is directly pinned to the type of service they provide.
**** = May not have been fashionable.
***** = Named for the school`s first secretary, who held the post for 25 or so years. The portrait in the room made her look like a very nice lady. From the photos we saw elsewhere in the complex, I think I`m glad we were in Dolores, and not in Father Luke.
****** = may not have been blind.
Janine's Thoughts on the McKenzie River Trail
- Muddy fun
- The forest was amazing
- The force of the river after the rain was crazy!
- Nick is cool
- Technical dream track
- Just when I'd had enough of the technical stuff, it switched to being flowy
- Nick is awesome
- In the dry, it would be stupidly fast, with lots of near-misses with trees
- I wish I was as cool as Nick
- The forest was amazing
- The force of the river after the rain was crazy!
- Nick is cool
- Technical dream track
- Just when I'd had enough of the technical stuff, it switched to being flowy
- Nick is awesome
- In the dry, it would be stupidly fast, with lots of near-misses with trees
- I wish I was as cool as Nick
We Like the McKenzie River
Short version:
The McKenzie River trail is a must-do for anyone who likes to ride bikes in forests, and is fit enough to ride for a few hours. Seriously, go do it.
Long version:
Woke bright and early, apart from the bright part. I'd been awake off and on all night, what with the downpour going on outside and the random firearms discharges coming from somewhere to our northwest, and relatively close by. I'd not been much concerned when the first barrage was unleashed in the evening, but the sustained fire at 00:45 had me awake for a while, just in case I needed to go out in the rain in my underwear to face people who were blowing stuff to bits with a variety of weapons in the middle of the night. When I eventually went to sleep I woke repeatedly, for reasons I couldn't determine at the time but which turned out to have most likely been the rain that was falling inside the tent. On me. Not on Janine. I finally got to sleep properly at around the time we had to get up to break camp and go catch our shuttle. I blame sleep deprivation for looking the wrong way at the roundabout twenty feet from our destination and almost collecting the chap in the Jeep. Sorry, chap in the Jeep!
Loaded bikes onto the shuttle's roof and rear racks and piled in alongside two blokes from Vancouver Island and one from Alberta (Hi, Nelson, Paul and Garth!). Stopped at a town called Sisters for baked goods* and caffeine, then back on the road, over a couple of mountain passes and in to the trailhead for map briefing with driver Sarah**. And then we were off, in the pouring rain, blasting down muddy forest trails, loving every minute***.
Our first navigation responsibility transfer came after Janine directed us back up the eastern, difficult-riding side of Clear Lake after we'd ridden down the western, wetter-but-easier side. Cool to see the blatantly volcanic terrain - lava fields reminiscent of Rangitoto - and to ride some of the tough stuff, but adding 40 minutes to an already-lengthy expedition wasn't in the original plan. Second transfer came when I took us down to the Sahallie Falls instead of over the narrow bridge to the other side of the river. Not a major detour, and not only our Canadians but also the couple from Vancouver we met on our way back up to the bridge (Hi Callum and Nadia!) had made the same error. Nonetheless, error it was, and the map was back in Janine's hands, where it stayed for the rest of the journey.
And what a journey it was! The first half was a mix of flowing forest singletrack and technically challenging rockpiles and rooty sections, the second more of the former and pretty much none of the latter. Both parts had bridged stream-crossings galore, and a mix of climbing and descending, but the lower section was flatter overall. There were some sweeping descents in the upper section which had us grinning big, as did some of the successes we had on technical sections. The scenery was spectacular. The trail follows the river for much of its length, and the heavy rains of the last few weeks meant that the river was high, and powerful. One of its tributaries had broken its banks and co-opted a section of trail, which made for interesting riding.
Not sure the terrain change was responsible, but not far past the halfway point Janine passed me on an uphill, and was gone. I caught glimpses of her up ahead, getting sideways on muddy sections or leaning nonchalantly on trees, waiting for me to get back within visual contact. No chance of catching her - all my go was gone, and she somehow had energy to burn. Cow.
When we reached the lower trailhead, it was all-too-soon for our ride-loving brains, but not-soon-enough for my weary legs, arms and back****. We were walking mudpiles, so followed the Canadian example and strode into the river to rinse. It was a bit cold.
