Short Version:
Cameras, books, dirty filth Portland parking wardens, fat people, a special event.
Long Version:
Long-time readers will remember us trashing the camera in Mexico, and acquiring a new one in California. We loved that camera, but it gave up the ghost just as we hit the wilderness stretch through Oakridge and the McKenzie River valley, which was bloody irritating. Also bloody irritating was the fact that the Bend outlet we visited had none in stock, and directed us to visit either the Portland or Seattle stores for a replacement. So, after descending from Gunsight Ridge, we leapt into the Reaper and set off west, to Portland, home of beer and books.
As with San Francisco, we'd inadvertantly timed our arrival in the metropolis to coincide with the end of the working day at the start of a sunny summer weekend, and as with San Fran we were pleasantly surprised by how easily we managed to get to where we were going and get our stuff done. Admittedly, returning to the Reaper from the enormous bookstore to find a parking ticket on the windshield despite having fed ample quarters into the meter was pretty crap*, and we really wanted to picnic in the Rose Test Gardens** instead of at the Pittock Mansion***, but at the end of the day we got in, got camera, got books, and got fed, then found the right road out of town and settled in for the ride to the forest around the Clackamas River. First, though, we had to get through Gresham.
I may be doing Gresham a disservice by using its name to describe the downtrodden area to the south-east of Portland through which we drove, but I don't really care. It was interesting to drive through, in the same way that some people speak of car accidents as interesting to watch happening****. The things that struck me about the place:
- Fat people. Particularly the two young women who were so fat that their upper arms were touching as they sat in the front seats of their car. And the young women who were waiting for the bus, one of whom appeared to be pushing 100kg, the other much shorter but proportionally worse, both of whom were extremely scantily-clad. I felt violated, and wanted to scrub my eyeballs with bleach and a wire brush.
- Low-grade tattoo studios. All had bad graphics and bad, cheesy names. One had a sign stating that people under 12 were excluded from being tattooed, which I thought was very responsible of them.
- The Whiskey City Rock Bar, and many like it, a number of which were already doing a roaring trade in evictions of overly-drunk and/or -obnoxious patrons. At 730pm.
And then we were out of the built-up area, and driving past the signs directing us to parking for the coming weekend's rodeo, and then past the Fairgrounds, where the rodeo was to take place. It was full of telephone poles, which was unexpected, but which made more sense once we spotted the signs:
THIS WEEKEND
HERE
LINEMAN'S RODEO
Lineman's Rodeo. My immediate thought was that that has to be even better viewing than the farmer's skills challenge we witnessed at the Mosgiel A&P Show***** back in January, although I'm guessing the linemen don't get to hammer in fence-posts with digger buckets, so maybe not.
* = Apparently, we'd parked with portions of our vehicle outside the painted lines which indicated the boundaries of the allowed parking space. On subsequent inspection, we could see the vestiges of what may once have been boundary-indication lines, back before the ravages of weather and innumerable tyres eroded them away to their current, non-viable state. Filth-monkey parking warden scoundrels.
** = 10,000+ rose plants, across 4.5 acres of parkland.
*** = Big house on hill, views, history, gardens, lawns.
**** = I've seen a couple of car accidents (the ones I've been in notwithstanding), and they really are quite something to watch. The one where the small red car executed almost two full barrel-rolls before bouncing on its roof on the median barrier on Auckland's Northern Motorway was particularly impressive.
***** = That was my second visit to Mosgiel. The first time, all of my credit- and ATM-cards stopped working. Forever. Frankly, I'm surprised I went back.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Scary Things
Short Version:
Mosquitoes, foxes, great coffee, things that go SNAP and CRINKLE in the night, another excellent ride.
Long Version:
Not only was my bike broken - again! - but we'd run out of gas for both of our stoves. DISASTER! NO CAFFEINE!
I suspect decaffeination as a contributing factor in our circuitous route in to Hutch's Bike Shop, along with the distraction inherent in killing off the many mosquitoes which had taken up residence in the van while we'd had the doors open for loading. We got there in the end, though, having spied a pair of foxes at a golf course on the way, and after throwing some laundry in at the laundromat we left my wheel with Connor @ Hutch's and hit Back Porch Coffee Roasters for a fix on his recommendation.
Best coffee I've had so far in North Amerika.
We caffeinated, used the interwebs, and read the paper. It was relaxing, and very pleasant.
And then we collected the clothes, and the wheel, and supplies of insect repellent and stove fuel, and delicious foods, and a replacement fuse for the defunct fridge, and then hit the road, north and north-west, past another fox, through an Indian Reservation and across the 45th parallel*, back to the Mt Hood region, where we found a primo camp site high on the face of a ridge, with exquisite views of the mountain, and the sunset.
We thought we had it made, and up until 0130, when we were woken by SOMETHING LARGE blundering around in the trees near our campsite. It was getting closer and closer, so we got up and out of the tent and into the light of the huge orange moon, where we made noise and shone lights around. This seemed to do the trick, as the noises from the darkness abated. Briefly. Then they started up again, and started working their way closer, which essentially scared the bejeebers out of us. So, into the tent went bikes and various bags and boxes of stuff, into the Reaper went mattress and pillows and us. And, feeling much more safe and secure, we dropped off to sleep again. Not for very long in my case, though, as the scurrying of small creatures was loud under the van beneath my head, and, I could have sworn, overhead and inside the van as well.
We drove to the bottom of the hill, then got on our bikes and rode up a bigger one. We hit a vista point halfway up which afforded views not only of Mt Hood looming on the other side of the valley, but also Mt Adams and Mt Rainier to the north. Once we hit Gunsight Ridge, we were all go, flying down the downhills, and blasting up the frequent short technical climbs. The trail was mostly firm dirt, and riding beautifully, through fields of wildflowers and with views in all directions. At the Gumjuac Saddle, Janine fell off on a patch of nothing-in-particular, right in front of me. I'm not entirely sure that she truly appreciated how heartily I chortled; certainly there was a distinct lack of sympathy forthcoming on the ensuing downhill each time I missed a switchback due to excessive speed and plowed straight off the trail and into bushes/trees/brambles. Even so, I loved the descent - it reminded me of Oakridge's Larison Rock Trail, only longer. Fast and furious** and lots of fun. Being somewhat more risk-averse than I, Nene wasn't so enamored of the top half, but once the penalty-for-error cliff-height reached what she considered manageable levels she too started to open out, and by the bottom we both had big grins on.
* = Halfway between the pole and the equator, as the helpful informational sign helpfully and informationally stated.
** = But with no Vin Diesel, thank goodness.
Mosquitoes, foxes, great coffee, things that go SNAP and CRINKLE in the night, another excellent ride.
Long Version:
Not only was my bike broken - again! - but we'd run out of gas for both of our stoves. DISASTER! NO CAFFEINE!
I suspect decaffeination as a contributing factor in our circuitous route in to Hutch's Bike Shop, along with the distraction inherent in killing off the many mosquitoes which had taken up residence in the van while we'd had the doors open for loading. We got there in the end, though, having spied a pair of foxes at a golf course on the way, and after throwing some laundry in at the laundromat we left my wheel with Connor @ Hutch's and hit Back Porch Coffee Roasters for a fix on his recommendation.
Best coffee I've had so far in North Amerika.
We caffeinated, used the interwebs, and read the paper. It was relaxing, and very pleasant.
And then we collected the clothes, and the wheel, and supplies of insect repellent and stove fuel, and delicious foods, and a replacement fuse for the defunct fridge, and then hit the road, north and north-west, past another fox, through an Indian Reservation and across the 45th parallel*, back to the Mt Hood region, where we found a primo camp site high on the face of a ridge, with exquisite views of the mountain, and the sunset.
We thought we had it made, and up until 0130, when we were woken by SOMETHING LARGE blundering around in the trees near our campsite. It was getting closer and closer, so we got up and out of the tent and into the light of the huge orange moon, where we made noise and shone lights around. This seemed to do the trick, as the noises from the darkness abated. Briefly. Then they started up again, and started working their way closer, which essentially scared the bejeebers out of us. So, into the tent went bikes and various bags and boxes of stuff, into the Reaper went mattress and pillows and us. And, feeling much more safe and secure, we dropped off to sleep again. Not for very long in my case, though, as the scurrying of small creatures was loud under the van beneath my head, and, I could have sworn, overhead and inside the van as well.
We drove to the bottom of the hill, then got on our bikes and rode up a bigger one. We hit a vista point halfway up which afforded views not only of Mt Hood looming on the other side of the valley, but also Mt Adams and Mt Rainier to the north. Once we hit Gunsight Ridge, we were all go, flying down the downhills, and blasting up the frequent short technical climbs. The trail was mostly firm dirt, and riding beautifully, through fields of wildflowers and with views in all directions. At the Gumjuac Saddle, Janine fell off on a patch of nothing-in-particular, right in front of me. I'm not entirely sure that she truly appreciated how heartily I chortled; certainly there was a distinct lack of sympathy forthcoming on the ensuing downhill each time I missed a switchback due to excessive speed and plowed straight off the trail and into bushes/trees/brambles. Even so, I loved the descent - it reminded me of Oakridge's Larison Rock Trail, only longer. Fast and furious** and lots of fun. Being somewhat more risk-averse than I, Nene wasn't so enamored of the top half, but once the penalty-for-error cliff-height reached what she considered manageable levels she too started to open out, and by the bottom we both had big grins on.
* = Halfway between the pole and the equator, as the helpful informational sign helpfully and informationally stated.
** = But with no Vin Diesel, thank goodness.
Clean!
Short Version:
We get clean. It feels good. We ride a long way, on dust and chunks of lava. We fall off our bikes.
Long Version:
After the big ride day on the Mrazek, we woke late, and were in no way inclined to bestir ourselves to go do any riding. So we read in the sun while small black, white, and grey wrens walked up and down the tree-trunks in search of insectoid food and a moth which we initially mistook for a hummingbird drank from the trumpet-like flowers.
Something had been in the Reaper, nibbling on our peaches. We assumed one of the ever-bolder local chipmunks had espied and taken advantage of the open doors. Naughty critter!
After most of a day, we rolled into town, and back to the Old St Francis School. We paid our Soaking Pool entry fee, and then hit the showers, for ages. Eventually we made it to the pool, where we soaked for ages before hitting the courtyard for delicious beery goodness and some foods. One final blast in the pool then we hit the staff up for a water vessel fill and hit the road back to the forest, where some middle-aged folks had set up camp surprisingly close to us. They weren't the source of the all-night comings-and-goings and thumping bass and yelling, though - that was the youngsters one ridge over.
Still, we were feeling well-rested (and CLEAN!) when we woke in the morning, and ready for some lava action high on the slopes of Mt Bachelor. We drove to the Edison Sno-Park, secured the Reaper, and set off up a series of snowmobile trails, which managed to combine dusty forest road and piles of solidified lava, all of which made for an interesting ninety minutes of uphill travel.
Our reward for the climb was fifteen minutes of downhill paved road.
And then almost three hours of predominantly downhill and flat singletrack riding. Which wasn't all sweetness and light, though, as the innocuous-seeming dusty sections demonstrated their volcanic origins by removing layers of any skin which came into contact with the powder. We discovered this when I bombed a techy downhill section and face-, arm- and shin-planted. Still, my war wounds paled in comparison to Janine's ever-increasing bruise collection, which gained yet another addition when she bailed on some rocks while rounding Lava Lake and clouted a rock, causing her a bunch of discomfort and earning a (rather pretty) multi-colored swollen hand.
The lake and its smaller neighbor* were beautiful, with fisherfolks on the water and deer on the shores, and we were kind of sad to be past them, and not just because that meant we were heading back uphill - although that was certainly a contributing factor. By the time we'd ridden the final ninety minutes up to the saddle and back down to the Sno-Park, our Woodhill-honed soft-sand riding skills had well and truly been dredged from memory and combined with our newfound and burgeoning understanding of how not to die on lava rocks, although not before I managed to flick a fist-sized chunk of planetvomit into my spokes, snapping one.
Edison Sno-Park was in full sun when we arrived back, six hours and thirty-four-odd miles after we'd set off, so we loaded up the van and headed down to the Wanoga Sno-Park, which we knew from our previous visit** had both shade in which to prepare and eat our delicious picnic lunch, and location, in that it was perched at the top of a bunch of rather awesome trails, which I rode down to the campsite while Nene drove the van back.
The trails were made of dust, as expected, and the broken spoke meant not launching off anything, but it was still an incredibly fun ride, and the bean quesadillas at the end capped it off perfectly.
* = Little Lava Lake.
** = We were riding in snow and freezing rain. Janine's arms were numb from the elbows down. We sheltered from the weather in the same structure we picnicked in this time round.
We get clean. It feels good. We ride a long way, on dust and chunks of lava. We fall off our bikes.
Long Version:
After the big ride day on the Mrazek, we woke late, and were in no way inclined to bestir ourselves to go do any riding. So we read in the sun while small black, white, and grey wrens walked up and down the tree-trunks in search of insectoid food and a moth which we initially mistook for a hummingbird drank from the trumpet-like flowers.
Something had been in the Reaper, nibbling on our peaches. We assumed one of the ever-bolder local chipmunks had espied and taken advantage of the open doors. Naughty critter!
After most of a day, we rolled into town, and back to the Old St Francis School. We paid our Soaking Pool entry fee, and then hit the showers, for ages. Eventually we made it to the pool, where we soaked for ages before hitting the courtyard for delicious beery goodness and some foods. One final blast in the pool then we hit the staff up for a water vessel fill and hit the road back to the forest, where some middle-aged folks had set up camp surprisingly close to us. They weren't the source of the all-night comings-and-goings and thumping bass and yelling, though - that was the youngsters one ridge over.
Still, we were feeling well-rested (and CLEAN!) when we woke in the morning, and ready for some lava action high on the slopes of Mt Bachelor. We drove to the Edison Sno-Park, secured the Reaper, and set off up a series of snowmobile trails, which managed to combine dusty forest road and piles of solidified lava, all of which made for an interesting ninety minutes of uphill travel.
Our reward for the climb was fifteen minutes of downhill paved road.
And then almost three hours of predominantly downhill and flat singletrack riding. Which wasn't all sweetness and light, though, as the innocuous-seeming dusty sections demonstrated their volcanic origins by removing layers of any skin which came into contact with the powder. We discovered this when I bombed a techy downhill section and face-, arm- and shin-planted. Still, my war wounds paled in comparison to Janine's ever-increasing bruise collection, which gained yet another addition when she bailed on some rocks while rounding Lava Lake and clouted a rock, causing her a bunch of discomfort and earning a (rather pretty) multi-colored swollen hand.
The lake and its smaller neighbor* were beautiful, with fisherfolks on the water and deer on the shores, and we were kind of sad to be past them, and not just because that meant we were heading back uphill - although that was certainly a contributing factor. By the time we'd ridden the final ninety minutes up to the saddle and back down to the Sno-Park, our Woodhill-honed soft-sand riding skills had well and truly been dredged from memory and combined with our newfound and burgeoning understanding of how not to die on lava rocks, although not before I managed to flick a fist-sized chunk of planetvomit into my spokes, snapping one.
Edison Sno-Park was in full sun when we arrived back, six hours and thirty-four-odd miles after we'd set off, so we loaded up the van and headed down to the Wanoga Sno-Park, which we knew from our previous visit** had both shade in which to prepare and eat our delicious picnic lunch, and location, in that it was perched at the top of a bunch of rather awesome trails, which I rode down to the campsite while Nene drove the van back.
The trails were made of dust, as expected, and the broken spoke meant not launching off anything, but it was still an incredibly fun ride, and the bean quesadillas at the end capped it off perfectly.
* = Little Lava Lake.
** = We were riding in snow and freezing rain. Janine's arms were numb from the elbows down. We sheltered from the weather in the same structure we picnicked in this time round.
Mrazek
Short Version:
A long ride, dust, Happy Birthday, Ma!
Long Version:
As I hauled myself out of bed and into the cold early* morning air, I received some messages from my legs hinting that I may, at some point during the day's ride, find myself wishing I'd not ridden quite so far, or quite so hard, or both, the previous evening. Few options for altering the past presented themselves, so it was into the van, and around the town to the north-east corner, where Shevlin Park presented us the perfect pre-ride picnic breakfast spot.
All caffeined up, we hit the trail: first the Shevlin Loop, then onto the Mrazek Trail, which we rode up for a long, long time. The gradient was fairly shallow, and with the trail surface at mid-summer dust over solid dirt, we were generating dust rooster-tails** even at uphill speeds, so in the interests of minimizing lung/eye/nostril issues we were well-spaced to the point where I was lamenting the absence of a music device. There were more and more wildflowers in evidence the higher we rode, and we had some pretty spectacular views, both from the trail and from scrambly climbs up rock-piles we spied along the way.
One of the mountains we'd been admiring was Mount Tumalo***, and at the top of the Mrazek we hooked left and down the face of the ridge, into the valley at its base. Janine managed some serious carnage on the way down, layering bruise upon bruise, with some showing clearly both point of impact and subsequent drag-path across her skin. Poor wee poppet. Luckily, the rather pretty Tumalo*** Falls awaited us at the bottom, so there was a break in proceedings before we started to climb the North Fork Trail back to the ridgeline.
This was, we later agreed, a really lovely climb, with many small waterfalls and scenic viewpoints to appreciate throughout its firm-surfaced shallow-gradient four miles of up.
At the time, though, we were a-hating. Someone had a cold and was tetchy after falling off, and someone else is crap at riding up hills. Can you guess which one is whom?
