Pottery

Short Version:
Legalize marijuana, social and financial benefits will ensue.

Long Version:
Big article in the Vancouver Sun Saturday and another today about the imminent collapse of the British Columbian economy on the back of California's various proposed new marijuana legislations. Apparently the illegal (and therefore untaxed and unregulated) export of "B.C. Bud" to the USA, and particularly California, is a huge money-spinner for the province, despite the lack of official taxation measures on the trade.

I have a healthy disrespect for the Vancouver Sun - two or three quality writers excepted - to the extent that I'm remembering the NZ Herald almost fondly. However, even taking the pair of under-informed articles and their statistical guesstimates with a healthy pile of salt*, it's interesting to see that the dollar value of B.C.'s marijuana export trade is thought to be really high: variously "at least $3 billion," or "$4-5 billion." Either way, that's a lot of pot-related income, especially when you consider that (again, guesstimated) 70% of it is being moved illegally across an international border, which constitutes a whole new level of criminal offending and commensurate harsher sentencing for those who get nabbed. And a whole new level of taxes and excise duties which are not being collected.

Neither the B.C. provincial government or the Canadian federal government - or their US counterparts - makes a cent from direct taxation of this highly lucrative trade. Secondary financial benefits accrue through the spending habits of the growers and transporters - and the snack attack food purchases of the end users - but the huge amount of lost wealth borders on criminal, especially in light of the current state of world financial affairs**

Some parts of California are investigating legalizing - not just decriminalizing - the marijuana industry. A number of states and provinces, including both B.C. and California, already have "Medical Marijuana" programmes in place, whereby marijuana is considered a valid medicinal substance which can be prescribed by a licensed medical practitioner. The NZ Medical Association is backing a Law Commission recommendation to introduce a similar arrangement in NZ, but a number of Californian cities are taking things several steps further, with Oakland looking at legitimizing "four production plants where pot would be grown, packaged and processed into items ranging from baked goods to body oil" in order to increase the level of legitimacy - and therefore taxability - of the city's marijuana industry.

Apparently the four current licensed marijuana stores in Oakland turned over in excess of USD$28 million in 2009, and one has to assume that the revenue generated by the illicit market reached much, much higher levels. At state level California is currently broke, and municipal bodies sound like they're not much better off, with police forces - which are a local government responsibility in the USA - being cut heavily along with a number of other services. So they're turning towards increased regulation and taxation of the marijuana trade, which will mean not only a new revenue stream for governmental organisations, but also job creation on a number of levels, from legislative creators, inspectors and enforcers, to those working in the marijuana trade, whose roles are not currently included in job statistics.

On the flip side, it's well known that as soon as a rule is set down, loopholes are sought, found, and exploited, a la the medical clinics next door to most medical marijuana outlets, where a friendly physician will prescribe marijuana for whatever ails you - or, as I suspect is more usual, does not ail you.

Still, I think it's a bloody good general principle, and that NZ should look seriously at the issue of legalisation. Not in the piecemeal, incoherently- and multiply-regulated way that its being done in the States, but under a sensible model which is regulated and workable from end to end, including opportunities for employers to have a say in the allowable levels of THC (the active ingredient in marijuana) for their employees. A well-constructed system for regulating and controlling the industry would see not only increased revenues for government coffers, and a swag of new jobs created and/or recognised just when that's most needed, but also a drop in the use of methamphetamine.

Admittedly, I have no evidence to support that last bit, but everything I've heard about methamphetamine as sold in NZ suggests that, unlike marijuana, it's a comparatively odorless drug; the end-user saleable units are comparatively compact; it makes users go nuts and attack people with samurai swords. As far as I'm aware, the number of marijuana-induced samurai sword incidents currently stands at zero, and legalising its production and sale would make it a far more attractive proposition than the far more physically- and socially-destructive methamphetamine scouge.

In fact, I've seen enough evidence to support ranking pot far less likely to induce or encourage non-pot criminal activity not only than dirty methamphetamine but also alcohol, which is a legal, regulated drug, and is, according to the Queenstown police chief, responsible for pretty much all of the crime in Queenstown. I've heard doctors say that alcohol is a major factor in the majority of Friday- and Saturday-night hospital Emergency Department admissions and it plays a significant role in NZ's appallingly high teen pregnancy rate. Sounds like a better candidate for illegality than pot to me.