Warm, dry clothes donned, bikes and people loaded, back over the Santiam Pass we went. To Bend, to our weekly night of luxuriating in a luxurious place. With beer. And, this time, with beards...
* = No-one bought the Georgia O'Keefe pastry, but it was certainly eye-catching
** = Competitive XC racer now studying to be a teacher. Normally uses the time between drop-off and pick-up to get some riding in, but succumbed to rain- and imminent-test-pressure and studied in the shuttle instead
*** = Except maybe the minutes in which mud and other things were lodged in eyes. Those minutes were unloved, like orphans.
**** = Janine, of course, wanted to keep going.
The McKenzie River trail is a must-do for anyone who likes to ride bikes in forests, and is fit enough to ride for a few hours. Seriously, go do it.
Long version:
Woke bright and early, apart from the bright part. I'd been awake off and on all night, what with the downpour going on outside and the random firearms discharges coming from somewhere to our northwest, and relatively close by. I'd not been much concerned when the first barrage was unleashed in the evening, but the sustained fire at 00:45 had me awake for a while, just in case I needed to go out in the rain in my underwear to face people who were blowing stuff to bits with a variety of weapons in the middle of the night. When I eventually went to sleep I woke repeatedly, for reasons I couldn't determine at the time but which turned out to have most likely been the rain that was falling inside the tent. On me. Not on Janine. I finally got to sleep properly at around the time we had to get up to break camp and go catch our shuttle. I blame sleep deprivation for looking the wrong way at the roundabout twenty feet from our destination and almost collecting the chap in the Jeep. Sorry, chap in the Jeep!
Loaded bikes onto the shuttle's roof and rear racks and piled in alongside two blokes from Vancouver Island and one from Alberta (Hi, Nelson, Paul and Garth!). Stopped at a town called Sisters for baked goods* and caffeine, then back on the road, over a couple of mountain passes and in to the trailhead for map briefing with driver Sarah**. And then we were off, in the pouring rain, blasting down muddy forest trails, loving every minute***.
Our first navigation responsibility transfer came after Janine directed us back up the eastern, difficult-riding side of Clear Lake after we'd ridden down the western, wetter-but-easier side. Cool to see the blatantly volcanic terrain - lava fields reminiscent of Rangitoto - and to ride some of the tough stuff, but adding 40 minutes to an already-lengthy expedition wasn't in the original plan. Second transfer came when I took us down to the Sahallie Falls instead of over the narrow bridge to the other side of the river. Not a major detour, and not only our Canadians but also the couple from Vancouver we met on our way back up to the bridge (Hi Callum and Nadia!) had made the same error. Nonetheless, error it was, and the map was back in Janine's hands, where it stayed for the rest of the journey.
And what a journey it was! The first half was a mix of flowing forest singletrack and technically challenging rockpiles and rooty sections, the second more of the former and pretty much none of the latter. Both parts had bridged stream-crossings galore, and a mix of climbing and descending, but the lower section was flatter overall. There were some sweeping descents in the upper section which had us grinning big, as did some of the successes we had on technical sections. The scenery was spectacular. The trail follows the river for much of its length, and the heavy rains of the last few weeks meant that the river was high, and powerful. One of its tributaries had broken its banks and co-opted a section of trail, which made for interesting riding.
Not sure the terrain change was responsible, but not far past the halfway point Janine passed me on an uphill, and was gone. I caught glimpses of her up ahead, getting sideways on muddy sections or leaning nonchalantly on trees, waiting for me to get back within visual contact. No chance of catching her - all my go was gone, and she somehow had energy to burn. Cow.
When we reached the lower trailhead, it was all-too-soon for our ride-loving brains, but not-soon-enough for my weary legs, arms and back****. We were walking mudpiles, so followed the Canadian example and strode into the river to rinse. It was a bit cold.
Warm, dry clothes donned, bikes and people loaded, back over the Santiam Pass we went. To Bend, to our weekly night of luxuriating in a luxurious place. With beer. And, this time, with beards...
* = No-one bought the Georgia O'Keefe pastry, but it was certainly eye-catching
** = Competitive XC racer now studying to be a teacher. Normally uses the time between drop-off and pick-up to get some riding in, but succumbed to rain- and imminent-test-pressure and studied in the shuttle instead
*** = Except maybe the minutes in which mud and other things were lodged in eyes. Those minutes were unloved, like orphans.