We reached the Happy Valley alpine meadows eventually, and found sunbathers, patches of snow, and a posse of seniors indulging in some sort of orienteering exercise, all within a fairly small radius. The senior folks weren't as much fun as the little old lady who'd lunged towards me on the trail up, saying something about pushing me. I wasn't sure if she meant "...up the trail" or "off my bike." She didn't press the issue, so I [escaped unmolested / passed by unassisted] - delete as appropriate.
From Happy Valley it was an easy run through the predominantly flat, occasionally technical Farewell and Farewell Springs trails, then a blast back down the hill on Mrazek.
All 13+ miles of it.
The dust clouds we were kicking up were pretty sizeable, and hung in the air for ages in places where the air was still, so we stayed even further apart than we had been. Obstacles we'd rolled over on the way up were now launching us into the air, and the reasons behind the numerous skidmarks leading off the trail's edge was becoming plain; Mrazek is FAST when you're riding down. The open sections were full of suicidal chipmunks and squirrels, and there were a number of points where the trail slipped between two trees with barely enough room for handlebars to fit through****. Infrequent rocky sections offered no respite for aching hands and forearms, and the trail seemed to go on forever, which was both a good thing (we were going downhill, and it was fun) and a bad (we were running late to call my Ma to say Happy Birthday).
Eventually, we made it back to the park, and the van, and we set off into town, to the Silver Moon Brewery, where we sat and had a pint and spoke to Ma on Waiheke using the wi-fi connection belonging to the tattoo place across the street which went bust several months ago.
Happy Birthday Ma!
* = But not as early as we'd planned - getting actual sleep after the previous night's shenanigans was very nice.
** = I'd noticed this effect the day before, coming down Funner, which was both dustier and quicker than going uphill on the Mrazek. I fancied I must've looked, were anyone shadowing me from above - in a stealth-mode helicopter, for instance - that I must've looked like the footage of assorted two- and four- and more-wheeled vehicles blasting across the desert in the Paris-Dakar race. Only much, much slower. And less impressive.
*** = (TUM-a-low). Which is a cool word to say aloud. Try it, you'll like it.
**** = Based on me the descent, the appropriate technique for dealing with an obstacle of that nature is as follows:
1. Get your trajectory lined up as best you can with the gap between the trees
2. Turn your hands in towards the center of the bar - this pulls your outside fingers away from the danger zone at the ends of the bar but leaves you still - nominally - in control
3. Close your eyes until you're [safely through the gap / motionless on the ground] - delete as appropriate
A long ride, dust, Happy Birthday, Ma!
Long Version:
As I hauled myself out of bed and into the cold early* morning air, I received some messages from my legs hinting that I may, at some point during the day's ride, find myself wishing I'd not ridden quite so far, or quite so hard, or both, the previous evening. Few options for altering the past presented themselves, so it was into the van, and around the town to the north-east corner, where Shevlin Park presented us the perfect pre-ride picnic breakfast spot.
All caffeined up, we hit the trail: first the Shevlin Loop, then onto the Mrazek Trail, which we rode up for a long, long time. The gradient was fairly shallow, and with the trail surface at mid-summer dust over solid dirt, we were generating dust rooster-tails** even at uphill speeds, so in the interests of minimizing lung/eye/nostril issues we were well-spaced to the point where I was lamenting the absence of a music device. There were more and more wildflowers in evidence the higher we rode, and we had some pretty spectacular views, both from the trail and from scrambly climbs up rock-piles we spied along the way.
One of the mountains we'd been admiring was Mount Tumalo***, and at the top of the Mrazek we hooked left and down the face of the ridge, into the valley at its base. Janine managed some serious carnage on the way down, layering bruise upon bruise, with some showing clearly both point of impact and subsequent drag-path across her skin. Poor wee poppet. Luckily, the rather pretty Tumalo*** Falls awaited us at the bottom, so there was a break in proceedings before we started to climb the North Fork Trail back to the ridgeline.
This was, we later agreed, a really lovely climb, with many small waterfalls and scenic viewpoints to appreciate throughout its firm-surfaced shallow-gradient four miles of up.
At the time, though, we were a-hating. Someone had a cold and was tetchy after falling off, and someone else is crap at riding up hills. Can you guess which one is whom?
We reached the Happy Valley alpine meadows eventually, and found sunbathers, patches of snow, and a posse of seniors indulging in some sort of orienteering exercise, all within a fairly small radius. The senior folks weren't as much fun as the little old lady who'd lunged towards me on the trail up, saying something about pushing me. I wasn't sure if she meant "...up the trail" or "off my bike." She didn't press the issue, so I [escaped unmolested / passed by unassisted] - delete as appropriate.
From Happy Valley it was an easy run through the predominantly flat, occasionally technical Farewell and Farewell Springs trails, then a blast back down the hill on Mrazek.
All 13+ miles of it.
The dust clouds we were kicking up were pretty sizeable, and hung in the air for ages in places where the air was still, so we stayed even further apart than we had been. Obstacles we'd rolled over on the way up were now launching us into the air, and the reasons behind the numerous skidmarks leading off the trail's edge was becoming plain; Mrazek is FAST when you're riding down. The open sections were full of suicidal chipmunks and squirrels, and there were a number of points where the trail slipped between two trees with barely enough room for handlebars to fit through****. Infrequent rocky sections offered no respite for aching hands and forearms, and the trail seemed to go on forever, which was both a good thing (we were going downhill, and it was fun) and a bad (we were running late to call my Ma to say Happy Birthday).
Eventually, we made it back to the park, and the van, and we set off into town, to the Silver Moon Brewery, where we sat and had a pint and spoke to Ma on Waiheke using the wi-fi connection belonging to the tattoo place across the street which went bust several months ago.
Happy Birthday Ma!
* = But not as early as we'd planned - getting actual sleep after the previous night's shenanigans was very nice.
** = I'd noticed this effect the day before, coming down Funner, which was both dustier and quicker than going uphill on the Mrazek. I fancied I must've looked, were anyone shadowing me from above - in a stealth-mode helicopter, for instance - that I must've looked like the footage of assorted two- and four- and more-wheeled vehicles blasting across the desert in the Paris-Dakar race. Only much, much slower. And less impressive.
*** = (TUM-a-low). Which is a cool word to say aloud. Try it, you'll like it.
**** = Based on me the descent, the appropriate technique for dealing with an obstacle of that nature is as follows:
1. Get your trajectory lined up as best you can with the gap between the trees
2. Turn your hands in towards the center of the bar - this pulls your outside fingers away from the danger zone at the ends of the bar but leaves you still - nominally - in control
3. Close your eyes until you're [safely through the gap / motionless on the ground] - delete as appropriate
DIY
I'm getting a bit sick of doing all the work while you lazy buggers just sit on your rapidly-spreading backsides and soak up all my efforts. So, you can write this one yourselves.
The ingredients, as scribbled in my scribbly notebook:
- Took hwy 242 (scenic pass) - v cool. V narrow, winding rd but awesome mtn views & lava fields
- Obs tower @ top built from lava rocks, looked like chess rook. Paths through lava fields
- Sisters busy - car show + sunny saturday = queue out door of ice cream shop
- We -> Bend, to wifi/pizza/laundry then safeway then feral, to same spot
- Different from last time: no snake eggs, no rain, wildflowers, chipmunks, dust, sun = pretty, other campers
- no rain = locals into forest to party
- Noises in night incl twiggy shrub scraping tent + small critters eating & moving round + pine cone fall onto Reaper (= shit selves!). Also trains w horns + shooting + someone with chainsaw + party
DAY 58
- woke: bright sun + barking - woman walking dogs on FS rd near us
- Prepping bikes for ride, noted N's bike brake pads worn = source of horrible noise / no brakes
- J read book, N drove to town, past detours & road closures for bike race, to Hutch's Cycles
- Connor fixed bike & gave trail advice + told: Mon night = Locals' night @ Deschutes Brewery = cheap pints!
- N back to camp, J v relaxed
- Lunch (burritos!) then disc golf using random objs + course (N9:J7)
- Rest + melons
- N rode: Storm King -> Tiddlywinks -> Funner -> Storm King -> COD (80 mins to top, 20 mins to Sno-Park, 2.5hrs tot.). QOTSA, Iron Maiden, Ennio. SK + COD nice, Tiddly & Funner dust-bowls but good bones & still some v good bits
- Back to camp, snacks + dinner then sleep
Have fun!
The ingredients, as scribbled in my scribbly notebook:
- Took hwy 242 (scenic pass) - v cool. V narrow, winding rd but awesome mtn views & lava fields
- Obs tower @ top built from lava rocks, looked like chess rook. Paths through lava fields
- Sisters busy - car show + sunny saturday = queue out door of ice cream shop
- We -> Bend, to wifi/pizza/laundry then safeway then feral, to same spot
- Different from last time: no snake eggs, no rain, wildflowers, chipmunks, dust, sun = pretty, other campers
- no rain = locals into forest to party
- Noises in night incl twiggy shrub scraping tent + small critters eating & moving round + pine cone fall onto Reaper (= shit selves!). Also trains w horns + shooting + someone with chainsaw + party
DAY 58
- woke: bright sun + barking - woman walking dogs on FS rd near us
- Prepping bikes for ride, noted N's bike brake pads worn = source of horrible noise / no brakes
- J read book, N drove to town, past detours & road closures for bike race, to Hutch's Cycles
- Connor fixed bike & gave trail advice + told: Mon night = Locals' night @ Deschutes Brewery = cheap pints!
- N back to camp, J v relaxed
- Lunch (burritos!) then disc golf using random objs + course (N9:J7)
- Rest + melons
- N rode: Storm King -> Tiddlywinks -> Funner -> Storm King -> COD (80 mins to top, 20 mins to Sno-Park, 2.5hrs tot.). QOTSA, Iron Maiden, Ennio. SK + COD nice, Tiddly & Funner dust-bowls but good bones & still some v good bits
- Back to camp, snacks + dinner then sleep
Have fun!
McKenzie River Trail, We Heart You
Short Version:
We ride the McKenzie River Trail again, and it's still awesome.
Long Version:
The McKenzie River Trail was the first trail of our tour which got a rave review, and there was no way we were going past it again without re-riding. This time, though, we were on our own, so we parked at the Trailbridge Reservoir halfway point and rode up the road to the south end of Clear Lake. Given that we'd already ridden both sides of the lake*, I'd been expecting to skip the lake circuit and head straight down the river trail. Lovely wife had other ideas, and we worked our way up the western (easy) side of the lake, round the north end, and back down through the lava fields of the eastern lake trail. It was just as horrible and difficult as it was the first time around.
The real fun started once we crossed the highway and the river and set off down the main body of the upper half of the trail. Technical challenge bliss, interspersed with some flat riding, although, as the French bloke from the Cog Wild group we caught up to on the trail asked: "When do we get to ze part wiz ze flowing?" Tres awesome.
We stopped at the Reaper for a picnic, then started down the lower half of the trail. I was tired from the get-go, but Nene was in her element and getting faster, as the trail had opened out, with more flow and some tasty traverses interspersed with nasty little climbs. Which she loved. She didn't even baulk when she ran over the snake. An hour or so in, I decided that was enough, and turned back up the trail to collect the van, whilst Janine continued on to the end, where I collected her an hour and a half or so later. She was still grinning, as were the Cog Wild folks, whom she'd befriended, and their driver, Whangarei-born Bend resident Bruce (Hi Bruce!). Janine looked fresh as a bloody daisy, unlike the rest of the folks, who looked far more appropriately bedraggled given they'd just finished a 5.5-hour ride. We attempted a cleansing swim, but the first touch of the water helped us understand why the kayakers who'd pulled in for a lunch stop were all wearing thick, hooded wetsuits.
We disappeared up a side road, into the woods, and found a nice spot** in which to camp for the night. We woke to sun, and to critters galore, including an enormous, noisy squirrel and a repeat visitor hummingbird. Clever wife took Oakridge Marcello's advice and fixed my trashed shoe using dental floss, pushing the needle through the thick shoe material using pliers. The exercise was so successful that she went on to mend glove rips, a broken dress strap, and the flotilla of holes ripped in my fancypants Black Butte Porter riding shirt when I fell backwards down a bank after failing to negotiate an uphill switchback on Oakridge's Middle Fork Trail.
And then it was my turn to ride the bottom half of the McKenzie River Trail. And Lo, It Was Good!
This was my second full run through this trail, but my first without having already ridden several hours to get there. For Janine, those several hours are an appropriate entree, and leave her warmed-up and ready to flay the ride. I'm more of a flayee at that point, well ready for a cup of tea (beer) and a lie-down. A drop-off at Deer Creek, though, helped me see why Lovely Wife rates the bottom half of the McKenzie River Trail up there with the Alpine Trail in Oakridge as some of the best riding on the planet. Riding alone, I had music on for the first time in a long time, and the semi-random random setting on my El Cheapo iPod knock-off served me up some soundtrack treats, including:
- Killdozer's Hi There, which proved an excellent warm-up tempo;
- a Frank Black best-of, which kicked the tempo up a notch or three;
- various others, culminating in a bunch of early-90s thrash metal from Forbidden, which had me flying - sometimes literally - for the last twenty minutes or so of the hour I was riding.
The trail had been like the best flattish bits of Rotorua strung together for a longer run, and with a more natural feel. by the end I'd done some of the most attacking riding I've yet managed on this continent, and I felt bloody good.
The McKenzie River Trail: if you like riding bikes in the woods, go ride there.
* = Not on purpose.
** = As with many of the dispersed spots we've found, there was evidence of prior human activity, primarily embodied as expended shotgun shells.
We ride the McKenzie River Trail again, and it's still awesome.
Long Version:
The McKenzie River Trail was the first trail of our tour which got a rave review, and there was no way we were going past it again without re-riding. This time, though, we were on our own, so we parked at the Trailbridge Reservoir halfway point and rode up the road to the south end of Clear Lake. Given that we'd already ridden both sides of the lake*, I'd been expecting to skip the lake circuit and head straight down the river trail. Lovely wife had other ideas, and we worked our way up the western (easy) side of the lake, round the north end, and back down through the lava fields of the eastern lake trail. It was just as horrible and difficult as it was the first time around.
The real fun started once we crossed the highway and the river and set off down the main body of the upper half of the trail. Technical challenge bliss, interspersed with some flat riding, although, as the French bloke from the Cog Wild group we caught up to on the trail asked: "When do we get to ze part wiz ze flowing?" Tres awesome.
We stopped at the Reaper for a picnic, then started down the lower half of the trail. I was tired from the get-go, but Nene was in her element and getting faster, as the trail had opened out, with more flow and some tasty traverses interspersed with nasty little climbs. Which she loved. She didn't even baulk when she ran over the snake. An hour or so in, I decided that was enough, and turned back up the trail to collect the van, whilst Janine continued on to the end, where I collected her an hour and a half or so later. She was still grinning, as were the Cog Wild folks, whom she'd befriended, and their driver, Whangarei-born Bend resident Bruce (Hi Bruce!). Janine looked fresh as a bloody daisy, unlike the rest of the folks, who looked far more appropriately bedraggled given they'd just finished a 5.5-hour ride. We attempted a cleansing swim, but the first touch of the water helped us understand why the kayakers who'd pulled in for a lunch stop were all wearing thick, hooded wetsuits.
We disappeared up a side road, into the woods, and found a nice spot** in which to camp for the night. We woke to sun, and to critters galore, including an enormous, noisy squirrel and a repeat visitor hummingbird. Clever wife took Oakridge Marcello's advice and fixed my trashed shoe using dental floss, pushing the needle through the thick shoe material using pliers. The exercise was so successful that she went on to mend glove rips, a broken dress strap, and the flotilla of holes ripped in my fancypants Black Butte Porter riding shirt when I fell backwards down a bank after failing to negotiate an uphill switchback on Oakridge's Middle Fork Trail.
And then it was my turn to ride the bottom half of the McKenzie River Trail. And Lo, It Was Good!
This was my second full run through this trail, but my first without having already ridden several hours to get there. For Janine, those several hours are an appropriate entree, and leave her warmed-up and ready to flay the ride. I'm more of a flayee at that point, well ready for a cup of tea (beer) and a lie-down. A drop-off at Deer Creek, though, helped me see why Lovely Wife rates the bottom half of the McKenzie River Trail up there with the Alpine Trail in Oakridge as some of the best riding on the planet. Riding alone, I had music on for the first time in a long time, and the semi-random random setting on my El Cheapo iPod knock-off served me up some soundtrack treats, including:
- Killdozer's Hi There, which proved an excellent warm-up tempo;
- a Frank Black best-of, which kicked the tempo up a notch or three;
- various others, culminating in a bunch of early-90s thrash metal from Forbidden, which had me flying - sometimes literally - for the last twenty minutes or so of the hour I was riding.
The trail had been like the best flattish bits of Rotorua strung together for a longer run, and with a more natural feel. by the end I'd done some of the most attacking riding I've yet managed on this continent, and I felt bloody good.
The McKenzie River Trail: if you like riding bikes in the woods, go ride there.
* = Not on purpose.
** = As with many of the dispersed spots we've found, there was evidence of prior human activity, primarily embodied as expended shotgun shells.
Those Stupid Owls
Short Version:
A picnic, a ride despite my best intentions, goodbye Oakridge, and, of course, those stupid owls.
Long Version:
Eleven hours of sleep is a good thing. Even better when it's followed by a highly-caffeinated eggy breakfast picnic at the red covered-bridge. I was pretty wiped from our Alpine experience, and stated from the outset that I wasn't riding. Janine had other ideas.
Kim rode through the red covered-bridge area while we were breakfasting, and stopped to chat. Pretty soon we were joined by June, who was not only lovely, but also a veritable font of information about places to go and ride, all over the world. Unfortunately, the only bit I remember properly is that Bella Coola* has "gazillions of bears."