Legalise marijuana production. Gain income through taxation; gain new export markets; increase land values in hilly, hitherto-unproductive regions; reduce crime statistics threefold, through reduced methamphetamine use and through increased pot-induced slothfulness and through no longer pursuing marijuana "crimes"; increase all-night service station snack food sales; increase police resource allocation to significant crime activity; decrease unemployment statistics; create a bunch of new careers. Get some smart cookies involved in figuring out the rules and regulations around driving/working/doing things under the influence. Social and financial benefits will ensue.







* = There's a newly-sparked rehashed salt-intake media beat-up going on here at the moment. Everything I've read has referenced the levels of sodium people are getting from the shitty junk food they ingest with such gusto, which begs the question: Why try to target people's after-market salt use, rather than the fact that they're eating "food" so bad it makes them fat while still leaving them malnourished?

** = Although B.C. has apparently been experiencing both general economic and job growth of late, in direct contrast to the rest of Canada, most of the USA, and NZ

Slinky

Ferrets are slinky. I know this because the Vancouver Sun told me so. Twice in one short article.

The (very slinky) black-footed ferret was thought to have become extinct in the 1930s. In 1981 a farm dog caught and killed one, which left biologists in the US apparently "ecstatic" at the opportunity to trap, breed, and eventually gradually reintroduce the slinky cuties to the wild.

Biologists in NZ are less ecstatic with the ferrets living in the Wairarapa, which have killed and/or consumed 9 of the 54 kiwi at a bird sanctuary there within the last month. Some sanctuary. I'm not entirely sure why the Department of Conversation thinks it's a good idea to move the birds from the actual sanctuary of Little Barrier Island to this place in the Wairarapa which has no fences and relies heavily on a buffer zone of farmland around the area which houses the kiwi. Apparently they "really can't do much more" yet they are "certainly not" contemplating removing the remaining kiwi back to Little Barrier despite admitting that "mathematically" there are more dangers for kiwi in the unfenced, unprotected Wairarapa "sanctuary" than on the pest- and predator-free island they took them from in the first place.

Meaty Goodness

I ate a bison last night, and I'm going to eat an elk tomorrow night.

Not some trick words leading you to false conclusions based on ingestion of chewy sweets shaped like ruminants:

I ate a bison.

I will eat an elk.

The bison was a tasty reminder that I stopped eating meat for reasons other than deliciousness (or a lack thereof), and was a nice solid repast after our two-hour epic forest run.

Back to herbivorousness after the elk, right up until I find pieces of moose or bear being charred for my epicurean pleasure.

Coincidentally, from where I'm sitting I can see a book entitled "Victory Meat."

Imminent Cheese

Short Version:
We do chores, relax in the sun, wreck things and selves, and gear up for cheese action.

Long Version:
Lots of things needed to be washed, including all of our clothes and camping stuff, and the Reaper, which looked more like a tan van than a white one. My wheel and fork went in for repair, and I'd almost finished washing the van by the time the wheel was done (fork was sent to the manufacturer's local rep for evaluation/repair/replacement).

Now, a week later, we've done most of our chores, with just the oil-change on the Reaper and a few other bits and pieces outstanding. We've walked the dogs for hours on the North Shore mountain trails, gone for several runs, and soaked up sun by day and soaked in the hot tub watching fireworks displays by night. Sunsets have become more and more spectacular as the smoke and ash from the 400+ forest fires further up the Fraser Valley has reached the Vancouver airshed, and between Skype calls to mothers, leisurely dinner and/or drinks conversations with family and friends, and consistent reliable internet connectivity, we're feeling pretty settled. We've even loaned a bunch of our camping stuff out for the weekend!