**** = Janine, of course, wanted to keep going.
Feral is Go!
Short Version:
Officially-sanctioned feralness and a fantastic - but cold - ride in the forest
Long Version:
Hit the 2000km mark for the trip, then arrived in Bend mid-afternoon on clean day and commenced bike-shop-hunting. Took a while, but we eventually found one, which turned out to have a super-helpful advicemonger on staff (Hi Nate @ Hutch's!). We left quite a while later with a map, ride recommendations, camp-spot suggestions, and directions to the other townside things we needed to hit before disappearing into the woods.
First of these we checked out was the Federal Ranger Station, where Jake the Ranger disabused my notions of Park Rangers as forest cops replete with mirror shades and attitudes. I left the Ranger Station armed with the knowledge that in any Federally-managed forest, dispersed camping is a valid option, except where otherwise stated. What that means is that we can, in any of the States of the Union, camp for free in National Forests*. That's pretty cool.
Next stop was Cog Wild (Hi Lev and Sarah!), where we booked ourselves onto the McKenzie River shuttle they had running on Friday, then Pine Mountain Sports, where we acquired disc golf discs and course info (Hi bearded guy whose name we never learned!), and on to Safeway, where I stole internet access while Janine purchased delicious foods.
While I sat in the Safeway parking lot, cursing the intermittent access drops, the sun came out. For about four minutes. This was a momentous occasion, as it was pretty much the first actual sunshine I'd seen since entering the United States. And, as it turned out, the last sunshine I'd see for another 42 hours. Locals have all taken great pains to assure us that the weather in this part of Oregon at this time of year is usually hot, and dry, and that we're actually lucky there's been so much late rain this year because the bike trails are normally dusty by now. This actually makes me feel better about the fact that it's been pissing down since we got here. Which is good, as the rain that fell the next two nights, in particular, was a total deluge, as was the rain that fell on us while riding each of the next two days.
The slightly sneaky feeling of dispersed camping** had us both mildly edgy, as did the alien pod things*** all around our campsite. Nothing worse than rain and bizarre dreams**** hit us overnight though, and we set off the next morning to ride some of the extensive and famed Phil's Trail network.
We'd camped near the bottom of Storm King, so we started up that one, past the tin-cans-on-a-stick marker and into the forest. The trail meandered around, swooping up and down, but generally trending uphill. I loved it. Janine fell off. Twice. My attempts at remedial advice were well-received. Honest.
By the time we reached the top end of Tiddlywinks (about 12.5 miles horizontally, and an elevation gain of 1500 feet) we were above the snow line, and as we exited the trees to hook through the snow-skiing area a freezing rain began to fall. Hard. Pretty soon we were soaked, and bloody cold, and getting miserable despite the awesome riding on Funner. Janine's arms were numb from the elbows down, and both shoulders were hurting from her earlier misadventures. I'd given her one of my layers, and was suffering silently. Not the best time for us to stop to chat to a friendly local (Hi, Fishman Rob!), but he was one of the local trailbuilders, and a fount of information about trails both local and national, and our interest in the conversation was such that we forgot how cold we were... until we started riding again! Decided to skip C.O.D. and hook back down Storm King to the campsite, which was an inspired choice, as a) it was an even better trail heading downhill than it was up, b) I got to point and laugh at the spots where Janine had fallen off her bike, and c) when we reached the bottom we encountered a couple playing disc golf, who told us that the tin-can-marker we'd thought was a charmingly-primitive bike trail sign was actually a disc golf basket, and pointed us in the direction of the first tee-box.
We didn't go play, though - we went back to camp, put on multiple layers of warm, dry clothes, and went to bed.
* = Except where we can't, which are signposted areas.
** = In case anyone hasn't yet figured it out, this is similar to what the NZ press tend to refer to as "freedom camping," except without the "parking on the side of the road for the night" element, and the "leaving faeces and trash lying around" element. And, so far, without the "getting beaten up and robbed by locals" element.
*** = If we were on a Pacific Island beach, I'd've thought they were recently-hatched turtle eggs. Given that we were some hundred miles inland, in a forest, I'm guessing not. Nene thinks maybe some sort of fungus thing, I'm wondering about snake eggs.