We hit the not-yet open brewpub for internets, then went in for a pint once it opened. Eugene from the Local Bike Shop was there, and was determined that we shouldn't leave town without riding at least one more of the many trails we'd not yet seen in the area. I said there was no way I was riding up any hills, and he countered by demanding that we allow him to drive us to the top of the Larison Rock Trail. We protested, but to no avail, and before long we'd hooked up at Greenwater Park, driven to the top of the hill, farewelled Eugene, and were rolling.
Up the hill.
The trailhead is some way shy of the summit of Larison Rock, and neither lovely wife nor I are the kind to NOT hit a summit when it's presented on that kind of platter, regardless of how tired our (my) legs might be. A short ride and a scrambly climb took us to the top of the rock pile, and then we were back on the bikes and pointed downhill, and hitting some serious pace. Some of the trail sections were scarily fast, others technical and tight. Almost all of it was fun, including the bits where we had near-misses**. The trail's not long, and soon we were back at the park, farewelling Eugene and Richard amidst the growing chaos of Mountain-Bike Oregon, which is a three-day, all-you-can-shuttle/eat/drink bikefest which sells out its complement of 300 twice each year.
And then we were off! Back up the winding road over the hills to the Cougar Dam, with a stop for a swim in the North Fork*** of the Willamette River on the way. We were just short of the dam when we decided to stop for the night, and we found a pretty excellent spot in which to camp, down a side-road from the highway, next to a lake inlet full of driftwood****. Cheesy quesadillas and vege-burgers downed, it was our bedtime. And wake-up time for the local screech-owl couple. To be fair, the birds making the unholy noise above our tent may not actually have been proper screech-owls, but the noise was definitely a screech, and the birds, when we finally mustered up the courage to get out of the tent and have a look at the source by torchlight, were definitely owls. And definitely unimpressed with having a torch shined in their big, dark-acclimatised eyes.
That the feeling was mutual was evidenced by Janine's first statement the next morning: "Let's go find those stupid owls and wake them up."
* = Small town on British Columbia's west coast. Very isolated. Came to our attention when we were in Vancouver, as the terminus of a proposed oil pipeline from Alberta. Topical, due in part to BP`s colossal Gulf failure, and in part to a newly-publicised leak from an oil pipeline owned by the same company, which has so far spilled an estimated three million litres of oil into a once-pretty river.
** = Including Janine nearly pulping a chipmunk
*** = Unlike NZ, where streams have unique names from source to the point where they're subsumed into larger, more politically adept water courses, Amerikan rivers seem to have been named at the point where they hit the sea, and backtraced from there. Which is all well and good, except that you end up with "The North Fork of the Middle Fork of the Clackamas River," which is ever-so-slightly unwieldy
**** = One piece looked uncannily like an enormous crocodile, launching itself out of the water with jaws agape
A picnic, a ride despite my best intentions, goodbye Oakridge, and, of course, those stupid owls.
Long Version:
Eleven hours of sleep is a good thing. Even better when it's followed by a highly-caffeinated eggy breakfast picnic at the red covered-bridge. I was pretty wiped from our Alpine experience, and stated from the outset that I wasn't riding. Janine had other ideas.
Kim rode through the red covered-bridge area while we were breakfasting, and stopped to chat. Pretty soon we were joined by June, who was not only lovely, but also a veritable font of information about places to go and ride, all over the world. Unfortunately, the only bit I remember properly is that Bella Coola* has "gazillions of bears."
We hit the not-yet open brewpub for internets, then went in for a pint once it opened. Eugene from the Local Bike Shop was there, and was determined that we shouldn't leave town without riding at least one more of the many trails we'd not yet seen in the area. I said there was no way I was riding up any hills, and he countered by demanding that we allow him to drive us to the top of the Larison Rock Trail. We protested, but to no avail, and before long we'd hooked up at Greenwater Park, driven to the top of the hill, farewelled Eugene, and were rolling.
Up the hill.
The trailhead is some way shy of the summit of Larison Rock, and neither lovely wife nor I are the kind to NOT hit a summit when it's presented on that kind of platter, regardless of how tired our (my) legs might be. A short ride and a scrambly climb took us to the top of the rock pile, and then we were back on the bikes and pointed downhill, and hitting some serious pace. Some of the trail sections were scarily fast, others technical and tight. Almost all of it was fun, including the bits where we had near-misses**. The trail's not long, and soon we were back at the park, farewelling Eugene and Richard amidst the growing chaos of Mountain-Bike Oregon, which is a three-day, all-you-can-shuttle/eat/drink bikefest which sells out its complement of 300 twice each year.
And then we were off! Back up the winding road over the hills to the Cougar Dam, with a stop for a swim in the North Fork*** of the Willamette River on the way. We were just short of the dam when we decided to stop for the night, and we found a pretty excellent spot in which to camp, down a side-road from the highway, next to a lake inlet full of driftwood****. Cheesy quesadillas and vege-burgers downed, it was our bedtime. And wake-up time for the local screech-owl couple. To be fair, the birds making the unholy noise above our tent may not actually have been proper screech-owls, but the noise was definitely a screech, and the birds, when we finally mustered up the courage to get out of the tent and have a look at the source by torchlight, were definitely owls. And definitely unimpressed with having a torch shined in their big, dark-acclimatised eyes.
That the feeling was mutual was evidenced by Janine's first statement the next morning: "Let's go find those stupid owls and wake them up."
* = Small town on British Columbia's west coast. Very isolated. Came to our attention when we were in Vancouver, as the terminus of a proposed oil pipeline from Alberta. Topical, due in part to BP`s colossal Gulf failure, and in part to a newly-publicised leak from an oil pipeline owned by the same company, which has so far spilled an estimated three million litres of oil into a once-pretty river.
** = Including Janine nearly pulping a chipmunk
*** = Unlike NZ, where streams have unique names from source to the point where they're subsumed into larger, more politically adept water courses, Amerikan rivers seem to have been named at the point where they hit the sea, and backtraced from there. Which is all well and good, except that you end up with "The North Fork of the Middle Fork of the Clackamas River," which is ever-so-slightly unwieldy
**** = One piece looked uncannily like an enormous crocodile, launching itself out of the water with jaws agape
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Alpine
Short Version:
We ride up a hill, then back down it, on a truly awesome trail. Janine blitzes everyone.
Long Version:
Last time we camped near Oakridge, we were woken unceremoniously by the world's loudest noise. This time, birdsong and squirrel activity heralded the start of the new day, which is much more civilized, but made for a much later start from the red covered bridge* than we'd planned. In turn, that (plus one minor detour down and back up a side-road) meant that it was late when we reached the top of the climb and stopped to take in the views, which were pretty spectacular. We could see all three of the Three Sisters, and one close neighbor which I think was Broken-Top. Please take as a given that the climb took ages, and was strenuous, and that Janine got to the top long before me and in much better shape. A lot of people shuttle up to the trailhead, and I can see why - 2.5 hours of climbing, covering around 13 miles and eating something like 3700 vertical feet makes for tired legs, back and shoulders, although some strange people seem to arrive at the top just as they start to warm up.
One of the good things about climbing hills is that you get to study insects at length. Not so good when they're the evil mosquitoes of the Moon Point climb, but the spiky hairy caterpillars we saw on the way up the 1910 and 1912 roads to the top of Alpine were pretty cool. As were the people we met at the trailhead; local Phil and his guests Kim and Bonnie, from Washington and California respectively (Hi Phil and Kim and Bonnie!). We hit it off instantly, not least because Kim had a well cool moustache. We also met a guy from Montana, who disappeared the other way up the trail, seeking the additional seven miles he'd been told about. The rest of us set of downwards, although much to my dismay it proved to be upwards for a while first. The summit was in a high meadow, with long grass and flowers. Phil and I had been following the others at a respectful distance (ie Kim and Bonnie ride up hills at near-Janine pace), and something about the way Janine was fair bouncing around the place made me nervous when we reached them and swapped into traditional downhill ride order. Sure enough, she was glued to my wheel for the first chunk of trail, after which I abdicated point.
She disappeared pretty much instantly, and stayed gone for the rest of the ride. Riders I passed said things like:
- She's WAY ahead of you
- She's a long way ahead
- You have a lot of catching up to do
- She's riding fast
- You have a lot of ground to make up
- She's looking strong
We played leapfrog with Bonnie on the way down, and the grins on all of our faces bespoke how excellent the trail was. Both individual sections and the trail as a whole seemed to go downhill forever, with incredibly long traverse runs on good-width trail encouraging massive speeds. Occasionally these terminated in switchbacks, and there was evidence to suggest that not everyone picked the need to decelerate in time. The trail surface was mainly packed dirt with a light covering of fir needles, which are smaller and less slippery than pine needles, but there were sections of loose stuff, of roots, and of shale**. Most of the descent was wide open and fast, but there were tight, twisty bits, and dips and curves in the trail to keep you on your toes. There were a couple of small-to-medium climbs along the way, and my legs were sending clear messages about the inappropriateness of such indignities, but Janine powered up them like a greyhound fresh out of the gate and hot on the heels of the fake rabbit. Total time from where we cut off the road and onto the trail back down to the red covered bridge was just over two hours, during which we covered 14 or so miles and dropped around 4500 vertical feet. As Janine said, we'd have been down MUCH quicker if there wasn't gas-bagging to be done, but to me the opportunity to chat with interesting folks and rest my legs and back, and my now-weary forearms and hands (from all the strenuous braking I'd been doing!) was far too good to pass up.
We ate*** a picnic lunch then sallied forth to the pub, where we had a pint with Bonnie and Kim and a fluid group of arrivistes and departees (Hi Jamie and Judy and John and Stephanie and Mike and Jeff!), then we left them to it and disappeared back into the woods, ate delicious foods and went to sleep early and deeply.
* = Covered bridges served significant multi-purpose roles back in the early part of the twentieth century, and I think the reasoning behind them is wonderful. Apparently the not-particularly-rich communities of the time, faced with conflicting demands for limited resources, got all clever-like and combined their major construction projects to reduce overheads like admin, management, transportation and physical infrastructure. Thus the foundations of the much-needed bridge became also the foundations of the hall in which meetings, dances, and the like took place. Essentially, the bridge has a town hall sitting atop it, with the road running thrugh the middle, and the traditional bridge superstructure altered and co-opted into service as wall- and roof-framing. Ingenuous.
** = I wasn't entirely pleased to see this stuff looming ahead of me, as the last time I'd seen it was on the Mary's Peak trail at the spot where I crashed. In other words, my view was of it approaching my face, fast, as I fell head-first onto the trail before bouncing down the bank.
*** = Janine ate. I inhaled.
We ride up a hill, then back down it, on a truly awesome trail. Janine blitzes everyone.
Long Version:
Last time we camped near Oakridge, we were woken unceremoniously by the world's loudest noise. This time, birdsong and squirrel activity heralded the start of the new day, which is much more civilized, but made for a much later start from the red covered bridge* than we'd planned. In turn, that (plus one minor detour down and back up a side-road) meant that it was late when we reached the top of the climb and stopped to take in the views, which were pretty spectacular. We could see all three of the Three Sisters, and one close neighbor which I think was Broken-Top. Please take as a given that the climb took ages, and was strenuous, and that Janine got to the top long before me and in much better shape. A lot of people shuttle up to the trailhead, and I can see why - 2.5 hours of climbing, covering around 13 miles and eating something like 3700 vertical feet makes for tired legs, back and shoulders, although some strange people seem to arrive at the top just as they start to warm up.
One of the good things about climbing hills is that you get to study insects at length. Not so good when they're the evil mosquitoes of the Moon Point climb, but the spiky hairy caterpillars we saw on the way up the 1910 and 1912 roads to the top of Alpine were pretty cool. As were the people we met at the trailhead; local Phil and his guests Kim and Bonnie, from Washington and California respectively (Hi Phil and Kim and Bonnie!). We hit it off instantly, not least because Kim had a well cool moustache. We also met a guy from Montana, who disappeared the other way up the trail, seeking the additional seven miles he'd been told about. The rest of us set of downwards, although much to my dismay it proved to be upwards for a while first. The summit was in a high meadow, with long grass and flowers. Phil and I had been following the others at a respectful distance (ie Kim and Bonnie ride up hills at near-Janine pace), and something about the way Janine was fair bouncing around the place made me nervous when we reached them and swapped into traditional downhill ride order. Sure enough, she was glued to my wheel for the first chunk of trail, after which I abdicated point.
She disappeared pretty much instantly, and stayed gone for the rest of the ride. Riders I passed said things like:
- She's WAY ahead of you
- She's a long way ahead
- You have a lot of catching up to do
- She's riding fast
- You have a lot of ground to make up
- She's looking strong
We played leapfrog with Bonnie on the way down, and the grins on all of our faces bespoke how excellent the trail was. Both individual sections and the trail as a whole seemed to go downhill forever, with incredibly long traverse runs on good-width trail encouraging massive speeds. Occasionally these terminated in switchbacks, and there was evidence to suggest that not everyone picked the need to decelerate in time. The trail surface was mainly packed dirt with a light covering of fir needles, which are smaller and less slippery than pine needles, but there were sections of loose stuff, of roots, and of shale**. Most of the descent was wide open and fast, but there were tight, twisty bits, and dips and curves in the trail to keep you on your toes. There were a couple of small-to-medium climbs along the way, and my legs were sending clear messages about the inappropriateness of such indignities, but Janine powered up them like a greyhound fresh out of the gate and hot on the heels of the fake rabbit. Total time from where we cut off the road and onto the trail back down to the red covered bridge was just over two hours, during which we covered 14 or so miles and dropped around 4500 vertical feet. As Janine said, we'd have been down MUCH quicker if there wasn't gas-bagging to be done, but to me the opportunity to chat with interesting folks and rest my legs and back, and my now-weary forearms and hands (from all the strenuous braking I'd been doing!) was far too good to pass up.
We ate*** a picnic lunch then sallied forth to the pub, where we had a pint with Bonnie and Kim and a fluid group of arrivistes and departees (Hi Jamie and Judy and John and Stephanie and Mike and Jeff!), then we left them to it and disappeared back into the woods, ate delicious foods and went to sleep early and deeply.
* = Covered bridges served significant multi-purpose roles back in the early part of the twentieth century, and I think the reasoning behind them is wonderful. Apparently the not-particularly-rich communities of the time, faced with conflicting demands for limited resources, got all clever-like and combined their major construction projects to reduce overheads like admin, management, transportation and physical infrastructure. Thus the foundations of the much-needed bridge became also the foundations of the hall in which meetings, dances, and the like took place. Essentially, the bridge has a town hall sitting atop it, with the road running thrugh the middle, and the traditional bridge superstructure altered and co-opted into service as wall- and roof-framing. Ingenuous.
** = I wasn't entirely pleased to see this stuff looming ahead of me, as the last time I'd seen it was on the Mary's Peak trail at the spot where I crashed. In other words, my view was of it approaching my face, fast, as I fell head-first onto the trail before bouncing down the bank.
*** = Janine ate. I inhaled.
Oakridge Shows Us a Good Time
Short Version:
Recovery ride cut short leads to new friends, an extra ride, and setting up camp in the dark
Long Version:
Leisurely breakfast and coffee in the sun, followed by a nice riverside ride at cruise pace. Sounds kind of nice. Add in a big gash in a thumb, and one on a back right where a water-bladder pack sits. Throw in some seriously tired legs, and some complainy butts, and the picture looks a little less rosy. Still, we were having a grand old time, and were about fifteen miles upstream when Janine managed to well and truly destroy one of her pedals. Our leisurely ride transferred itself to the quiet, smooth-paved highway, and we made our way back to camp and then into town, to the Local Bike Shop: Willamette Mountain Mercantile.
Last time I'd visited, Derek had hand-drawn me a map of the area's most renowned ride, the Alpine Trail, which was pretty nice of him. This time, we had Eugene helping us, and Richard providing color commentary (Hi Eugene and Richard!). And despite our never-ending list of bike-repairs, gas-cooker and headlamp queries, and trail info demands, not to mention the steady flow of other people in and out of the store, and the barrage of telephone calls, help us they did; Janine has new, blue pedals, I have a non-creaky bottom bracket, we have stove gas, and lamps, and we know some stuff about Oakridge trails. We also know some stuff about the previous day's Creampuff 100, a 100-mile race which almost 300 mad buggers rode in, and about September's Fat55 race, which sounds somewhat more achievable than a 100-miler, and has profits going to the Greater Oakridge Area trails Stewards (GOATS), who do most of the trail-building and maintenance in the region. Thanks GOATS!
One of the other customers during the ages we were in the store was an Australian endurance racer, with whom we had a pint at the local brewpub later on. He and fellow Aussie Claire are doing something similar to us, only with less feralness. And they're following the endurance mountain-bike racing, rather than a completely random itinerary. They were staying with local Marcello, who spends half of each year in Oakridge, and half in Rotorua. We went for an evening ride with them, down the Salmon Creek Trail. It was great. Lots of tricky techy bits, but nothing heinous or truly scary, except that we were riding pretty quick in half-light, and riding stuff at pace that we'd normally have slowed to have a look at before blasting over it. Lots of fun sections, and a great river crossing at a weir near the end. Pretty soon we were back near the centre of town and on to the local Chinese restaurant, Lee's, where owner Jeff is one of the funniest, most charming people you could meet, and who I suspect could easily kill you with his bare hands should he choose to do so. The food was delicious, and the conversation interesting, and it was regretfully that we said our goodbyes and piled into the Reaper for the darktime run into the forest.
Our first ever tent setup in the dark went totally smoothly, and before long we were snoring away merrily in our riverside campsite, dreaming of the riding to come the following day, when our long-standing plans to ride Alpine were finally looking likely to come to fruition.