We've watched a bunch of movies since we've been back; going from no TV to one the size of a wall kind of made it mandatory. Two were from the Pirates of the Caribbean series, which features a chap with an octopus for a head who can walk through doors/walls/prison-cell bars. Janine had a crack at emulating this ability the other night. Giving credit where it's due, she did end up on the other side of the screen door. I'm not 100% certain she was supposed to be surrounded by quite so much used-to-be-a-door wreckage though, and the chap in the films didn't bleed out his nose anywhere near as much as Nene did. Of course, the bloke in the film didn't actually HAVE a nose to bleed out of, but his face tentacles didn't look anywhere near as red and sore as Nene's nose did for the next couple of days. Still, it was I, not Nene, who the neighbor thought was a special needs employee of the lawncare company, capable - just! - of minding the sprinkler, and moving it around every so often.

We're looking forward to heading north early next week, with riding planned initially for Squamish and Whistler. The latter is playing host next week to the Crankworx Mountain-Bike festival. Our media accreditation came through this morning, so we're looking forward to seeing behind the scenes of what is, apparently, a massive production, with top-flight racing, new product demos, and all sorts of other goings-on, culminating in the Canadian Cheese-Rolling Championships on Saturday August 14. That's Sunday August 15 NZ time for those Southern Hemispherans who are planning to cheer us on from afar. Apparently if we win we get some cheese.

Mmmmmmmmm... delicious cheese.

Canada, Here We Come!

Short Version:
We run for the border, with pizza.

Long Version:
Mt St Helens isn't that far from the US-Canada border. Unless you're at the south-east corner of the mountain, in which case it's an hour or so just to get to the Interstate, then another one to get to the north-west mountain access, where the visitor centre and mountain headquarters are. And where we were, six or seven weeks ago, under a blanket of cold, foggy cloud. This time, the sun was shining, and it was still hot enough as we rolled into Olympia seeking delicious foods that I had to dig out a shirt before heading in to the Old-School Pizzeria, where we ate under the watchful gaze of metal gods of yesteryear. It's good to be reminded that Anthrax had big hair in the early 90s, and that even so they were among the less cartoon-like rock bands of the era.

Hunger suitably assuaged, it was back on the Interstate, and north at a furious pace. We passed through Seattle at sunset, which was really pretty and made Janine homesick, and crossed the border into Canada a few hours later with no border fuss whatsoever.

We'd been on the I-5 for so many hours that it was kind of weird when the road withered away, leaving us on an - admittedly multiple-lane - suburban street, with a 50-60km/hr speed limit. Signage was adequate - barely - to get us through downtown Vancouver, with only one traffic mishap*, and before we knew it we were crossing the Lion's Gate Bridge into North Vancouver, and pulling into the driveway of the house on East Kings, some time after midnight.

Showers for hours, then sleep. Mmmmmm, delicious sleep.







* = Turning left off a one-way street onto a two-way means:
- Get into the left-hand lane
- Turn into the right-hand lane
Unless you learned to drive on the left side of the road, and are really tired, and there's no oncoming traffic... in which case it's entirely possible to drive quite a way up the wrong side of a major urban thoroughfare before realising exactly what it is that's giving you that "something's not right" feeling. Still, no damage done, and no cops witnessed said indiscretion, so it never happened.

Recovery and the Plains of Abraham

Short Version:
Recovering from the recovery ride, more bike and body carnage on the Plains of Abraham

Long Version:
Chatty camping neighbor Brian had set off up the trail before us, carrying an old-school external aluminium-frame pack full of random stuff for broken-back rehab purposes. We passed him pretty soon after, and rode another 15 minutes up the trail to a campsite next to a deep section of river, with a small beach and a rope swing hanging out over the water. We spent the day lying in the sun reading books, playing card games, eating delicious foods and drinking delicious coffee, and swimming in the river. The swing was imperfect but serviceable, and the fallen tree not far downstream provided an excellent springboard for fancy diving purposes. Fish were a-leaping, squirrels and mice were a-scurrying, tiny frogs were a-sitting still. We didn't really want to leave, but having not brought any camping gear, and with bold plans for an early morning assault on Mt St Helens the next day we headed back to the van, passing along the way a large family-with-extras group who were heading for the spot we'd just left.

We drove to and up onto Mt St Helens, pulling off the main Forest Service road onto a dirt byway just outside the border of the National Monument restricted-use area. We found a clearing with full picnic table setup and were about to start setting up camp when a Ranger drove by. We thought we were about to be moved along, but he tipped his hat to us and continued on. Sweet!