**** = Nene dreamed that I was a secret drug user***** and was splitting our possessions and taking all the good stuff to sell for more drugs. I dreamed that I was out running in a forest at night, and decided to get naked and swim across a lake to TVNZ's secret evil empire HQ, which I infiltrated via a door which had carelessly been left unlocked by some lackey. Unfortunately, I was spotted by a welder, who chased me back to the lake (which was full of trout and seals) and was planning to shoot me until he was instructed not to by the other guy.
***** = I'm not.
Officially-sanctioned feralness and a fantastic - but cold - ride in the forest
Long Version:
Hit the 2000km mark for the trip, then arrived in Bend mid-afternoon on clean day and commenced bike-shop-hunting. Took a while, but we eventually found one, which turned out to have a super-helpful advicemonger on staff (Hi Nate @ Hutch's!). We left quite a while later with a map, ride recommendations, camp-spot suggestions, and directions to the other townside things we needed to hit before disappearing into the woods.
First of these we checked out was the Federal Ranger Station, where Jake the Ranger disabused my notions of Park Rangers as forest cops replete with mirror shades and attitudes. I left the Ranger Station armed with the knowledge that in any Federally-managed forest, dispersed camping is a valid option, except where otherwise stated. What that means is that we can, in any of the States of the Union, camp for free in National Forests*. That's pretty cool.
Next stop was Cog Wild (Hi Lev and Sarah!), where we booked ourselves onto the McKenzie River shuttle they had running on Friday, then Pine Mountain Sports, where we acquired disc golf discs and course info (Hi bearded guy whose name we never learned!), and on to Safeway, where I stole internet access while Janine purchased delicious foods.
While I sat in the Safeway parking lot, cursing the intermittent access drops, the sun came out. For about four minutes. This was a momentous occasion, as it was pretty much the first actual sunshine I'd seen since entering the United States. And, as it turned out, the last sunshine I'd see for another 42 hours. Locals have all taken great pains to assure us that the weather in this part of Oregon at this time of year is usually hot, and dry, and that we're actually lucky there's been so much late rain this year because the bike trails are normally dusty by now. This actually makes me feel better about the fact that it's been pissing down since we got here. Which is good, as the rain that fell the next two nights, in particular, was a total deluge, as was the rain that fell on us while riding each of the next two days.
The slightly sneaky feeling of dispersed camping** had us both mildly edgy, as did the alien pod things*** all around our campsite. Nothing worse than rain and bizarre dreams**** hit us overnight though, and we set off the next morning to ride some of the extensive and famed Phil's Trail network.
We'd camped near the bottom of Storm King, so we started up that one, past the tin-cans-on-a-stick marker and into the forest. The trail meandered around, swooping up and down, but generally trending uphill. I loved it. Janine fell off. Twice. My attempts at remedial advice were well-received. Honest.
By the time we reached the top end of Tiddlywinks (about 12.5 miles horizontally, and an elevation gain of 1500 feet) we were above the snow line, and as we exited the trees to hook through the snow-skiing area a freezing rain began to fall. Hard. Pretty soon we were soaked, and bloody cold, and getting miserable despite the awesome riding on Funner. Janine's arms were numb from the elbows down, and both shoulders were hurting from her earlier misadventures. I'd given her one of my layers, and was suffering silently. Not the best time for us to stop to chat to a friendly local (Hi, Fishman Rob!), but he was one of the local trailbuilders, and a fount of information about trails both local and national, and our interest in the conversation was such that we forgot how cold we were... until we started riding again! Decided to skip C.O.D. and hook back down Storm King to the campsite, which was an inspired choice, as a) it was an even better trail heading downhill than it was up, b) I got to point and laugh at the spots where Janine had fallen off her bike, and c) when we reached the bottom we encountered a couple playing disc golf, who told us that the tin-can-marker we'd thought was a charmingly-primitive bike trail sign was actually a disc golf basket, and pointed us in the direction of the first tee-box.
We didn't go play, though - we went back to camp, put on multiple layers of warm, dry clothes, and went to bed.
* = Except where we can't, which are signposted areas.
** = In case anyone hasn't yet figured it out, this is similar to what the NZ press tend to refer to as "freedom camping," except without the "parking on the side of the road for the night" element, and the "leaving faeces and trash lying around" element. And, so far, without the "getting beaten up and robbed by locals" element.