Recovery ride cut short leads to new friends, an extra ride, and setting up camp in the dark
Long Version:
Leisurely breakfast and coffee in the sun, followed by a nice riverside ride at cruise pace. Sounds kind of nice. Add in a big gash in a thumb, and one on a back right where a water-bladder pack sits. Throw in some seriously tired legs, and some complainy butts, and the picture looks a little less rosy. Still, we were having a grand old time, and were about fifteen miles upstream when Janine managed to well and truly destroy one of her pedals. Our leisurely ride transferred itself to the quiet, smooth-paved highway, and we made our way back to camp and then into town, to the Local Bike Shop: Willamette Mountain Mercantile.
Last time I'd visited, Derek had hand-drawn me a map of the area's most renowned ride, the Alpine Trail, which was pretty nice of him. This time, we had Eugene helping us, and Richard providing color commentary (Hi Eugene and Richard!). And despite our never-ending list of bike-repairs, gas-cooker and headlamp queries, and trail info demands, not to mention the steady flow of other people in and out of the store, and the barrage of telephone calls, help us they did; Janine has new, blue pedals, I have a non-creaky bottom bracket, we have stove gas, and lamps, and we know some stuff about Oakridge trails. We also know some stuff about the previous day's Creampuff 100, a 100-mile race which almost 300 mad buggers rode in, and about September's Fat55 race, which sounds somewhat more achievable than a 100-miler, and has profits going to the Greater Oakridge Area trails Stewards (GOATS), who do most of the trail-building and maintenance in the region. Thanks GOATS!
One of the other customers during the ages we were in the store was an Australian endurance racer, with whom we had a pint at the local brewpub later on. He and fellow Aussie Claire are doing something similar to us, only with less feralness. And they're following the endurance mountain-bike racing, rather than a completely random itinerary. They were staying with local Marcello, who spends half of each year in Oakridge, and half in Rotorua. We went for an evening ride with them, down the Salmon Creek Trail. It was great. Lots of tricky techy bits, but nothing heinous or truly scary, except that we were riding pretty quick in half-light, and riding stuff at pace that we'd normally have slowed to have a look at before blasting over it. Lots of fun sections, and a great river crossing at a weir near the end. Pretty soon we were back near the centre of town and on to the local Chinese restaurant, Lee's, where owner Jeff is one of the funniest, most charming people you could meet, and who I suspect could easily kill you with his bare hands should he choose to do so. The food was delicious, and the conversation interesting, and it was regretfully that we said our goodbyes and piled into the Reaper for the darktime run into the forest.
Our first ever tent setup in the dark went totally smoothly, and before long we were snoring away merrily in our riverside campsite, dreaming of the riding to come the following day, when our long-standing plans to ride Alpine were finally looking likely to come to fruition.
Moon Point
Short Version:
We ride upriver and uphill, then downhill and downriver. I fall off.
Long Version:
The Middle Fork Trail meanders its way between river and road for someting like 34 miles in total. We rode the first 10 or so, and thoroughly enjoyed it. The temperature in near the river was spot on for riding, and the trail itself served up a good balance of packed dirt and rounded river stones, and a mix of open and twisting sections. Predominantly flat, although trending uphill alongside the river, there was just the right amount of pedalling required, without being overly-demanding. Which is good, because all-too-soon we cut across the highway and started to climb towards Young's Rock and Moon Point.
We climbed a gravel road for a long time. It could have become monotonous, as well as painful, but the random intervals between the flocks of ravenous mosquitoes, and their ability and willingness to bite not only moving targets, but to do so through clothing including shirts, shorts, gloves and socks kept things interesting. It was quite hot, so both of us were trying to find the optimum balance between shade (more mosquitoes) and no-shade (more heat).
Both Moon Point and Young's Rock are massive rock outcrops, and both looked mighty impressive from the roadway. We had plenty of time to stare at both during the 2+ hours we spent hauling ourselves up that hill. As always, Janine would have been at the top 15-50% faster had she not been waiting for me and, as always, a climb that long left me not only buggered, but bloody grumpy as well.
Luckily, the view from the top of Moon Point was spectacular, and the descent from there past Young's Rock and on to the bottom of the hill was pretty amazing. Steep sections with tight switchbacks gave way to free and open runs down through alpine meadows full of wildflowers, which led to cliff-face traverses, more meadows, more switchbacks, and yet more traverses. Halfway down we met some plant enthusiast hikers, who were very nice about almost being run over, and then we hit the fast part of the trail; more open + smoother surface = massive velocity possibilities. It's scary to think how fast locals must ride some of this stuff. Hell, it's scary riding it the speeds we were doing!
At the bottom we headed upriver to the next trailhead, then chopped in and back onto the Middle Fork Trail, seven miles or so upriver of where we'd left it. This upper section had some more hilly sections than the lower end, including some pretty grim switchbacks, one of which inflicted a series of wounds upon me, and upon my fancypants Black Butte Porter riding shirt. Boo! Hiss!
By the time we reached the van, nearly seven hours after we left it, we'd ridden just over thirty-two miles, and eaten something like 4000 vertical feet. We had blood, and we had sweat, but we had no tears - by the time I crashed I'd sweated out all my fluids, and Janine's too hardcore to cry.
We drove up a spot we'd seen in the woods on our way downriver and set up camp. The beer we'd earned with that massive uphill slog was delicious (after it'd been chilled in the river for a while), and we knew when we awoke next morning we'd be straight onto the trail for our rest-day ride: as many hours upriver as we felt like doing, and back down again. Sorted.
We ride upriver and uphill, then downhill and downriver. I fall off.
Long Version:
The Middle Fork Trail meanders its way between river and road for someting like 34 miles in total. We rode the first 10 or so, and thoroughly enjoyed it. The temperature in near the river was spot on for riding, and the trail itself served up a good balance of packed dirt and rounded river stones, and a mix of open and twisting sections. Predominantly flat, although trending uphill alongside the river, there was just the right amount of pedalling required, without being overly-demanding. Which is good, because all-too-soon we cut across the highway and started to climb towards Young's Rock and Moon Point.
We climbed a gravel road for a long time. It could have become monotonous, as well as painful, but the random intervals between the flocks of ravenous mosquitoes, and their ability and willingness to bite not only moving targets, but to do so through clothing including shirts, shorts, gloves and socks kept things interesting. It was quite hot, so both of us were trying to find the optimum balance between shade (more mosquitoes) and no-shade (more heat).
Both Moon Point and Young's Rock are massive rock outcrops, and both looked mighty impressive from the roadway. We had plenty of time to stare at both during the 2+ hours we spent hauling ourselves up that hill. As always, Janine would have been at the top 15-50% faster had she not been waiting for me and, as always, a climb that long left me not only buggered, but bloody grumpy as well.
Luckily, the view from the top of Moon Point was spectacular, and the descent from there past Young's Rock and on to the bottom of the hill was pretty amazing. Steep sections with tight switchbacks gave way to free and open runs down through alpine meadows full of wildflowers, which led to cliff-face traverses, more meadows, more switchbacks, and yet more traverses. Halfway down we met some plant enthusiast hikers, who were very nice about almost being run over, and then we hit the fast part of the trail; more open + smoother surface = massive velocity possibilities. It's scary to think how fast locals must ride some of this stuff. Hell, it's scary riding it the speeds we were doing!
At the bottom we headed upriver to the next trailhead, then chopped in and back onto the Middle Fork Trail, seven miles or so upriver of where we'd left it. This upper section had some more hilly sections than the lower end, including some pretty grim switchbacks, one of which inflicted a series of wounds upon me, and upon my fancypants Black Butte Porter riding shirt. Boo! Hiss!
By the time we reached the van, nearly seven hours after we left it, we'd ridden just over thirty-two miles, and eaten something like 4000 vertical feet. We had blood, and we had sweat, but we had no tears - by the time I crashed I'd sweated out all my fluids, and Janine's too hardcore to cry.
We drove up a spot we'd seen in the woods on our way downriver and set up camp. The beer we'd earned with that massive uphill slog was delicious (after it'd been chilled in the river for a while), and we knew when we awoke next morning we'd be straight onto the trail for our rest-day ride: as many hours upriver as we felt like doing, and back down again. Sorted.
Neighbors
Short Version:
We return to Oakridge, camp in a nice spot, a plague of Beelzebub-flavored neighbors is visited upon us
Long Version:
It was hot in Oakridge, so we lay on the grass under a shady tree and read our books. Eventually we bestirred ourselves, and drove south-east out of town for 20 miles or so, and found ourselves a nice place to camp at the upstream end of a Reservoir. We had a lovely evening, with much civilized reading of books, watching of wildlife, and eating of delicious foods. We turned in early, so as to get a good night's sleep before tackling the Moon Point ride in the morning.
Unfortunately, pretty much as soon as we turned our lights out, neighbors arrived. And what neighbors! The kerfuffle of their arrival, in multiple large-engined pickups, did not abate with time, as we expected. Indeed, at least two of them stayed up all night, foraging for firewood all over the place, chasing their noisy, ill-behaved dog Weiser - short, we assume, for Budweiser - around the place, and generally making massive amounts of noise.
We woke at one point to find the dog right outside the tent. It didn't seem to appreciate the profanities I levelled at it, and barked at me. Loudly. For ages.
Obviously some squirrel or frog or something made similarly offensive comments at various points in the night, as the dog let loose from spots at all points of the compass at intervals right through to morning.
They'd arrived after dark, so all I'd had to go on were their voices:
- Mom's been a chain-smoker for several years. Has somehow managed to retain a whiny edge to her voice despite the roughness dealt to it by all those cheap and nasty tobacco products.
- Pop's got to be huge to have a voice that deep, and to drink that many cans of beer.
- Older boy's voice has broken, but he's a pussy, as evidenced by his refusal to go see what the dog's barking at, any of the times the dog was barking. Bullies the younger boy incessantly.
- Younger boy looks up to older boy. Goodness knows why.
- Dog is an ill-mannered, ill-trained, piece of crap. Listens to Pop more than others, but even Pop holds little sway. Dung-beetles are cooler than this mongrel.
In the morning, though, a treat, of sorts, for my sleep-deprived eyes; I got to see them.
- Mom might've looked good in those short shorts and that tanktop about thirty years ago. But I doubt it.
- Older boy is fat, with pudding-bowl sand-colored hair and facial features which look like a sculptor set the work aside to finish later while he went for a drink, but ended up on a three-day bender and never came back to finish up
- Younger boy was a slightly smaller version of his big brother
- Pop's short, has one leg, shiny crutches, a pony-tail, and photo-sensitive glasses
- The dog is part black lab, part bull terrier, and all bad
We left early, and drove further up the Middle Fork of the Willamette River, to Sand Prairie campground and the start of the Middle Fork Trail.
I was sleep-deprived and grumpy. Janine had somehow managed to have an incredibly good sleep, and was raring to go.
Bah humbug.
We return to Oakridge, camp in a nice spot, a plague of Beelzebub-flavored neighbors is visited upon us
Long Version:
It was hot in Oakridge, so we lay on the grass under a shady tree and read our books. Eventually we bestirred ourselves, and drove south-east out of town for 20 miles or so, and found ourselves a nice place to camp at the upstream end of a Reservoir. We had a lovely evening, with much civilized reading of books, watching of wildlife, and eating of delicious foods. We turned in early, so as to get a good night's sleep before tackling the Moon Point ride in the morning.
Unfortunately, pretty much as soon as we turned our lights out, neighbors arrived. And what neighbors! The kerfuffle of their arrival, in multiple large-engined pickups, did not abate with time, as we expected. Indeed, at least two of them stayed up all night, foraging for firewood all over the place, chasing their noisy, ill-behaved dog Weiser - short, we assume, for Budweiser - around the place, and generally making massive amounts of noise.
We woke at one point to find the dog right outside the tent. It didn't seem to appreciate the profanities I levelled at it, and barked at me. Loudly. For ages.
Obviously some squirrel or frog or something made similarly offensive comments at various points in the night, as the dog let loose from spots at all points of the compass at intervals right through to morning.
They'd arrived after dark, so all I'd had to go on were their voices:
- Mom's been a chain-smoker for several years. Has somehow managed to retain a whiny edge to her voice despite the roughness dealt to it by all those cheap and nasty tobacco products.
- Pop's got to be huge to have a voice that deep, and to drink that many cans of beer.
- Older boy's voice has broken, but he's a pussy, as evidenced by his refusal to go see what the dog's barking at, any of the times the dog was barking. Bullies the younger boy incessantly.
- Younger boy looks up to older boy. Goodness knows why.
- Dog is an ill-mannered, ill-trained, piece of crap. Listens to Pop more than others, but even Pop holds little sway. Dung-beetles are cooler than this mongrel.
In the morning, though, a treat, of sorts, for my sleep-deprived eyes; I got to see them.
- Mom might've looked good in those short shorts and that tanktop about thirty years ago. But I doubt it.
- Older boy is fat, with pudding-bowl sand-colored hair and facial features which look like a sculptor set the work aside to finish later while he went for a drink, but ended up on a three-day bender and never came back to finish up
- Younger boy was a slightly smaller version of his big brother
- Pop's short, has one leg, shiny crutches, a pony-tail, and photo-sensitive glasses
- The dog is part black lab, part bull terrier, and all bad
We left early, and drove further up the Middle Fork of the Willamette River, to Sand Prairie campground and the start of the Middle Fork Trail.
I was sleep-deprived and grumpy. Janine had somehow managed to have an incredibly good sleep, and was raring to go.
Bah humbug.
Corvallis Shows Us a Good Time
Short Version:
We relax, make some new friends, go for a ride, crash, watch football, and eventually leave
Long Version:
We had to wait until Carl finished work for the day to enact the fork transfer, so we spent the day relaxing. Unlike most instances of relaxing that we do, this one didn't involve riding a bike or running or walking up a mountain. This time, we:
- Lay on the grass in a park and read books
- Went to a brewpub and watched the World Cup 3rd/4th playoff (Go Uruguay! Oh. Rats.)
- Visited a secondhand bookstore and bought a lot of good, cheap books
- Ate delicious foods
We picked up Carl and his very cool custom-made (by Carl, from scratch) commuter bike and headed to his place. His garage was full of bikes of all shapes and sizes, many of which he'd made himself, including his flatmate Shaun's 29" single-speed, which I covet. We took a walk through the nearby wetlands on the boardwalk and saw some bats, then back to the house, where Carl committed fork-swap wizardry and showed us pictures of some cool rides we should go and do, and we looked in awe at the gardens. The suburban property has been turned into a major gardening realm, with delicious foods growing everywhere one looks. Except when one looks up the tree in the back yard, because that's where the tree-house is. We loved the place. And, as it turned out, we got to stay there the night, because not only Carl, but also flatmates Shaun and his partner Mary were very very nice people. We chatted a bit, and I read a book about poop, and we showered (praise be!) and then we slept, on a comfy couch on the back porch, near the chickens.
Next morning we were up early. But not as early as we'd promised, so Shaun was already dressed and raring to go for a ride, as was across-the-road neighbor Rob. Carl had left for Portland the night before, so it was the four of us who piled into Rob's pickup for the drive to Mary's Peak, where we parked at the base and set off up a gravel road. Shaun, on the aforementioned big-wheeled one-speed bike, set the pace, with Janine hot on his heels. Wheels. Whatever.
I noodled along at the back, asking Rob questions, which in retrospect was a bit mean, as it meant that I go to use all my breathing for riding up the hill, while he had to answer me as well as try to get enough oxygen into his system to deal with the climb. A while later, we hooked off the road and onto singletrack, which led us up into some really pretty forest for a long time. Shaun and Janine disappeared at high speed, and were waiting at the top for us, chatting to the Ranger. We shot the breeze for a while, said hello to the butterfly-census people*, then hit the trail down the hill. Fast.
The top section of trail was high-speed, was carnage waiting to happen, was a hell of a lot of fun. The locals were flying, and disappeared quickly after each regrouping stop. Janine appeared at one such stop with a pair of parallel gouges out of her shin, made by a rock which had been hiding behind a fern. Sneaky rock! My crash was much more public, and much more the result of me just plain riding badly. In my defence, I was sort of emulating the way Shaun rode the tree-root drop-off. It's just that my wheels are smaller than his. And I wasn't going fast enough. And I was only using my front brake, because my back brake was making a horrible noise.
Whatever the reason, I went over the handlebars, then down the bank a ways. But not as far as my bike. Bruised shin and shoulder, dented pride.
The trail tightened up as we descended, with some narrow traverse sections and some gnarly rooty bits. The end was a flyer though, and none of us wanted it to be over when we arrived back at the truck, despite the imminent kickoff of the World Cup final. And the prospect of beer.
Back at the house, Rob's lovely wife Katie played Nurse Mom on Nene's shin, then we said our goodbyes (goodbye Shaun and Mary and Katie and Rob! Keep in touch, or else!) and set off into town to the brewpub, where the final was 0-0 at halftime when we arrived. By the time we left, Espana were the new World Champions, the Netherlands had been exposed as limited in imagination, discipline, and tactical nous, and we'd eaten delicious foods** and drunk delicious beers.
And it was time to move on, away from Corvallis, which we went to by accident, stayed in longer than we planned, and where we met a bunch of really really cool people and rode some great trails. Goodbye Corvallis! We'll miss you!
* = There are LOTS of butterflies in Oregon.
** = A touch too much garlic on the garlic/parmesan fries, Mr Chef
We relax, make some new friends, go for a ride, crash, watch football, and eventually leave
Long Version:
We had to wait until Carl finished work for the day to enact the fork transfer, so we spent the day relaxing. Unlike most instances of relaxing that we do, this one didn't involve riding a bike or running or walking up a mountain. This time, we:
- Lay on the grass in a park and read books
- Went to a brewpub and watched the World Cup 3rd/4th playoff (Go Uruguay! Oh. Rats.)