Spent the evening conducting bike maintenance and prepping for the morning's ride, which meant that when we awoke the next morning we were pretty quickly on our way up the road to the trailhead. Pretty soon we were heading up into Ape Canyon, which was really pretty, and riding really nice. Often the first half of an out-and-back ride leaves you feeling less-than-enthusiastic about what awaits on the way back down, but the trail surface and gradient of Ape Canyon had us looking forward to the return journey.

After a decent climb, we were out of the trees and working our way up to and across the Plains of Abraham, which is a flattish plateau on the eastern shoulder of the main Mt St Helens cone. The surface was volcanic dust with chunks of pumice and lava rock, which made for some interesting riding to go with the moonscape / Mt St Helens short-range views and the occasional long-range spectacular vistas of Mt Adams, Mt Rainier, and non-cone stretches of the Cascade Range. At the far side of the Plains of Abraham we hiked our bikes down a staircase of sorts, then gathered some pace along the dirt road to the Windy Ridge Viewpoint, where we picnicked while taking in the views of the blast-eradicated northern face of Mt St Helens, including the lava dome halfway up and a herd of elk running across the face. There were clouds rising from the volcano at irregular intervals and from various spots, which was mildly concerning until the Ranger lady told me they were dust clouds from snowmelt-induced rockfalls. Which made me much happier than the prospect of another eruption, right up until I saw a "small" rockfall come crashing down the face, fast and without bothering to go around any obstacles.

The ride back across the Plain was faster, and more fun as a result, although it did lead to yet another chunk of lava rock taking out yet another one of my spokes. Sigh. We had many photo stops along the way, and we met lots of cool people, which was great but left us wary of getting up too much speed on the way down through Ape Canyon. I managed to get round the issue to some extent by riding second, and dropping back a long way, which is how I came to be riding so fast at the point where I clipped a tree-root and ended up under my bike with chain-ring teeth embedded in my leg. Sigh.

I was a bit sore to do too much sight-seeing back at the trailhead trail nexus, but we'd spent the whole day looking at fantastic sights, so we weren't too perturbed. The broken spoke was a problem though, as it broke our plan to hook round the eastern side of Mt St Helens and north to Mt Rainier for another day of epic riding.

So, onwards, to a bike shop. Or, maybe...

...to Vancouver!

Jesus vs John Banks

Short Version:
We don't run over Jesus, but we do cross Old Man Pass, ride the Lewis River Trail, and have issues with John Banks

Long Version:
The Columbia River serves as the border between Oregon and Washington states. The highway on the Washington side is punctuated by a number of tunnels through spurs of rock thrown south from the nearby hills. Most of them are tidily-arrayed in concrete and brickwork, but a few retain what we assume is the original look; rough-hewn rock. As we exited one of these, we saw our first Jesus-a-like since Southern California, walking west along the highway verge, his long straggly hair and beard flowing over his left shoulder due to the combination of headwind and his marked list to the left. I managed to not run him over, but it was close.

There were a lot of people fishing outside the National Fish Hatchery, which was our cue to turn north, away from the River. We passed through a town called Scabler Hemlock on our way up to Old Man Pass, then copped some serious eyefuls of Mt St Helens on our way down the other side. Pretty soon we were in dense old-growth forest again, and before we knew it we were at the trailhead where the Lewis River Trail and the Curly Creek Falls Trail meet. we set up camp right at the trailhead, then filled the evening with swimming and delicious foods and watching bats hunting insects and sleeping really badly*.

We'd long since lined up the Lewis River Trail as an easy mission, suitable as a recovery day ride between big outings. In retrospect, neither of us can remember why we believed it would be so, as maps and literature and internets all agree that the full one-way length of the trail is 14.5 miles, and that it demands reasonable effort levels for much of that length. Theoretically, we could have designated any point aloing the trail our end point and turned back, but in practice, with Janine and I involved that was never going to happen, and it was a weary pair who made it back to the van after the full six hour, 29-mile out-and-back.

