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.

I See... Fat People...

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.

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.

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.

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

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!

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.