- Visited a secondhand bookstore and bought a lot of good, cheap books
- Ate delicious foods
We picked up Carl and his very cool custom-made (by Carl, from scratch) commuter bike and headed to his place. His garage was full of bikes of all shapes and sizes, many of which he'd made himself, including his flatmate Shaun's 29" single-speed, which I covet. We took a walk through the nearby wetlands on the boardwalk and saw some bats, then back to the house, where Carl committed fork-swap wizardry and showed us pictures of some cool rides we should go and do, and we looked in awe at the gardens. The suburban property has been turned into a major gardening realm, with delicious foods growing everywhere one looks. Except when one looks up the tree in the back yard, because that's where the tree-house is. We loved the place. And, as it turned out, we got to stay there the night, because not only Carl, but also flatmates Shaun and his partner Mary were very very nice people. We chatted a bit, and I read a book about poop, and we showered (praise be!) and then we slept, on a comfy couch on the back porch, near the chickens.
Next morning we were up early. But not as early as we'd promised, so Shaun was already dressed and raring to go for a ride, as was across-the-road neighbor Rob. Carl had left for Portland the night before, so it was the four of us who piled into Rob's pickup for the drive to Mary's Peak, where we parked at the base and set off up a gravel road. Shaun, on the aforementioned big-wheeled one-speed bike, set the pace, with Janine hot on his heels. Wheels. Whatever.
I noodled along at the back, asking Rob questions, which in retrospect was a bit mean, as it meant that I go to use all my breathing for riding up the hill, while he had to answer me as well as try to get enough oxygen into his system to deal with the climb. A while later, we hooked off the road and onto singletrack, which led us up into some really pretty forest for a long time. Shaun and Janine disappeared at high speed, and were waiting at the top for us, chatting to the Ranger. We shot the breeze for a while, said hello to the butterfly-census people*, then hit the trail down the hill. Fast.
The top section of trail was high-speed, was carnage waiting to happen, was a hell of a lot of fun. The locals were flying, and disappeared quickly after each regrouping stop. Janine appeared at one such stop with a pair of parallel gouges out of her shin, made by a rock which had been hiding behind a fern. Sneaky rock! My crash was much more public, and much more the result of me just plain riding badly. In my defence, I was sort of emulating the way Shaun rode the tree-root drop-off. It's just that my wheels are smaller than his. And I wasn't going fast enough. And I was only using my front brake, because my back brake was making a horrible noise.
Whatever the reason, I went over the handlebars, then down the bank a ways. But not as far as my bike. Bruised shin and shoulder, dented pride.
The trail tightened up as we descended, with some narrow traverse sections and some gnarly rooty bits. The end was a flyer though, and none of us wanted it to be over when we arrived back at the truck, despite the imminent kickoff of the World Cup final. And the prospect of beer.
Back at the house, Rob's lovely wife Katie played Nurse Mom on Nene's shin, then we said our goodbyes (goodbye Shaun and Mary and Katie and Rob! Keep in touch, or else!) and set off into town to the brewpub, where the final was 0-0 at halftime when we arrived. By the time we left, Espana were the new World Champions, the Netherlands had been exposed as limited in imagination, discipline, and tactical nous, and we'd eaten delicious foods** and drunk delicious beers.
And it was time to move on, away from Corvallis, which we went to by accident, stayed in longer than we planned, and where we met a bunch of really really cool people and rode some great trails. Goodbye Corvallis! We'll miss you!
* = There are LOTS of butterflies in Oregon.
** = A touch too much garlic on the garlic/parmesan fries, Mr Chef
Interim Fork Solution
Short Version:
Beards are good
Long Version:
A noise woke us. It was dark.
The noise grew closer, approaching from the south-east. Through the trees we could see a yellowish glow.
We'd executed some Reaper concealment maneuvres before turning in, and were glad we'd done so as the noise got louder, the glow brighter.
Turns out you can fit a heck of a lot of lights onto a full-size logging truck with trailer when you set your mind to it.
The behemoth roared past the open end of our cul-de-sac like something from a George Lucas film* and then braked hard fifty feet up the road to avoid plowing through the locked gate. Attendant vehicles - oversized pickup trucks, looking tiny next to their mothership - swarmed in the truck's wake. Someone had a key, the gate was unlocked, the convoy entered. The gate was relocked, and we went back to sleep.
When we awoke the second time, the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and my stupid fork was still broken. So we ate and we drank, and we broke camp and hit the road. We'd debated whether we should head north-east to Salem or back south to Corvallis, and in the end the great attitudes and expertise and etc of the guys at Corvallis Cyclery, along with the repeated and emphatic recommendations that we really should go south-east and ride at Oakridge** while in the area, won the day, and before long we were rolling through the leafy town and pulling in to park the Reaper right outside the shop.
Consensus was that the fork needed to go back to the manufacturer, but that a stop at the local Specialized dealer wouldn't go astray. So we left Janine's bike being pampered and wandered off down the street. The Specialized store was full of women about to go on a women-only skills clinic, but once that wave of carnage departed head mechanic employed some seriously dark arts of fork illness diagnosis, and eventually concluded that it needed to go back to the manufacturer, but that that couldn't be initiated until Monday (this was Saturday morning), and would likely take 2 weeks or thereabouts before the fork came back to the shop which sent it in.
None of these things suited us particularly well, so it was a downcast pair who trudged back to the Reaper, deep in discussion of options for more riding on a hired bike (too expensive), or more riding on the bung fork (not much fun, and probably warranty-voiding) or a run straight up the Interstate to Vancouver, where we could at least have the occasional shower whilst sorting the thing out. Or buying a new fork, which, although not cheap, could well have been the way to go... had any store in town had any appropriate forks for sale.
In the end we were rescued by a bearded man. Corvallis Cyclery Carl had a fork on one of his bikes which would fit my bike and suit our riding purposes. Given that he has many bicycles, and was about to go away for a few weeks with no bicycles at all, the fork could live on my bike for a while, and I could courier it to him when mine was back from the dead. Hoorah! The trip continues!
* = one of the original, good, tacky-effects ones from the 70s and 80s. Not the appalling, over-produced, poorly-written junk which came out two decades later.
** = Nene was keen, but I was resisting, on the grounds that that was where she poisoned me a month or two back
Beards are good
Long Version:
A noise woke us. It was dark.
The noise grew closer, approaching from the south-east. Through the trees we could see a yellowish glow.
We'd executed some Reaper concealment maneuvres before turning in, and were glad we'd done so as the noise got louder, the glow brighter.
Turns out you can fit a heck of a lot of lights onto a full-size logging truck with trailer when you set your mind to it.
The behemoth roared past the open end of our cul-de-sac like something from a George Lucas film* and then braked hard fifty feet up the road to avoid plowing through the locked gate. Attendant vehicles - oversized pickup trucks, looking tiny next to their mothership - swarmed in the truck's wake. Someone had a key, the gate was unlocked, the convoy entered. The gate was relocked, and we went back to sleep.
When we awoke the second time, the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and my stupid fork was still broken. So we ate and we drank, and we broke camp and hit the road. We'd debated whether we should head north-east to Salem or back south to Corvallis, and in the end the great attitudes and expertise and etc of the guys at Corvallis Cyclery, along with the repeated and emphatic recommendations that we really should go south-east and ride at Oakridge** while in the area, won the day, and before long we were rolling through the leafy town and pulling in to park the Reaper right outside the shop.
Consensus was that the fork needed to go back to the manufacturer, but that a stop at the local Specialized dealer wouldn't go astray. So we left Janine's bike being pampered and wandered off down the street. The Specialized store was full of women about to go on a women-only skills clinic, but once that wave of carnage departed head mechanic employed some seriously dark arts of fork illness diagnosis, and eventually concluded that it needed to go back to the manufacturer, but that that couldn't be initiated until Monday (this was Saturday morning), and would likely take 2 weeks or thereabouts before the fork came back to the shop which sent it in.
None of these things suited us particularly well, so it was a downcast pair who trudged back to the Reaper, deep in discussion of options for more riding on a hired bike (too expensive), or more riding on the bung fork (not much fun, and probably warranty-voiding) or a run straight up the Interstate to Vancouver, where we could at least have the occasional shower whilst sorting the thing out. Or buying a new fork, which, although not cheap, could well have been the way to go... had any store in town had any appropriate forks for sale.
In the end we were rescued by a bearded man. Corvallis Cyclery Carl had a fork on one of his bikes which would fit my bike and suit our riding purposes. Given that he has many bicycles, and was about to go away for a few weeks with no bicycles at all, the fork could live on my bike for a while, and I could courier it to him when mine was back from the dead. Hoorah! The trip continues!
* = one of the original, good, tacky-effects ones from the 70s and 80s. Not the appalling, over-produced, poorly-written junk which came out two decades later.
** = Nene was keen, but I was resisting, on the grounds that that was where she poisoned me a month or two back
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Corvallis
Short Version:
Bike repaired, just in time to kill it again.
Long Version:
We drive pretty slow through towns anyway, but especially so when we're looking for a bike shop who can do a spoke replacement and wheel tune at short notice. And a second-hand bookshop, as I'd long-since finished not only my last purchased novel, and the one we stole from the underprivileged children of LA, but also pretty much every other item of reading material in the Reaper. As it turned out, none of the towns we passed through had bike shops - or not that we spotted - until we reached Corvallis, which had umpteen, and loads of bookshops too.
We found a Reaper-appropriate parking spot directly outside a bike shop with a thrift store next door. Perfect! Apart from the fact that the mechanical service section of the bike shop was "Currently accepting bookings for next Friday." Not what I wanted to hear. More luck at the next one, though - Corvallis Cyclery were friendly and interesting and nice, and they not only fixed my wheel on the spot, they gave me some great 'where-to-ride' advice as well. Thus armed, I collected lovely wife from the thrift store and set off into the rural heart of the Willamette Valley, to Falls City and the Black Rock Mountain-Bike Area.
We passed our most astounding white trash family on the way out to the trailhead, and when we arrived, we found about half the parking lot taken up by a huge pickup with an even bigger trailer attached. We got to chatting with the owner (Hi Travis!), who, in the company of three of his friends (who'd just left in the second truck) had done Colorado -Calgary - various places in British Columbia - Vancouver - Falls City. Next stop Bend, then home to Colorado. They`d done the Vancouver-Falls City leg that day. That's a big driving day! As has become our standard practise, we picked his brain on where we should ride (adding a healthy grain or several of salt to each one on the grounds that he`s a downhiller), swapped email addresses, and set off for a ride.
Up a hill.
I'm starting to feel like a stuck record, or whatever the modern equivalent is*, with my laments about the hill-climbing we do, and in all honesty I don't actually dislike it as much as I make out. We do, however, seem to spend a heck of a lot of time riding up hills, then a much shorter span riding back down them. That was certainly the case at Black Rock, where we climbed for an hour up a pretty nice, shaded fire road, then rode downhill on some pretty cool trail sections for about half that. At the most. Would have been way less if my fancypants Fox Talas fork hadn't died halfway down. Bloody thing. The trails were reminiscent of the Vertigo Trail in Queenstown, NZ - for those who've not ridden there, I'd liken it to a downhill BMX track. Black Rock had some more rocky technical sections than Vertigo though, which made it far more enjoyable. Back at the parking lot, we saw deer and got naked, because a sign asked us not to do so in view of the nearby Christian Camp. Red rag to a bull, signmakers! We did make sure there were no kids about, and we weren't dancing around or anything. Well, maybe a little bit of dancing.
Then we dispersed into the woods, ate delicious foods, and prepared ourselves for Reaper Sleeper II: The Aliens Attack At Dawn (or maybe just a little earlier)
* = Screw the modern equivalent, I'm from the 70s! When I repeat myself ad nauseum, it's a stuck record I'm emulating, not some digital glitch bollocks.
Bike repaired, just in time to kill it again.
Long Version:
We drive pretty slow through towns anyway, but especially so when we're looking for a bike shop who can do a spoke replacement and wheel tune at short notice. And a second-hand bookshop, as I'd long-since finished not only my last purchased novel, and the one we stole from the underprivileged children of LA, but also pretty much every other item of reading material in the Reaper. As it turned out, none of the towns we passed through had bike shops - or not that we spotted - until we reached Corvallis, which had umpteen, and loads of bookshops too.
We found a Reaper-appropriate parking spot directly outside a bike shop with a thrift store next door. Perfect! Apart from the fact that the mechanical service section of the bike shop was "Currently accepting bookings for next Friday." Not what I wanted to hear. More luck at the next one, though - Corvallis Cyclery were friendly and interesting and nice, and they not only fixed my wheel on the spot, they gave me some great 'where-to-ride' advice as well. Thus armed, I collected lovely wife from the thrift store and set off into the rural heart of the Willamette Valley, to Falls City and the Black Rock Mountain-Bike Area.
We passed our most astounding white trash family on the way out to the trailhead, and when we arrived, we found about half the parking lot taken up by a huge pickup with an even bigger trailer attached. We got to chatting with the owner (Hi Travis!), who, in the company of three of his friends (who'd just left in the second truck) had done Colorado -Calgary - various places in British Columbia - Vancouver - Falls City. Next stop Bend, then home to Colorado. They`d done the Vancouver-Falls City leg that day. That's a big driving day! As has become our standard practise, we picked his brain on where we should ride (adding a healthy grain or several of salt to each one on the grounds that he`s a downhiller), swapped email addresses, and set off for a ride.
Up a hill.
I'm starting to feel like a stuck record, or whatever the modern equivalent is*, with my laments about the hill-climbing we do, and in all honesty I don't actually dislike it as much as I make out. We do, however, seem to spend a heck of a lot of time riding up hills, then a much shorter span riding back down them. That was certainly the case at Black Rock, where we climbed for an hour up a pretty nice, shaded fire road, then rode downhill on some pretty cool trail sections for about half that. At the most. Would have been way less if my fancypants Fox Talas fork hadn't died halfway down. Bloody thing. The trails were reminiscent of the Vertigo Trail in Queenstown, NZ - for those who've not ridden there, I'd liken it to a downhill BMX track. Black Rock had some more rocky technical sections than Vertigo though, which made it far more enjoyable. Back at the parking lot, we saw deer and got naked, because a sign asked us not to do so in view of the nearby Christian Camp. Red rag to a bull, signmakers! We did make sure there were no kids about, and we weren't dancing around or anything. Well, maybe a little bit of dancing.
Then we dispersed into the woods, ate delicious foods, and prepared ourselves for Reaper Sleeper II: The Aliens Attack At Dawn (or maybe just a little earlier)
* = Screw the modern equivalent, I'm from the 70s! When I repeat myself ad nauseum, it's a stuck record I'm emulating, not some digital glitch bollocks.
Oregon Again
Short Version:
Reaper Sleeper, a trail too short
Long Version:
We're back in Oregon, and that feels good. Not just because there are many beards and not just because so many places here are bike-friendly - although both are contributing factors. Crossing the Rogue and then the Umpqua Rivers on our way up the coast was like seeing old friends again, and the beaches with their rocky wildness reminded us of Auckland's west coast. Except that there's no fee to stop and eat food at Bethell's or Karekare or Piha. No clean public toilets or people picking up rubbish either though. We were too cheap to pay the $6 fee when challenged by the Ranger bloke, but he gave us helpful advice on where the best free spots nearby were, so we hurtled a few hundred metres further up the road then stopped for delicious foods, including my new favorite condiment: mustard.
Nourished, we carried on north, and watched the beach get taller as we went. Pretty soon there was a significant dunes area between us and the sea proper. There were ATV hire place, dune buggy rentals and tours, guided tours in huge bus-chassis dune buggies - there was even Dunes City. There were also, as we discovered later, large tracts of duneland set aside as nature preserves, which was pretty cool.
Not far north of Dunes City was our planned next-day ride, on the Siltcoos Lake Trail. Halfway round its 4.4 mile loop there were some campsites marked, but we'd arrived late enough in the day that we decided against packing a bike-friendly set of camping gear and riding in, opting instead to drive into the nearby National Forest and disperse into the woods (ie camp for free). Unfortunately for us, we didn't find any appropriate Forest Service roads into the woods, and, with dusk gathering, we decided to sleep roadside, in the Reaper. We'd spied a really nice grassy area at roadside on our way into the forested region, so hauled back there and parked up.
A bunch of our gear had to sleep outside for the night to make room for the humans, so after delicious foods (fried pizza, and mushroom soup with mushrooms) we locked our bikes to the van, stashed our important stuff on the front seats and the rest under the van, and crashed out. Or at least one of us did - apparently Janine wasn't quite short enough for the space she'd been allocated, so didn't have the best sleep of her life. Still, she was cheery enough early the next morning, when we rose early, reloaded the van, and relocated to nearby Woahink Lake, where we set ourselves up lakeside for a breakfast picnic before rolling a few hundred feet down the highway to the Lake Siltcoos trailhead.
The Lake Siltcoos Trail begins with an access trail which winds its way eastwards up a hill from the trailhead. Just east of the crest it butts into the loop trail which goes as far as the western shores of the lake before hooking back east. We rode clockwise, on a whim, and didn't regret the decision; nothing we saw looked like it would have been better ridden the opposite direction, and the ride we had was fantastic fun, marred only by how soon it was over. So we rode it again.
Beautiful forest, smooth flowing trails on a really nice surface - if there was more trail here, it'd be a fantastic place to go. As it is, with only a few miles to ride, it's certainly somewhere we wish we'd reached earlier in the day, as the campsites were really cool, and a loop before turning in followed by a couple in the morning would have been about perfect.