*** = If we were on a Pacific Island beach, I'd've thought they were recently-hatched turtle eggs. Given that we were some hundred miles inland, in a forest, I'm guessing not. Nene thinks maybe some sort of fungus thing, I'm wondering about snake eggs.
**** = Nene dreamed that I was a secret drug user***** and was splitting our possessions and taking all the good stuff to sell for more drugs. I dreamed that I was out running in a forest at night, and decided to get naked and swim across a lake to TVNZ's secret evil empire HQ, which I infiltrated via a door which had carelessly been left unlocked by some lackey. Unfortunately, I was spotted by a welder, who chased me back to the lake (which was full of trout and seals) and was planning to shoot me until he was instructed not to by the other guy.
***** = I'm not.
A MonkeyFace, and Some Clean Monkeys
Short Version:
Rode bikes, drove over mountains, hiked cool rocks, got clean
Long Version:
Woke to dead salmon on the beach and a reinvigorated wind from off the mountain*, which made breaking camp a fraught endeavor. Hit the backroads through to Post Canyon, where we found more fantastic riding than a) we could shake a stick at and b) we could cram into a day, especially with tired legs ready to complain at the first hint of up.
Having said that, the Seven Streams trail up from the parking area was a fantastic ride; smooth, fast sections broken up by interesting features**, trending uphill but not a grinding climb. We reached the grinding climb not far past the Family Man Staging Area, which was a low-height stunt park in which we could - and possibly should - have spent more time playing before getting mildly lost and then changing our ride plan after a long chat to a friendly local (Hi Duncan!). Heading for the trail named 8-Track, we climbed the forest road. For ages. It was steep. Legs were tired. There was sweating. Janine waited for me at the top, which was quite nice of her.
And then down. Fast. Sweeping corners and tight switchbacks, bypassable jumps and a few mandatory features. 8-Track was great!
Post Canyon reminded both of us of SummerHill near Tauranga, but with more trails, and older. We'd originally thought to hit a bunch of other trails to the north, but we were knackered, so we blasted back down Seven Streams to the parking area, packed up, and set off up the mountain, to Timberline Lodge. (We went via Bennett Pass, atop which - at 4647ft - we saw a couple of cycle tourers, having a well-deserved rest. In the rain. We gave them a cheery wave as we drove by).
Apparently the views from Timberline are spectacular. We, of course, saw nothing, as the lodge was completely encapsulated in cloud. Cool place though. Built in the 1930s as part of a government job-creation scheme, in 2010 it's being renovated, as part of a government job-creation scheme. Parts of The Shining were filmed there, although I don't remember a gigantic octagonal room with a multiple-fireplace, nor a wooden table-tennis table, nor any vaguely hobbit-style architecture featuring in that film***. We did a bit of sneaking around, looking at things which we probably weren't supposed to****, and then left in search of somewhere both warmer and cheaper in which to spend our time and money.
The place we found was called Skull Hollow, and it was a high desert campground. Still cold, but not as bitter as it'd been up in the mountains. We heard coyotes in the hills, and the sound of the wind over the sage bushes*****. Then we heard our late-arrival camp-neighbours appalling music******, and our other late-arrival camp-neighbours' voices, then we were the last ones awake, playing a game by the sun-bright light of the Coleman gas lantern.
Rather than ride again the next day, we drove to Smith Rock State Park, and hiked the buttes and mesas for a couple of hours, because that's restful. The place was pretty spectacularly beautiful, and it was really nice not to be on the bike! Saw eagles' nests, lots of falcons, and an enormous rock shaped like the head of a monkey.
Then we found the showers, and we danced a happy little dance, and we sung a happy little song, and we got in and got wet and got clean. For the first time in a LONG time. And it felt GOOD.
* = Mount Hood, in this case. It's a bloody big hillock, apparently, as are Mt St Helens, Mt Bachelor, Mt Adams, Mt Washington, the Three Sisters, and all the others in the range that runs up through Central Oregon and Washington. We've driven up them, ridden bikes on them, even slept on them, but have we seen any of them from a distance as anything more than a snow-laden foothill capped with cloud? No, we bloody well haven't.
** = Rocks and roots, and a fair few bridges, some of which were spectacularly skinny and enjoying a variety of strange twists and turns. Thankfully, all of these were side-by-side with a nice, safe, normal bridge.