The trail surface was in beautiful condition from the start, with a light coating of fir needles and other detritus over hard-pack dirt. It tasted delicious too, as I found out within the first five minutes. And again before the half-hour had elapsed. We saw several excellent waterfalls and some huge trees, including one recently downed behemoth which had fallen across the trail and had had a path chopped through it. Its trunk diameter was wider than I could span with outstretched arms. There were several really cool walk- / bike-in campsites, and a variety of people exploring the trail, including fishermen, families, and a group of US Forest Service administrative minions who'd been sent out into the woods for the day to see what the point of their efforts actually was. Some of them were having a ball, others looked like they'd happily pave the river and its surrounds and can we please go back to civilization now?

The trail overall was like a bigger, longer, more challenging version of the Clackamas River Trail, with more varied terrain, surrounds, and technical ride challenges. We'd well and truly earned our delicious eggy burritos by the end of the ride, along with the swim and the secret stash bottle of Terminator Stout which magically appeared. We took a stroll to the viewpoint that looked out over the Curly Creek Falls**, then spent the evening reading books and eating delicious foods and chatting to our very chatty new neighbor, Brian, who had a broken back on the mend and a 1972 Winnebago RV which was very very awesome.

We slept much better - no John Banks this time! - then set about preparing for a day recovering from our recovery ride.

* = I dreamed about John Banks. Janine dreamed she was riding her bike down a hill. I told her that didn't sound like a bad thing, to which she replied: "It is when your're trying to sleep."

** = The first drop of the cataract has been pounding its halfway-down-cliff landing area for so long that it`s eaten a passage through the rock, creating a pretty spectacular archway 80 feet up

Things That Go "Snort" In the Night

Short Version:
Snorter, squirrel-wars, Nene vs baby bear, baked goods and a see-through bridge

Long Version:
The Snorter didn't actually snort; it blew. From the sound of it (which is all I had, given that I was cowering inside the tent at the time) it was blocking one nostril and clearing the other explosively. It was accompanied by hoofsteps, which reduced the alert level compared to what cat- or bear-pawsteps would have engendered, but memories of enormous, tetchy bull elk with non-nubbin* antlers meant that I wasn't as sanguine as I would have been had there been chipmunk- or mole-steps going on. Still, I was back to sleep pretty quickly, which was good given how early the squirrels woke us. That turned out to be a good thing in and of itself, as they were putting on quite a show: chasing each other up and down fallen-tree ramps and stumps, along slightly-too-spindly branches, and across patches of open ground, chittering and squabbling the whole time.

We had a crack at extricating our stowaway, but the difficulty inherent in removing the ceiling panels** left us less-than-enthusiastic about the prospect of pulling off all the wall panels as well, so we reinstated the ceiling, repacked our possessions, and broke camp.

It was Nene's turn to ride the unearned downhill, and we were above the top of the Dog River Trail, which we'd thoroughly enjoyed as the finale of the Surveyor's Ridge ride a couple of months back, so I was alone in the van as I rolled down to the main highway, and for some time afterwards, cooling my heels riverside at the trailhead parking area. Not for as long as I'd expected, though, as she gobbled the several miles of trail in inordinately quick time and appeared at the van ready for delicious foods. Apparently the lower half of the trail was still riding sweetly, but the top was well and truly blown-out and dusty. Highlight of the ride was the young bear which she'd spooked by appearing round a corner at pace, and sent running away as fast as it could manage on four paws. Apparently the thought chain went something like:
- Holy cod! A bear!
- Oh, it's a little one - cute!
- Hang on; small bears have large bear parents... Oh-oh...
- No sign of Ma Bear. Time to ride. Fast.

We stopped at a fruit stall / bakery for fruit*** and baked goods****, then rolled into Hood River, where we met a German woman who was riding her bike from Canada to Mexico and then hit Mountain View Cycles for a bike repair tutorial from Ben and Matt in their underground lair (Hi Ben and Matt!). A quick stop at laundromat and supermarket and we were away, across the river on a narrow-laned drawbridge with a steel-grated deck through which the river was clearly visible*****, and back into Washington, where some much-vaunted riding awaited, including the Lewis River and Mt St Helens.