As it was, we left the trail feeling underdone. We'd been precluded from repeating the loop for a third time by the fact that my front wheel was buckling due to the snapped and now absent spoke, so we rode across the highway and down a long paved hill to the Dunes Recreation Area. We saw boardwalk wildlife walks, multiple campgrounds, and fenced-off areas for snowy plover breeding. We climbed a high dune and saw the sea through the ever-present fog. Janine took her shoes off and walked down to the beach proper. I got menaced by a labradoodle.
Reaper Sleeper, a trail too short
Long Version:
We're back in Oregon, and that feels good. Not just because there are many beards and not just because so many places here are bike-friendly - although both are contributing factors. Crossing the Rogue and then the Umpqua Rivers on our way up the coast was like seeing old friends again, and the beaches with their rocky wildness reminded us of Auckland's west coast. Except that there's no fee to stop and eat food at Bethell's or Karekare or Piha. No clean public toilets or people picking up rubbish either though. We were too cheap to pay the $6 fee when challenged by the Ranger bloke, but he gave us helpful advice on where the best free spots nearby were, so we hurtled a few hundred metres further up the road then stopped for delicious foods, including my new favorite condiment: mustard.
Nourished, we carried on north, and watched the beach get taller as we went. Pretty soon there was a significant dunes area between us and the sea proper. There were ATV hire place, dune buggy rentals and tours, guided tours in huge bus-chassis dune buggies - there was even Dunes City. There were also, as we discovered later, large tracts of duneland set aside as nature preserves, which was pretty cool.
Not far north of Dunes City was our planned next-day ride, on the Siltcoos Lake Trail. Halfway round its 4.4 mile loop there were some campsites marked, but we'd arrived late enough in the day that we decided against packing a bike-friendly set of camping gear and riding in, opting instead to drive into the nearby National Forest and disperse into the woods (ie camp for free). Unfortunately for us, we didn't find any appropriate Forest Service roads into the woods, and, with dusk gathering, we decided to sleep roadside, in the Reaper. We'd spied a really nice grassy area at roadside on our way into the forested region, so hauled back there and parked up.
A bunch of our gear had to sleep outside for the night to make room for the humans, so after delicious foods (fried pizza, and mushroom soup with mushrooms) we locked our bikes to the van, stashed our important stuff on the front seats and the rest under the van, and crashed out. Or at least one of us did - apparently Janine wasn't quite short enough for the space she'd been allocated, so didn't have the best sleep of her life. Still, she was cheery enough early the next morning, when we rose early, reloaded the van, and relocated to nearby Woahink Lake, where we set ourselves up lakeside for a breakfast picnic before rolling a few hundred feet down the highway to the Lake Siltcoos trailhead.
The Lake Siltcoos Trail begins with an access trail which winds its way eastwards up a hill from the trailhead. Just east of the crest it butts into the loop trail which goes as far as the western shores of the lake before hooking back east. We rode clockwise, on a whim, and didn't regret the decision; nothing we saw looked like it would have been better ridden the opposite direction, and the ride we had was fantastic fun, marred only by how soon it was over. So we rode it again.
Beautiful forest, smooth flowing trails on a really nice surface - if there was more trail here, it'd be a fantastic place to go. As it is, with only a few miles to ride, it's certainly somewhere we wish we'd reached earlier in the day, as the campsites were really cool, and a loop before turning in followed by a couple in the morning would have been about perfect.
As it was, we left the trail feeling underdone. We'd been precluded from repeating the loop for a third time by the fact that my front wheel was buckling due to the snapped and now absent spoke, so we rode across the highway and down a long paved hill to the Dunes Recreation Area. We saw boardwalk wildlife walks, multiple campgrounds, and fenced-off areas for snowy plover breeding. We climbed a high dune and saw the sea through the ever-present fog. Janine took her shoes off and walked down to the beach proper. I got menaced by a labradoodle.
Growl!
Short Version:
Elk are large
Long Version:
Carlos Puyol missed one goal but scored the one that counted in the end, sending the dirty Germans crashing out of the World Cup*, and setting up a final worth watching between Die Nederlande and Espana. The final whistle of the semi-final heralded not only the end of Deutsch dreams of Cup glory, but also the end of our time at the Lost Coast Brewery and Cafe. Almost. First, though, there was growler action to take care of.
We acquired our growler, which is awesome and has a gleeful little silver man as its handle, in Bend, Oregon, on the same day that
Anoushka and Craig acquired theirs, in Estonia, or possibly Latvia. Ours was full of Black Butte Porter until the night in San Diego, and it had lain empty ever since. Today, though, we spied a growler-like vessel hanging above the bar, and deduced that we were in an establishment which would likely fill our growler with their foaming goodness. And fill it they did, with Chocolate Porter. Yum.
A quick stop for gas turned into a slightly longer-than-planned stop for gas, gum, insect repellent, peanut-butter cups**
, and drinking water, but eventually we were back on the road, northbound, on our way to Prairie Creek Campground, as recommended by someone on the internet and by the "Camping in Northern California" guidebook***. The "Campground Full" sign was up in the window of the Ranger Station, but the friendly, fruity ranger offered us a spot in the enviro-camp**** instead, which we took, despite (or possibly because of) the likelihood of bear encounters.
We saw Steller's Jays and heard the bird that makes the noise like a ray-gun though, which was kind of nice - we'd not seen or heard either***** for
a long time. We made a fire and 
drank from our growler and fell asleep instantly. Apart from Janine, who didn't fall asleep for a long time, because there was a monstrous growling, snarling animal noise going on inside the tent. Insofar as I believe that it actually happened, I reckon it's probably what kept the bears away.
It took us a while to get up and ready to ride t
he next morning, but eventually we made our way down to the coast road, where we saw elk. Hoor
ah! Elk! Then we read an informational sign which told us that elk are also known as wapiti. Which was depressing, because that means that there are elk in NZ, and they're just another introduced pest species. Still, it was hard to hold onto anti-elk sentime
nt in the face of large herds of females (which are quite large) grazing en masse close to the dirt road we were riding down, and downright impossible once we found the first big bull, which we'd been led to expect (by the same damnable informational signboard that tried to ruin elk for us) that they'd have shed their antlers recently, and would
currently be sporting velvet-covered nubbins******. In the real world, the first big bull we saw had bloody big antlers, and when Janine's brakes let out an almighty shriek as she stopped for photographic tomfoolery, he started waving them at her, in a decidedly grumpy way. We left, rode several miles up the coastal t
rail, with sea and fog (and elk) on one side, and steep, forested hillsides (with waterfalls but no elk) on the other. Then, just as we hooked inland, we found some more big bull elk, also fully-antlered, and also tetchy. We photographed them anyway, then left, and ro
de up a hill, which wasn't entirely welcome, then down a long, smooth road through groves of enormous trees, along some more trails, and eventually up the dirt road to where we'd left the Reaper, 3.5 hours earlier.
On our way out of the Park, Elk Meadows was devoid of elk, but full of cars driving really slowly in the hope of spotting some elk. Which weren't there. They're all in NZ, being pesky, or down by the coast, being impressive.
* = Really they have one more match to play; the playoff for 3rd/4th against uruguay. It's the match no team wants to be in, but often provides a more entertaining spectacle than the final, as the implications of losing are so vastly reduced.
** Janine LOVES these. I like them about half as much, which is still liking them quite a lot. Not sure why peanut-butter doesn't have a market presence in NZ as broad as it does here, where you find it in every conceivable food setting, particularly sweet and semi-sweet settings.
*** = The guidebook which had already put us wrong several times, particularly on campsite pricing. We think that when the State of California went broke recently, one of the resulting actions was a wholsale increase in pricing at State-run campgrounds. So, instead of paying $8-15/night, they're asking for $25-35, for a patch of relatively flat ground in a negligible-facility camping area. Interestingly, the hike-/bike-in sites are much cheaper ($3/person/night), so it looks like they're trying to sneak a vehicle tax in under a false name
**** = Longdrop instead of flush toilets, bigger sites, further from carparking but also from camp-neighbors. And $15/night cheaper. We liked it.
***** = May be the same bird. Anyone in a position to confirm or deny whether or not Steller's Jays sound like a kid pretending to fire a ray-gun, please let me know.
****** = All together now; (E) A nubbin, a nubbin, a nubbin, a nubbin, (A7) A nubbin, a nubbin, a nubbin, a nubbin! (REPEAT)
Elk are large
Long Version:
Carlos Puyol missed one goal but scored the one that counted in the end, sending the dirty Germans crashing out of the World Cup*, and setting up a final worth watching between Die Nederlande and Espana. The final whistle of the semi-final heralded not only the end of Deutsch dreams of Cup glory, but also the end of our time at the Lost Coast Brewery and Cafe. Almost. First, though, there was growler action to take care of.
We acquired our growler, which is awesome and has a gleeful little silver man as its handle, in Bend, Oregon, on the same day that
Anoushka and Craig acquired theirs, in Estonia, or possibly Latvia. Ours was full of Black Butte Porter until the night in San Diego, and it had lain empty ever since. Today, though, we spied a growler-like vessel hanging above the bar, and deduced that we were in an establishment which would likely fill our growler with their foaming goodness. And fill it they did, with Chocolate Porter. Yum.A quick stop for gas turned into a slightly longer-than-planned stop for gas, gum, insect repellent, peanut-butter cups**
, and drinking water, but eventually we were back on the road, northbound, on our way to Prairie Creek Campground, as recommended by someone on the internet and by the "Camping in Northern California" guidebook***. The "Campground Full" sign was up in the window of the Ranger Station, but the friendly, fruity ranger offered us a spot in the enviro-camp**** instead, which we took, despite (or possibly because of) the likelihood of bear encounters.
We saw Steller's Jays and heard the bird that makes the noise like a ray-gun though, which was kind of nice - we'd not seen or heard either***** for
a long time. We made a fire and 
drank from our growler and fell asleep instantly. Apart from Janine, who didn't fall asleep for a long time, because there was a monstrous growling, snarling animal noise going on inside the tent. Insofar as I believe that it actually happened, I reckon it's probably what kept the bears away.It took us a while to get up and ready to ride t
he next morning, but eventually we made our way down to the coast road, where we saw elk. Hoor
ah! Elk! Then we read an informational sign which told us that elk are also known as wapiti. Which was depressing, because that means that there are elk in NZ, and they're just another introduced pest species. Still, it was hard to hold onto anti-elk sentime
nt in the face of large herds of females (which are quite large) grazing en masse close to the dirt road we were riding down, and downright impossible once we found the first big bull, which we'd been led to expect (by the same damnable informational signboard that tried to ruin elk for us) that they'd have shed their antlers recently, and would
currently be sporting velvet-covered nubbins******. In the real world, the first big bull we saw had bloody big antlers, and when Janine's brakes let out an almighty shriek as she stopped for photographic tomfoolery, he started waving them at her, in a decidedly grumpy way. We left, rode several miles up the coastal t
rail, with sea and fog (and elk) on one side, and steep, forested hillsides (with waterfalls but no elk) on the other. Then, just as we hooked inland, we found some more big bull elk, also fully-antlered, and also tetchy. We photographed them anyway, then left, and ro
de up a hill, which wasn't entirely welcome, then down a long, smooth road through groves of enormous trees, along some more trails, and eventually up the dirt road to where we'd left the Reaper, 3.5 hours earlier.On our way out of the Park, Elk Meadows was devoid of elk, but full of cars driving really slowly in the hope of spotting some elk. Which weren't there. They're all in NZ, being pesky, or down by the coast, being impressive.
* = Really they have one more match to play; the playoff for 3rd/4th against uruguay. It's the match no team wants to be in, but often provides a more entertaining spectacle than the final, as the implications of losing are so vastly reduced.
** Janine LOVES these. I like them about half as much, which is still liking them quite a lot. Not sure why peanut-butter doesn't have a market presence in NZ as broad as it does here, where you find it in every conceivable food setting, particularly sweet and semi-sweet settings.
*** = The guidebook which had already put us wrong several times, particularly on campsite pricing. We think that when the State of California went broke recently, one of the resulting actions was a wholsale increase in pricing at State-run campgrounds. So, instead of paying $8-15/night, they're asking for $25-35, for a patch of relatively flat ground in a negligible-facility camping area. Interestingly, the hike-/bike-in sites are much cheaper ($3/person/night), so it looks like they're trying to sneak a vehicle tax in under a false name
**** = Longdrop instead of flush toilets, bigger sites, further from carparking but also from camp-neighbors. And $15/night cheaper. We liked it.
***** = May be the same bird. Anyone in a position to confirm or deny whether or not Steller's Jays sound like a kid pretending to fire a ray-gun, please let me know.
****** = All together now; (E) A nubbin, a nubbin, a nubbin, a nubbin, (A7) A nubbin, a nubbin, a nubbin, a nubbin! (REPEAT)
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Paradise is Early Morning Action
Short Version:
A lazy day, neighbors, a fantastic re-ride, leaving the Lost Coast
Long Version:
After 2.5 hours on the trai
l, the egg-burger dinner was more than welcome, as was the open-fire-grilled corn. The fire had the additional positive effect of driving off some of the hordes of mosquitoes which were circling Janine*. We were knackered, so hit the sack early, and slept la
te, which was very nice. We followed that up with a day of relative laziness, with only a 45-minute run and an hour-long hike gettiWe spied a young deer ng us off our rapidly-spreading backsides. (Bambi!) bounding across the road about quarter of the way into the run - and by 
"bounding" I mean exactl
y that - all four trotters hit the ground at once, propelling it several feet up and twice that forward each time. Cute critter.
We cooked on the open fire again** then prepped for an early ride in the morning then went to bed early. Alas, Operation "Good Night's Sleep" was thwarted by an influx of personages, starting with "Solo Bearded Man," who changed his mind about setting up camp on the other side of the track from us and moved to Loop B instead. He was followed by "Group of Young People," who took up residence in the spot that Solo Bearded Man had vacated, and talked and laughed and sung "Happy Birthday" worse than I've ever heard it sung before. Honestly, it sounded like five recordings of amateur groups singing the song badly being played at once, each slowed down a different amount without being pitch-shifted. Later, after someone in the same tent as me was snoring gently, there were two late arrivals, each of whom set up camp in the dark, with varying degrees of competence and soundlessness***.
A lazy day, neighbors, a fantastic re-ride, leaving the Lost Coast
Long Version:
After 2.5 hours on the trai
l, the egg-burger dinner was more than welcome, as was the open-fire-grilled corn. The fire had the additional positive effect of driving off some of the hordes of mosquitoes which were circling Janine*. We were knackered, so hit the sack early, and slept la
te, which was very nice. We followed that up with a day of relative laziness, with only a 45-minute run and an hour-long hike gettiWe spied a young deer ng us off our rapidly-spreading backsides. (Bambi!) bounding across the road about quarter of the way into the run - and by 
"bounding" I mean exactl
y that - all four trotters hit the ground at once, propelling it several feet up and twice that forward each time. Cute critter.We cooked on the open fire again** then prepped for an early ride in the morning then went to bed early. Alas, Operation "Good Night's Sleep" was thwarted by an influx of personages, starting with "Solo Bearded Man," who changed his mind about setting up camp on the other side of the track from us and moved to Loop B instead. He was followed by "Group of Young People," who took up residence in the spot that Solo Bearded Man had vacated, and talked and laughed and sung "Happy Birthday" worse than I've ever heard it sung before. Honestly, it sounded like five recordings of amateur groups singing the song badly being played at once, each slowed down a different amount without being pitch-shifted. Later, after someone in the same tent as me was snoring gently, there were two late arrivals, each of whom set up camp in the dark, with varying degrees of competence and soundlessness***.
When we arose at 0530****, we found both fog and a chill in the air, and it was still semi-dark when we set off to re-ride the Paradise Royale. Some of the birds we encountered along the first stretch seemed unimpressed at having a pair of mountain-bikers blast through their homes at high speed at that unseemly hour, but we were having a ball! A bit of local knowledge goes a long way when it comes to decisions on whether or not one can safely hit a jump at speed, or whether one needs to be braking in advance in order to avoid doom on an imminent subsequent corner. All too soon we were at the base of the climb*****, but then before we knew what was afoot we were at the top of the first chunk, and enjoying hugely the joys of the Fool's Paradise section, which I feel I've damned with faint praise thus far - it was wonderful! The flow of the trail, the sweep and the dive and the speed we were attaining; as I rode this section I wondered what had stopped me enthusing about its charms more when I first wrote about the trail.
After one minor (major embarrassing!) uphill slow-motion crash, we hit the main downhill section, and I remembered why I'd not raved more about Fool's Paradise the first time; because the Mad Queen's Tango is longer, faster, steeper, and just generally more than the Fool's Paradise. Nene was faster than I was, which I suspect was revenge for having taken uphill stage honors the previous ride, and we both caught some good air off some of the jumps, threw our bikes round some of the corners, and generally had a whale of a time.
We skipped the evil finale-grovel in favor of a leisurely meander up the road for the last few hundred feet, finishing the ride in a new Nene/Puppet record for the Paradise Royale of 2h07m, then ate food, drank coffee, and broke camp, and set off to complete the dirt road loop back to Highway 101. Of course, when we said "complete the loop," we didn't actually mean "go all the way back to where we originally left the highway," but that's pretty much what we ended up doing. Still not entirely sure how, but we're not bemoaning the fact too much, as we saw some pretty wonderful groves of enormous trees and still made it to the Lost Coast Brewery and Cafe in Eureka in time to catch the start of the Espana v Deutschland semi-final.
Go Espana, crush those nasty Germans!