*** = Having said that, I`ve never actually SEEN that film.
**** = If they really meant "Employees Only" they'd've locked the doors
***** = which Janine thought smelled like wees
****** = Kind of like Auckland's George FM (ie wanky cafe background music). Interesting couple to stare at (like people-watching, but without any subtle) - the woman danced around the place while the bloke set up camp and cooked dinner
Rode bikes, drove over mountains, hiked cool rocks, got clean
Long Version:
Woke to dead salmon on the beach and a reinvigorated wind from off the mountain*, which made breaking camp a fraught endeavor. Hit the backroads through to Post Canyon, where we found more fantastic riding than a) we could shake a stick at and b) we could cram into a day, especially with tired legs ready to complain at the first hint of up.
Having said that, the Seven Streams trail up from the parking area was a fantastic ride; smooth, fast sections broken up by interesting features**, trending uphill but not a grinding climb. We reached the grinding climb not far past the Family Man Staging Area, which was a low-height stunt park in which we could - and possibly should - have spent more time playing before getting mildly lost and then changing our ride plan after a long chat to a friendly local (Hi Duncan!). Heading for the trail named 8-Track, we climbed the forest road. For ages. It was steep. Legs were tired. There was sweating. Janine waited for me at the top, which was quite nice of her.
And then down. Fast. Sweeping corners and tight switchbacks, bypassable jumps and a few mandatory features. 8-Track was great!
Post Canyon reminded both of us of SummerHill near Tauranga, but with more trails, and older. We'd originally thought to hit a bunch of other trails to the north, but we were knackered, so we blasted back down Seven Streams to the parking area, packed up, and set off up the mountain, to Timberline Lodge. (We went via Bennett Pass, atop which - at 4647ft - we saw a couple of cycle tourers, having a well-deserved rest. In the rain. We gave them a cheery wave as we drove by).
Apparently the views from Timberline are spectacular. We, of course, saw nothing, as the lodge was completely encapsulated in cloud. Cool place though. Built in the 1930s as part of a government job-creation scheme, in 2010 it's being renovated, as part of a government job-creation scheme. Parts of The Shining were filmed there, although I don't remember a gigantic octagonal room with a multiple-fireplace, nor a wooden table-tennis table, nor any vaguely hobbit-style architecture featuring in that film***. We did a bit of sneaking around, looking at things which we probably weren't supposed to****, and then left in search of somewhere both warmer and cheaper in which to spend our time and money.
The place we found was called Skull Hollow, and it was a high desert campground. Still cold, but not as bitter as it'd been up in the mountains. We heard coyotes in the hills, and the sound of the wind over the sage bushes*****. Then we heard our late-arrival camp-neighbours appalling music******, and our other late-arrival camp-neighbours' voices, then we were the last ones awake, playing a game by the sun-bright light of the Coleman gas lantern.
Rather than ride again the next day, we drove to Smith Rock State Park, and hiked the buttes and mesas for a couple of hours, because that's restful. The place was pretty spectacularly beautiful, and it was really nice not to be on the bike! Saw eagles' nests, lots of falcons, and an enormous rock shaped like the head of a monkey.
Then we found the showers, and we danced a happy little dance, and we sung a happy little song, and we got in and got wet and got clean. For the first time in a LONG time. And it felt GOOD.
* = Mount Hood, in this case. It's a bloody big hillock, apparently, as are Mt St Helens, Mt Bachelor, Mt Adams, Mt Washington, the Three Sisters, and all the others in the range that runs up through Central Oregon and Washington. We've driven up them, ridden bikes on them, even slept on them, but have we seen any of them from a distance as anything more than a snow-laden foothill capped with cloud? No, we bloody well haven't.
** = Rocks and roots, and a fair few bridges, some of which were spectacularly skinny and enjoying a variety of strange twists and turns. Thankfully, all of these were side-by-side with a nice, safe, normal bridge.
*** = Having said that, I`ve never actually SEEN that film.
**** = If they really meant "Employees Only" they'd've locked the doors
***** = which Janine thought smelled like wees
****** = Kind of like Auckland's George FM (ie wanky cafe background music). Interesting couple to stare at (like people-watching, but without any subtle) - the woman danced around the place while the bloke set up camp and cooked dinner
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