* = All together now; (E) A nubbin, a nubbin, a nubbin, a nubbin, (A7) A nubbin, a nubbin, a nubbin, a nubbin! (REPEAT)

** = Every conceivable screw-head under the sun, including several counter-sunk so deep we couldn't get to them with our drivers.

*** = Stunningly-good cherries and Sweet Sue peaches.

**** = Ginger cookie for Janine, Pumpkin choc-chip for me.

***** = Janine really liked it when I leaned out the window to look down through the deck grille at the water, as it meant we invariably ended up outside our (very narrow) lane, heading straight at the oncoming southbound traffic

Three For the Price of One

Short Version:
A long ride with many great bits. Nene finds her signature role.

Long Version:
The original Star Wars trilogy was awesome. One of the best bits was the speeder-bike chase through the forest on Endor in Return of the Jedi. Speeder-bikes are cool*. The way the riders aim them straight at the enormous trees, only to veer aside at the (very!) last moment is exciting to watch**.

I had the unexpected joy of watching my very own personal speeder-bike race re-creation, on top of Five-Mile Butte. A field full of wildflowers played the role of the forest of Endor, a pair of hummingbirds played speeder-bikes. Janine played a tree.

We were half an hour into the day's riding, and had stopped to appreciate the panoramic views of the Cascade volcanoes*** from the top the first hill when the first hummingbird appeared, followed pretty quickly by the second one. Still not sure whether the chase was amorous or territorial in nature, but it was certainly entertaining. Hummingbirds are cool.

From there we headed downhill, to the nexus of the local trail network at Bottle Prairie, where we stashed our picnic backpack in the woods and set off down the paved road to the trailhead for the climb to High Prairie and Lookout Mountain.

An hour-long singletrack climb had us at a high plateau, running the border between forest and meadow. Like the seashore, all manner of lifeforms had congregated and were living it up. We saw a family of chipmunks (Ma, Pa, and 4 little ones), some brightly-colored birds, and a hummingbird chasing a woodpecker out of its territory. The woodpecker was three times the hummingbird's size but had no answer to the smaller creature's pure aggression, or possibly misplaced amorous attention. Hummingbirds are cool.

Then we got uphill gravel road action, which filled me with great joy. At least it was only half an hour. I complain about having to ride up hills, but I recognise it as a necessary evil. And, given the choice, I'd far rather ride up the hill first and earn the subsequent descent, as opposed to starting with a downhill run and having to follow it up with a climb to end the ride. On those grounds, I was in luck, as all three of the day`s trails had us riding up as our first action.

At the top of the climb we ditched the bikes in some trees and set off up the hiking path, past a huge variety of foot-, paw-, and hoof-prints captured in what had been mud. We passed yet more fields of wildflowers and several patches of snow on our way to the top, where we found views which were similar to the ones we'd seen, only more so. We also found a really fat chipmunk with no fear of humans, and insane numbers of flies and ladybugs. And a couple who were out celebrating her 60th birthday by climbing a mountain together, with whom we chatted as we strolled back to the bikes. They were cool.

Then we rode downhill. Over small streams and jumps, round bermed corners and past surprised wildlife. The trail had been so well massaged into shape that the number of times we had to brake during the twenty minute descent could be counted on one Simpsons hand, and we were still buzzing when we extricated the picnic bag from its woodland hiding place and perched ourselves on a downed tree to nosh on avocado/tomato/gherkin deliciousness at Bottle Prairie before re-hiding the bag and setting off on trail #2 of the day's planned three-trail extravaganza.

The Bottle Prairie trail took us back up Five-Mile Butte, crossing the first trail we'd ridden halfway up the hill. The run down the other side was even better than the descent from High Prairie - although not as long - with even fewer spots where brakes were employed despite the significant speeds we were hitting. At the bottom we had a sidle across the hill, then a drop into a steep-sided canyon and out the other side, where found Knebal Springs Campground, just in time to refill our water bladders... except we couldn't find the Springs anywhere in or around the campground. Eventually one of the campers pointed us at the rusty horse-trough, which looked decidedly unappetising until we noticed that the water flowing into it was actually cool and clear, and became sullied only once it mingled with the already-present filthy water in the trough. Rolling around on the ground under the spigot felt great.