* = One of the main reasons I married Janine was the fact that almost all the blood-sucking insects we've encountered together have strongly preferred dining upon her tender flesh to trying to sink a fragile proboscis into my leathery, distasteful skin. Like a goat tethered to a stake, she's my mosquito distractant.
** = Our DoC-induced campfire-antipathy is fast being overpowered by the combination of the Amerikan belief that a campfire is an integral part of the camping experience, and the fact that campfires are actually really really nice.
*** = Somehow, the solo cycle-tourer managed to make an incredible amount of noise getting his tiny tent up, yet the folks in the 4WD had set up two separate tents so quietly that I'd assumed they were sleeping in their vehicle for the night. Not that I'm casting aspersions in the direction of the cycle-tourer though - we found his inbound tyre-tracks later in the day, and anyone who can ride that road at all, let alone in the dark and hauling all their gear with them, basically has a licence to make as much noise as they want as far as I'm concerned
**** = We'd set the alarm for 0500, but it was still dark. Or possibly we didn't actually open our eyes. At any rate, it was 0530 when we finally dragged our gritty-eyed sleep-deprived selves out of the tent.
***** = That was the last I saW of Janine until the top. Point proved? I think so.
After one minor (major embarrassing!) uphill slow-motion crash, we hit the main downhill section, and I remembered why I'd not raved more about Fool's Paradise the first time; because the Mad Queen's Tango is longer, faster, steeper, and just generally more than the Fool's Paradise. Nene was faster than I was, which I suspect was revenge for having taken uphill stage honors the previous ride, and we both caught some good air off some of the jumps, threw our bikes round some of the corners, and generally had a whale of a time.
We skipped the evil finale-grovel in favor of a leisurely meander up the road for the last few hundred feet, finishing the ride in a new Nene/Puppet record for the Paradise Royale of 2h07m, then ate food, drank coffee, and broke camp, and set off to complete the dirt road loop back to Highway 101. Of course, when we said "complete the loop," we didn't actually mean "go all the way back to where we originally left the highway," but that's pretty much what we ended up doing. Still not entirely sure how, but we're not bemoaning the fact too much, as we saw some pretty wonderful groves of enormous trees and still made it to the Lost Coast Brewery and Cafe in Eureka in time to catch the start of the Espana v Deutschland semi-final.
Go Espana, crush those nasty Germans!
* = One of the main reasons I married Janine was the fact that almost all the blood-sucking insects we've encountered together have strongly preferred dining upon her tender flesh to trying to sink a fragile proboscis into my leathery, distasteful skin. Like a goat tethered to a stake, she's my mosquito distractant.
** = Our DoC-induced campfire-antipathy is fast being overpowered by the combination of the Amerikan belief that a campfire is an integral part of the camping experience, and the fact that campfires are actually really really nice.
*** = Somehow, the solo cycle-tourer managed to make an incredible amount of noise getting his tiny tent up, yet the folks in the 4WD had set up two separate tents so quietly that I'd assumed they were sleeping in their vehicle for the night. Not that I'm casting aspersions in the direction of the cycle-tourer though - we found his inbound tyre-tracks later in the day, and anyone who can ride that road at all, let alone in the dark and hauling all their gear with them, basically has a licence to make as much noise as they want as far as I'm concerned
**** = We'd set the alarm for 0500, but it was still dark. Or possibly we didn't actually open our eyes. At any rate, it was 0530 when we finally dragged our gritty-eyed sleep-deprived selves out of the tent.
***** = That was the last I saW of Janine until the top. Point proved? I think so.
Riding the Paradise Royale
Short Version:Best trail since the North Umpqua
Long Version:
The Paradise Royale Mountain Bike Trail is 14 miles long, and gains something like 1585 vertical feet along its length. It's far and away the best ride we've struck since the North Umpqua River Trail, which now seems like it was months ago.
Like the North Umpqua, the PR is broken into segments, each of which has its own character:
- King's Frolic: We started at the campground, which is halfway along this 3.9mi segment. We rode downhill on sweeping, flowing sections punctuated by tight switchbacks and occasional blind-exit jumps.
- Castle's Moat: 0.9mi long, the main feature of this segment was a guiderope-equipped stepping-stone crossing (mandatory hike-a-bike) across a stream used for spawning by chinook, coho, and other salmon species.
- Prince of Pain: Up. 2.4mi long, 800ft up. Gradient exceeded 15% in places. Second hill-climb stage victory for me of the 2010 Nene/Puppet Tour d'Offroad Namerika*. Did I mention that this segment went up?
- Fool's Paradise: 1.1mi along the ridgeline. Swooping downhills, sweeping curves. Nice.
- Jester's Hat: Named after a Nathan Miller painting (Hi Nathan and Brylee and Jasmine and Marlon!), this evil segment climbed over 500ft in 2 miles, including one section where the surface was so loose I thought I had a flat tyre.
- Mad Queen's Tango: The payoff. 3.7 miles of down. Lots of jumps, some small stream crossings, one hard-impact high-speed crash for me, one big near-miss for Nene. This segment was so good that we decided to brave the uphill again tomorrow in order to get another run.
- King's Frolic: The front three-quarters of the front half was great, with nice flow and some cool jumps. The final quarter was a horrible grovelly climb from the bottom of the Skills Area up to the campground. Not what we needed at the end of a 14 mile ride done at pace (2.5 hours to do the loop, with minimal rest-stops and a short turnaround on getting the dirt out of my wounds).
All in all, this ride ruled. And we're camped right on it - Yay us!
The Paradise Royale Mountain Bike Trail is 14 miles long, and gains something like 1585 vertical feet along its length. It's far and away the best ride we've struck since the North Umpqua River Trail, which now seems like it was months ago.
Like the North Umpqua, the PR is broken into segments, each of which has its own character:
- King's Frolic: We started at the campground, which is halfway along this 3.9mi segment. We rode downhill on sweeping, flowing sections punctuated by tight switchbacks and occasional blind-exit jumps.
- Castle's Moat: 0.9mi long, the main feature of this segment was a guiderope-equipped stepping-stone crossing (mandatory hike-a-bike) across a stream used for spawning by chinook, coho, and other salmon species.
- Prince of Pain: Up. 2.4mi long, 800ft up. Gradient exceeded 15% in places. Second hill-climb stage victory for me of the 2010 Nene/Puppet Tour d'Offroad Namerika*. Did I mention that this segment went up?
- Fool's Paradise: 1.1mi along the ridgeline. Swooping downhills, sweeping curves. Nice.
- Jester's Hat: Named after a Nathan Miller painting (Hi Nathan and Brylee and Jasmine and Marlon!), this evil segment climbed over 500ft in 2 miles, including one section where the surface was so loose I thought I had a flat tyre.
- Mad Queen's Tango: The payoff. 3.7 miles of down. Lots of jumps, some small stream crossings, one hard-impact high-speed crash for me, one big near-miss for Nene. This segment was so good that we decided to brave the uphill again tomorrow in order to get another run.
- King's Frolic: The front three-quarters of the front half was great, with nice flow and some cool jumps. The final quarter was a horrible grovelly climb from the bottom of the Skills Area up to the campground. Not what we needed at the end of a 14 mile ride done at pace (2.5 hours to do the loop, with minimal rest-stops and a short turnaround on getting the dirt out of my wounds).
All in all, this ride ruled. And we're camped right on it - Yay us!
* = Possibly due to Nene crashing at a switchback and stopping to rebuild the trail so the rock which caused her issues was no longer a danger. But that's neither here nor there, really.
USA Today!
Short Verion:
Kill, drive, US news
Long Version:
We saw our first Nonu-bird* just before we left Abalone Point. It flitted around the front of the stationary Reaper - possibly checking out the insectoid carcass collection - then flew off. Saw our second not long after we got underway. It too flitted around the front of the Reaper, but failed to account for the fact that we were doing 55mph, and ended up in no fit state to fly off. Sorry, Nonu-bird! We saw a piano in a field, a drive-thru tree**, a tree-house and a one-tree house. We saw a lot of Bigfoot stuff (Hi Sarah and her Yeti and their Yetilet!) and a lot of police cars.
We'd cut inland, and the sun was shining on steep, forest-clad hillsides, lovely rivers, and the occasional pretty lake. We stopped at Garbadale for caffeine and internets, and ended up with delicious foods as well. I read USA Today, which is a pretty strange publication. Highlights included:
- An article about pianos on the streets of New York, labelled "Play me, I'm yours." Apparently the same thing has been done in a number of cities around the world. And, maybe, in a field in northern California.
- A picture of Chris Killen from the NZ football team swapping his shirt with Daniele de Rossi of Italia after their World Cup match (USA Today, July 2 edition, p11C in case Mrs Killen is doing a scrapbook)
- A letter to the editor of USA Today, bemoaning the state of the USA today, which stated that, among other things, "...we should instil better dietary habits in our youth" - I don't disagree, but in the context of the descent into barbarism of a once-great, leader-among-nations country, it's not really what I expected to see as the culminatory closing statement.
For some reason, there were a lot of counter-culture kids in Garbadale, which otherwise seemed like a very nice, fairly standard northern California town. They did have a pickup truck parked inside the Visitor Info office though.
And then we left town on a narrow road which became smaller and smaller as we went west, until at the top of a steep ridge we turned off the now one-lane paved road onto a one-lane dirt track. We wound our way along the ridgeline for several miles, and eventually reached what had been our destination for a couple of days now: the Tolkan Campground. Which turned out to be even better than we'd hoped, with only the lack of a river or an ocean to frolic in marring the perfection. The location right on the mountain-bike trail was perfect, as was the low occupancy rate and the nature and privacy of the individual sites.
We arrived early afternoon, set up camp, and set off to ride in our new backyard, on the Paradise Royale Mountain Bike Trail.
* = Feathery equivalent of the Nonu-fish from Bahia Concepcion; i.e. black and yellow and looking very much like they had eyeliner on.
** = We didn't actually SEE the drive-thru tree, as there was a $5 admission fee, and we wouldn't have been able to drive the far-too-enormous Reaper through the drive-thru tree. But we saw some wonderfully-executed artists' impressions.
Kill, drive, US news
Long Version:
We saw our first Nonu-bird* just before we left Abalone Point. It flitted around the front of the stationary Reaper - possibly checking out the insectoid carcass collection - then flew off. Saw our second not long after we got underway. It too flitted around the front of the Reaper, but failed to account for the fact that we were doing 55mph, and ended up in no fit state to fly off. Sorry, Nonu-bird! We saw a piano in a field, a drive-thru tree**, a tree-house and a one-tree house. We saw a lot of Bigfoot stuff (Hi Sarah and her Yeti and their Yetilet!) and a lot of police cars.
We'd cut inland, and the sun was shining on steep, forest-clad hillsides, lovely rivers, and the occasional pretty lake. We stopped at Garbadale for caffeine and internets, and ended up with delicious foods as well. I read USA Today, which is a pretty strange publication. Highlights included:
- An article about pianos on the streets of New York, labelled "Play me, I'm yours." Apparently the same thing has been done in a number of cities around the world. And, maybe, in a field in northern California.
- A picture of Chris Killen from the NZ football team swapping his shirt with Daniele de Rossi of Italia after their World Cup match (USA Today, July 2 edition, p11C in case Mrs Killen is doing a scrapbook)
- A letter to the editor of USA Today, bemoaning the state of the USA today, which stated that, among other things, "...we should instil better dietary habits in our youth" - I don't disagree, but in the context of the descent into barbarism of a once-great, leader-among-nations country, it's not really what I expected to see as the culminatory closing statement.
For some reason, there were a lot of counter-culture kids in Garbadale, which otherwise seemed like a very nice, fairly standard northern California town. They did have a pickup truck parked inside the Visitor Info office though.
And then we left town on a narrow road which became smaller and smaller as we went west, until at the top of a steep ridge we turned off the now one-lane paved road onto a one-lane dirt track. We wound our way along the ridgeline for several miles, and eventually reached what had been our destination for a couple of days now: the Tolkan Campground. Which turned out to be even better than we'd hoped, with only the lack of a river or an ocean to frolic in marring the perfection. The location right on the mountain-bike trail was perfect, as was the low occupancy rate and the nature and privacy of the individual sites.
We arrived early afternoon, set up camp, and set off to ride in our new backyard, on the Paradise Royale Mountain Bike Trail.
* = Feathery equivalent of the Nonu-fish from Bahia Concepcion; i.e. black and yellow and looking very much like they had eyeliner on.
** = We didn't actually SEE the drive-thru tree, as there was a $5 admission fee, and we wouldn't have been able to drive the far-too-enormous Reaper through the drive-thru tree. But we saw some wonderfully-executed artists' impressions.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Reaper Air
Short Version:
We ride, drive, and swim, then watch the sun set
Long Version:
With a long day ahead of us, we were up and breaking camp early while woodpeckers squabbled in the trees overhead. The lower parking lot had been occupied - tents on the gravel and all - by several Mexican families while we were in the city, which explained the music we'd heard when we returned.
We were on the road by 0830, in San Rafael by 0930, and riding in the China Camp State Park by 1030. The park borders San Pablo Bay* on one side, and the affluent fringes of San Rafael on the other. Several miles of mixed-use, wide, non-technical singletrack make it well worth a visit, although the presence of hikers mean there are many signs enumerating cyclist speed limits** and the ease of riding - both technical and gradient - suited our tired, sore legs*** perfectly! Lots of flowing stuff along the ridgelines on the back of an easy climb, some sweet descending back to the Reaper. A nice ride. And we saw an ENORMOUS squirrel.
We'd planned to swim in the Bay after the ride, but the salt flats area is a protected natural environment (and crap for swimming), and every beach parking lot had a significant fee. And a ranger to enforce payment. So we hit San Rafael's Starbucks**** for caffeine and internets, and then Trader Joe's for jalapeno cheese, then we hit the road north, heading for the King Range National Conservation Area, aka The Lost Coast.
The inland Highway 101 is a pretty fast road, although not as fast as the massive Interstate highways. The 116, linking westwards from the 101 to the coastal Highway 1 is not so fast, and it took hours to get to the coast. Along the way we spied a bunch of really pretty and/or interesting towns, many of which had 4th of July activities going on. There were cherries for sale at roadside stalls*****, river beaches packed with revellers, and really pretty forest areas.
When we reached the coast, it wasn't there; fog had eaten it. It was really rather strange to have bright sunlight and blue sky up to our right, then to be alternately in or looking down on clouds to our left. More than anything, it was like being in - or, in my case, piloting - an aeroplane.
Reaper Air is go!
The bits of coastline we did see were awesome, with cliffs and s
pits of land protruding into a rock-strewn, turbulent ocean. Looked a lot like pictures we've seen of the wilder parts of the coasts of Scotland and Ireland, and some of the towns had names like Irish Beach******. There was a Hokitika resemblance as well, and not just because it was cold and cloudy; huge piles of driftwood had accumulated on many of the stretches of sand. We stopped at one for a swim, although the total absence of anyone more than shin deep in the water was a worry - is it wild currents? Enormous sharks? Submarine slavery ships? Actually, it was just cold. Really, really cold. Absolutely freezing. My legs were in actual physical pain from the cold before I was in to my knees. Details of the agonies incurred with each progressive body-part immersion are probably not necessary - suffice to say that I swam, albeit very, very briefly, and then we drove north some more, for a long time, at the tail end of a rapidly-departing day. In the end, we stopped for the night at Abalone Point, well short of our planned destination. Before we did, though, we saw a naughty dog being herded off the highway by a Highway Patrol cruiser, and then another dog, bounding across the highway at an oblique angle. Except it looked a lot like a cat. But it was the size of a dog. Runs like a cat. Size of a dog. Cat ears. Dog size. Cat everything, dog size. Bobcat! Very cool.
Abalone Point was a clifftop spot with a wind whipping through it, beautiful views out over the ocean to the setting sun, and a post-apocalyptic-looking half a road at the cliff edge. It had obviously been eaten by the sea some time ago, as plants were growing on the exposed faces, but it still didn`t look entirely stable. Other campers obviously thought it looked stable enough, though, as they were sitting on the edge to watch the sun set. Of course, these same other campers were seen to get in their enormous pickup trucks, fire up the enormous engines, idle them until warm, then drive 30m to another campsite for a chat before driving back to their own site. A few of them set off a few small July 4th fireworks, but nothing loud enough to stop us falling asleep early, having enjoyed a glass of organic, sulphide-free Californian red while watching the sun go down.
There were critters under our tent - trapped by an impregnable ceiling of tarpaulin! - which kept waking me up with their plant-root-eating and their attempts to chew their way to freedom through the floor of our tent directly beneath my head. Apart from that, though, we slept well, and were up bright and early into heavy fog and chilly, wet air, for breakfast and departure, to the King Range and the Lost Coast, and maybe somewhere to ride our bikes.
* = From whence Primus used to pull stripers.
** = Janine was breaking them on the way up the hills.
*** = Turns out BOTH of us had started the San Fran expedititon with legs complaining vociferously about the previous day's running activities. Difference was that, while I whined about it, Lovely Wife just hiked stoically onwards.
**** = Starbucks = evil, yes. And Starbucks in NZ = comparatively crap coffee. Starbucks in the USA, however, is the most consistently good coffee we`ve found, and they have internet access in their stores. I'll go back to shunning them any time I'm in NZ.
***** = Janine ate so many she got a stomachache, which was pretty funny.
****** = It was a town at the top of a cliff with rocks at the bottom.
We ride, drive, and swim, then watch the sun set
Long Version:
With a long day ahead of us, we were up and breaking camp early while woodpeckers squabbled in the trees overhead. The lower parking lot had been occupied - tents on the gravel and all - by several Mexican families while we were in the city, which explained the music we'd heard when we returned.
We were on the road by 0830, in San Rafael by 0930, and riding in the China Camp State Park by 1030. The park borders San Pablo Bay* on one side, and the affluent fringes of San Rafael on the other. Several miles of mixed-use, wide, non-technical singletrack make it well worth a visit, although the presence of hikers mean there are many signs enumerating cyclist speed limits** and the ease of riding - both technical and gradient - suited our tired, sore legs*** perfectly! Lots of flowing stuff along the ridgelines on the back of an easy climb, some sweet descending back to the Reaper. A nice ride. And we saw an ENORMOUS squirrel.
We'd planned to swim in the Bay after the ride, but the salt flats area is a protected natural environment (and crap for swimming), and every beach parking lot had a significant fee. And a ranger to enforce payment. So we hit San Rafael's Starbucks**** for caffeine and internets, and then Trader Joe's for jalapeno cheese, then we hit the road north, heading for the King Range National Conservation Area, aka The Lost Coast.
The inland Highway 101 is a pretty fast road, although not as fast as the massive Interstate highways. The 116, linking westwards from the 101 to the coastal Highway 1 is not so fast, and it took hours to get to the coast. Along the way we spied a bunch of really pretty and/or interesting towns, many of which had 4th of July activities going on. There were cherries for sale at roadside stalls*****, river beaches packed with revellers, and really pretty forest areas.
When we reached the coast, it wasn't there; fog had eaten it. It was really rather strange to have bright sunlight and blue sky up to our right, then to be alternately in or looking down on clouds to our left. More than anything, it was like being in - or, in my case, piloting - an aeroplane.
Reaper Air is go!
The bits of coastline we did see were awesome, with cliffs and s
pits of land protruding into a rock-strewn, turbulent ocean. Looked a lot like pictures we've seen of the wilder parts of the coasts of Scotland and Ireland, and some of the towns had names like Irish Beach******. There was a Hokitika resemblance as well, and not just because it was cold and cloudy; huge piles of driftwood had accumulated on many of the stretches of sand. We stopped at one for a swim, although the total absence of anyone more than shin deep in the water was a worry - is it wild currents? Enormous sharks? Submarine slavery ships? Actually, it was just cold. Really, really cold. Absolutely freezing. My legs were in actual physical pain from the cold before I was in to my knees. Details of the agonies incurred with each progressive body-part immersion are probably not necessary - suffice to say that I swam, albeit very, very briefly, and then we drove north some more, for a long time, at the tail end of a rapidly-departing day. In the end, we stopped for the night at Abalone Point, well short of our planned destination. Before we did, though, we saw a naughty dog being herded off the highway by a Highway Patrol cruiser, and then another dog, bounding across the highway at an oblique angle. Except it looked a lot like a cat. But it was the size of a dog. Runs like a cat. Size of a dog. Cat ears. Dog size. Cat everything, dog size. Bobcat! Very cool.Abalone Point was a clifftop spot with a wind whipping through it, beautiful views out over the ocean to the setting sun, and a post-apocalyptic-looking half a road at the cliff edge. It had obviously been eaten by the sea some time ago, as plants were growing on the exposed faces, but it still didn`t look entirely stable. Other campers obviously thought it looked stable enough, though, as they were sitting on the edge to watch the sun set. Of course, these same other campers were seen to get in their enormous pickup trucks, fire up the enormous engines, idle them until warm, then drive 30m to another campsite for a chat before driving back to their own site. A few of them set off a few small July 4th fireworks, but nothing loud enough to stop us falling asleep early, having enjoyed a glass of organic, sulphide-free Californian red while watching the sun go down.
There were critters under our tent - trapped by an impregnable ceiling of tarpaulin! - which kept waking me up with their plant-root-eating and their attempts to chew their way to freedom through the floor of our tent directly beneath my head. Apart from that, though, we slept well, and were up bright and early into heavy fog and chilly, wet air, for breakfast and departure, to the King Range and the Lost Coast, and maybe somewhere to ride our bikes.
* = From whence Primus used to pull stripers.
** = Janine was breaking them on the way up the hills.
*** = Turns out BOTH of us had started the San Fran expedititon with legs complaining vociferously about the previous day's running activities. Difference was that, while I whined about it, Lovely Wife just hiked stoically onwards.
**** = Starbucks = evil, yes. And Starbucks in NZ = comparatively crap coffee. Starbucks in the USA, however, is the most consistently good coffee we`ve found, and they have internet access in their stores. I'll go back to shunning them any time I'm in NZ.
***** = Janine ate so many she got a stomachache, which was pretty funny.
****** = It was a town at the top of a cliff with rocks at the bottom.
San Francisco, City of Walking
Short Version:
We walk.
Long Version:
We'd decided to watch the Argentina v Deutschland World Cup quarter-final at a cafe somewhere before making our way into the city, so set off from the campground at 0630. I was mildly concerned about how incredibly sore my legs were after the previous day's run, but lovely wife said walking would help. We found Sausalito (the city at the northern end of the Golden Gate Bridge) easily enough, but didn't spot any particularly-enticing candidates for football-watching. We did, however, find a free all-day parking lot right at the north end of the bridge. Hoorah!
Reaper secured, we set off on foot across the Golden Gate Bridge. Thousands of people do this every day, and th
ousands more cycle across it. Why the hell can't the nonsensocracy in Auckland make it happen there? Uselessness. Reminds me of the bumper sticker I saw on a lesbian couple's car* in San Diego:
If you're not outraged, you're not paying attention.
Either that or you've used so much ire-juice already on this sort of idiocy that
you're hoarding your reserves in case some day something comes up where a voice making sense has a chance to be heard despite the clamour of banality, bureaucracy, and self-centred vote-gathering that is public "decision-making" in New Zealand**. At any rate, we walked across the Golden Gate Bridge, which was really cool. No giant radioactive monsters attacked it, and all the supervillains must still have been in bed (or watching the football), as we made it across unscathed, and without witnessing any driving carnage worse than the apparently US-standard unsignalled lane change.
Then we walked along the waterfront, past the Palace of Fine Arts (which looked very cool, but not very open) a
nd along a bunch of deserted-seeming residential streets (we think all the natives were away for the long weekend) to Fisherman's Wharf, 
which was odiously tourist-focussed (apparently it gets worse as the day ages - I shudder to think). Having already walked something in the order of 400km***, we hopped aboard a cable-car. Apparently this is very difficult, as there are huge queues. We missed the departure of one by about a minute, then waited about four minutes for the next one, which we boarded with zero fuss, na
bbing prime positio
n at the outside front corner. The cables the cars run on are under the street surface, and are perpetually**** in motion. The cars move when the driver engages a clamp, grabbing the cable, which then hauls the car along, up and down stupidly steep streets. They have many more levers than I saw used, but I did see them using what I assume was some sort of clutch mechanism a few times - generally when stopping the car mid-intersection, which I assume they did purely because they could, as I saw no actual reason for the halt.
At the far end of
the line, we saw the queues. Actually, we saw the queue, but it was so enormous that we initially thought it was multiple. We skirted its end, and made our way past the jugglers in the Yerba Buena Gardens and on to the San Francisco Museum Of Modern Art, where we saw works by Picasso (quite good), Matisse (so-so), Mondrian (decidedly ratty), Warh
ol (same old pictures of yesteryear's celebrities you've seen a million times already, but more captivating in the original than reproduced) and many, many others. Many were complete arse, many were boring. A few stood out, though, including one by a guy with the same name as our cat, and some giant-sized portraits with an organic pixellation effect*****. We had a coffee in the rooftop sculpture garden, then hit the streets, to Maiden Lane******, where there were opera singers, and then on to C
hinatown, where there were lots of Mexicans*******.
For some reason, Janine loved Chinatown. There was a really weird mix of stuff for sale, from over-priced Orientalisms to ridiculously cheap San Francisco t-shirts ($
1.88), and some spectacular shelf-walls of assorted, unidentifiable foodstuffs in large jars. Janine bought less stuff than she wanted, but more than her pack-mule was entirely happy about. We saw animals from the same menagerie as our squirrel-thing, then found ourselves at the Lucky Creation Vegetarian Restaurant, where we were fed delicious meat-free foods by some nice people, although we did have to give them moneys in return. It was kind of like Auckland's Happy Valley Noodle House, only with betterer (and meat-free) delicious foods.
My feet (which had started to hurt before we finished the
bridge crossing) and my legs (which were still complaining of past maltreatment) were incredibly unimpressed with the route we plotted whilst in the restaurant; up a steep hill and some steps, down a s
teep hill, up a steep hill, down a steep hill, repeat ad nauseum then walk along the flat forever. Even more lower-half-displeasure was incurred when we realised that we'd byp
assed something we wanted to see, and walked back up a steep hill, down some steps, then up a steep hill or two, ending up about a block away from where we'd turned tail. Worth it, though, to see the sneaky lanes behind houses, and both the steepest (Filbert, east of Hyde, 31.5% gradient) and crookedest (Lombard, east of Hyde, 8 switchbacks in one block) streets in the city. The crooked one was a bit arse, actually; we were bemused at the phenomenal numbers of people sitting gridlocked in their cars, waiting interminably for their turn to drive down it, slowly. Weird.
We walked west, then we walked west, then we walked west some more. We saw a lot of things, and eventually reached the Presidio, which is an enormous
park bearing si
gns of long neglect followed by some remembrance. Then - glory be! - we reached the bridge. The number of sightseers had increased massively, and for some reason they seemed to be predominantly ethnic Indians. Only for the first half of the span, though, after which they disappeared from the mix completely. Weird.
Not soon enough for my feets' or legs' liking we reached the Reaper, removed shoes and bloodied socks, and powered our way past a cyclist v skunk encounter******** and back to the campground, where we inhaled delicious foods and went to sleep to the sound of Mexican music from the parking lot below us. Which was weird.
* = I could tell they were lesbians, because they were canoodling at the traffic lights. And because they looked like they came from Rocky Bay on Waiheke, rather than from a Victoria's Secret catalogue, which would have marked them as actresses. Not that there's anything wrong with actresses.
** = Probably elsewhere as well, althogh the only place I'm getting any political information about at the moment is the US, and politics here is a seething morass of chaos, without even a pretence at trying to get things done.
*** = May not have been quite that far.
**** = I wonder if they turn them off at night, but not enough to research the subject.
***** = Kind of like an oil-painting variant on the picture someone made a few years back of a pixellated George W. Bush, where every pixel was a close-up photograph of an anus.
****** = Was once named Morton Street (or Avenue, or Boulevard, or something). Was the red-light district heart of San Francisco, with a ridiculously high number of murders, right up to the point when all the brothels burned down in 1906. It was rebuilt to be somewhat more savory, and renamed something other than my ancestral name to emphasise the change.
******* = And a series of people delving deeper into their own noses than I've ever seen done before. Seriously, there was some hardcore excavation happening in Chinatown.
******** = No matter what you think you know about skunks making a bad smell, you cannot comprehend the awfulness of skunk odour until you smell it. We got a peripheral whiff as we blasted by - unlike the poor cyclist, who must've copped a full dose - and we were well and truly violated. Apparently it permeates fabrics as well, and basically lingers forever or until you burn all of your possessions, whichever comes first.
We walk.
Long Version:
We'd decided to watch the Argentina v Deutschland World Cup quarter-final at a cafe somewhere before making our way into the city, so set off from the campground at 0630. I was mildly concerned about how incredibly sore my legs were after the previous day's run, but lovely wife said walking would help. We found Sausalito (the city at the northern end of the Golden Gate Bridge) easily enough, but didn't spot any particularly-enticing candidates for football-watching. We did, however, find a free all-day parking lot right at the north end of the bridge. Hoorah!
Reaper secured, we set off on foot across the Golden Gate Bridge. Thousands of people do this every day, and th
ousands more cycle across it. Why the hell can't the nonsensocracy in Auckland make it happen there? Uselessness. Reminds me of the bumper sticker I saw on a lesbian couple's car* in San Diego:If you're not outraged, you're not paying attention.
Either that or you've used so much ire-juice already on this sort of idiocy that
you're hoarding your reserves in case some day something comes up where a voice making sense has a chance to be heard despite the clamour of banality, bureaucracy, and self-centred vote-gathering that is public "decision-making" in New Zealand**. At any rate, we walked across the Golden Gate Bridge, which was really cool. No giant radioactive monsters attacked it, and all the supervillains must still have been in bed (or watching the football), as we made it across unscathed, and without witnessing any driving carnage worse than the apparently US-standard unsignalled lane change.
Then we walked along the waterfront, past the Palace of Fine Arts (which looked very cool, but not very open) a
nd along a bunch of deserted-seeming residential streets (we think all the natives were away for the long weekend) to Fisherman's Wharf, 
which was odiously tourist-focussed (apparently it gets worse as the day ages - I shudder to think). Having already walked something in the order of 400km***, we hopped aboard a cable-car. Apparently this is very difficult, as there are huge queues. We missed the departure of one by about a minute, then waited about four minutes for the next one, which we boarded with zero fuss, na
bbing prime positio
n at the outside front corner. The cables the cars run on are under the street surface, and are perpetually**** in motion. The cars move when the driver engages a clamp, grabbing the cable, which then hauls the car along, up and down stupidly steep streets. They have many more levers than I saw used, but I did see them using what I assume was some sort of clutch mechanism a few times - generally when stopping the car mid-intersection, which I assume they did purely because they could, as I saw no actual reason for the halt.At the far end of
the line, we saw the queues. Actually, we saw the queue, but it was so enormous that we initially thought it was multiple. We skirted its end, and made our way past the jugglers in the Yerba Buena Gardens and on to the San Francisco Museum Of Modern Art, where we saw works by Picasso (quite good), Matisse (so-so), Mondrian (decidedly ratty), Warh
ol (same old pictures of yesteryear's celebrities you've seen a million times already, but more captivating in the original than reproduced) and many, many others. Many were complete arse, many were boring. A few stood out, though, including one by a guy with the same name as our cat, and some giant-sized portraits with an organic pixellation effect*****. We had a coffee in the rooftop sculpture garden, then hit the streets, to Maiden Lane******, where there were opera singers, and then on to C
hinatown, where there were lots of Mexicans*******.For some reason, Janine loved Chinatown. There was a really weird mix of stuff for sale, from over-priced Orientalisms to ridiculously cheap San Francisco t-shirts ($
1.88), and some spectacular shelf-walls of assorted, unidentifiable foodstuffs in large jars. Janine bought less stuff than she wanted, but more than her pack-mule was entirely happy about. We saw animals from the same menagerie as our squirrel-thing, then found ourselves at the Lucky Creation Vegetarian Restaurant, where we were fed delicious meat-free foods by some nice people, although we did have to give them moneys in return. It was kind of like Auckland's Happy Valley Noodle House, only with betterer (and meat-free) delicious foods.My feet (which had started to hurt before we finished the
bridge crossing) and my legs (which were still complaining of past maltreatment) were incredibly unimpressed with the route we plotted whilst in the restaurant; up a steep hill and some steps, down a s
teep hill, up a steep hill, down a steep hill, repeat ad nauseum then walk along the flat forever. Even more lower-half-displeasure was incurred when we realised that we'd byp
assed something we wanted to see, and walked back up a steep hill, down some steps, then up a steep hill or two, ending up about a block away from where we'd turned tail. Worth it, though, to see the sneaky lanes behind houses, and both the steepest (Filbert, east of Hyde, 31.5% gradient) and crookedest (Lombard, east of Hyde, 8 switchbacks in one block) streets in the city. The crooked one was a bit arse, actually; we were bemused at the phenomenal numbers of people sitting gridlocked in their cars, waiting interminably for their turn to drive down it, slowly. Weird.We walked west, then we walked west, then we walked west some more. We saw a lot of things, and eventually reached the Presidio, which is an enormous
park bearing si
gns of long neglect followed by some remembrance. Then - glory be! - we reached the bridge. The number of sightseers had increased massively, and for some reason they seemed to be predominantly ethnic Indians. Only for the first half of the span, though, after which they disappeared from the mix completely. Weird.Not soon enough for my feets' or legs' liking we reached the Reaper, removed shoes and bloodied socks, and powered our way past a cyclist v skunk encounter******** and back to the campground, where we inhaled delicious foods and went to sleep to the sound of Mexican music from the parking lot below us. Which was weird.
* = I could tell they were lesbians, because they were canoodling at the traffic lights. And because they looked like they came from Rocky Bay on Waiheke, rather than from a Victoria's Secret catalogue, which would have marked them as actresses. Not that there's anything wrong with actresses.
** = Probably elsewhere as well, althogh the only place I'm getting any political information about at the moment is the US, and politics here is a seething morass of chaos, without even a pretence at trying to get things done.
*** = May not have been quite that far.
**** = I wonder if they turn them off at night, but not enough to research the subject.
***** = Kind of like an oil-painting variant on the picture someone made a few years back of a pixellated George W. Bush, where every pixel was a close-up photograph of an anus.
****** = Was once named Morton Street (or Avenue, or Boulevard, or something). Was the red-light district heart of San Francisco, with a ridiculously high number of murders, right up to the point when all the brothels burned down in 1906. It was rebuilt to be somewhat more savory, and renamed something other than my ancestral name to emphasise the change.
******* = And a series of people delving deeper into their own noses than I've ever seen done before. Seriously, there was some hardcore excavation happening in Chinatown.
******** = No matter what you think you know about skunks making a bad smell, you cannot comprehend the awfulness of skunk odour until you smell it. We got a peripheral whiff as we blasted by - unlike the poor cyclist, who must've copped a full dose - and we were well and truly violated. Apparently it permeates fabrics as well, and basically lingers forever or until you burn all of your possessions, whichever comes first.
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