Suitably refreshed, we hit the trail again, back up and over Five-Mile Butte to Bottle Prairie, where we collected the picnic bag and set off for our final trail of the day. Janine's ride agenda put some icing atop an already awesome day's riding: we'd already ridden the uphill half of the 8-Mile Creek Loop Trail first thing in the morning, but had saved the descent for last thing in the afternoon. And what a descent it was! As fast as a fast thing, and as flowing as you can imagine. A big call to dub this "Descent of the Day"**** given its brevity (2.5 miles long) and the number of other excellent descents we'd enjoyed, but the way the trail lent itself to high-speed cornering using tiny shifts of weight was unbeatable. It was such a nice run that we were sorely tempted to haul back up for another crack at it. Not quite enough to override the fact that we'd already been out for over eight hours, and had sore legs and butts, but it was close.

Instead, we rolled back to camp, where we ate delicious foods and relaxed in the sun before hitting the sack for a great night's sleep, interrupted only by the snorter.

* = The chase can be seen online at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qrrrmhUz2o4

** = Unlike pretty much ANY of the later "Prequel" series, which is awful*****.

*** = Mounts Hood, Adams, Rainier, and St Helens

**** = If not "Descent of the Week"

***** = Except for Watto. He's cool.

Stowaway!

Short Version:
Critters, a short ride, a new campsite, an uninvited guest

Long Version:
We thought we'd found yet another sweet campsite (in the woods / no-one around / free), but when it came to sleep o'clock, we were so scared of the forest noises that we slept in the Reaper again. Unfortunately for us, the critters making the noises were absolutely fascinated by the Reaper's presence in their secluded woodland home, and investigated it thoroughly. All night. Again, I could've sworn they were inside the van as well as running around on every conceivable surface*, and the upshot was a significant sleep deficit the next morning as we set off to ride the riverside trail of the Oak Grove Fork of the Clackamas River.

Our progressively more and more discredited Central Oregon mountain-biking guidebook called this trail "the best riverside trail in Oregon," which, in light of the awesomeness of the trails that we'd ridden along the North Umpqua, the Middle and North Forks of the Willamette, and the McKenzie, was a blimmin big call. And, we discovered, a seriously erroneous one. That's not to say that the trail was unenjoyable - far from it - but at under four miles long it would've had to have been pretty exceptional to outdo its longer siblings. It had pretty surrounds, a lovely riding surface along most of its length, and an interesting array of short, sharp climbs and descents, some of which were open and fast, while others straddled the border between sketchy (off-camber blown-out steep switchbacks) and tricky (a broken but still rideable log bridge). At forty minutes or so each way it's not a destination ride, even with the swim in the cold-but-refreshing tributary thrown in, but if you're in the area it's worth a ride - especially if the similar-but-longer nearby circuit of Timothy Lake is as overflowing with non-bike traffic as it was on this fine summer weekend.

We made our way back into the wilderness area south of Hood River and east of Mt Hood, and let a bobcat select our campsite. There were deer and chipmunks everywhere, and we had spectacular views of Mt Hood and Mt Adams bathed in afternoon sunlight as we relaxed. The lizard resident in the firepit kept a beady eye on us**, and bees festooned the van - we think they were snaffling the pollen which had attached to the paint as we drove the narrow, flower-lined backroads.

The mystery of the noises in the van in the night took another twist in the early evening, as scuttling creature sounds were clearly audible from within the ceiling space. We have a stowaway! Too many gaps and spaces between panels for us to block access, and too many screws to undo on too many panels to strip the interior, so we repacked all our foods and put sealed lids on the containers - let's see you nibble our bits now, critter!

We slept the whole night in the tent, with minimal wakefulness, right up until the world's noisiest squirrel started a cacophonous diatribe in the light of the early morning sun. We'd have unliked the beast, but had already slept longer than planned, and being awake meant we got to see the bunny with the really short ears hopping about the place, which was kind of cool.

* = Roof, chassis, bumpers, mirrors. Anything even remotely horizontally-oriented was fair game for the wee buggers.

** = On both of us, at the same time. Freaky beast.