Short Version:
We watch football then drive south, meet the police, and find a place to stay in the city
Long Version:
Playa Buenaventuras treated us well again the next day, which was dominated by the sea. Particularly, sitting in it on plastic chairs, drinking beer. Eventually it grew dark, and we took the chairs and the beer to the house, where we added Scrabble to the mix. Beds were rearranged in response to the recurring, relocated biting ants, and we hit the hay for a great night's sleep, interrupted on ly by the occasional truck ignoring the "No Engine Braking" signs.
Up early again, but this time to the bar instead of the kayaks, to watch Nueva Zelanda v Italia at the Copa del Mundo. We celebrated the draw like it was a victory, rescued a tiny lizard from the jaws of the Manx cat*, then hit the road, south, towards La Paz.
Crazy striated mountains, cacti, wandering cows, heat. Holding a hand outside the (non-airconditioned) van was like holding it in the airstream from a giant hairdryer on maximum.
We stopped at Loreto for gas and snacks, and added it to our list of places-which-look-cool-enough-to-visit-on-the-way-back-north. At the start of my encounter with the Loreto Policia, I was inclined to look at removing it from that list, but by the end of the discussion, with my traffic transgression** no longer top of the agenda, I was back to feeling positively-inclined towards the place. Hi Officer Luis!
Onwards and southwest, to Ciudad de Insurgentes***, where we stopped for a driver change and a wee, and saw a toxic waste dump and some intestines. Not far away, though, was the most modernized/Westernized area we'd yet seen, which we're guessing may have been a post-hurricane rebuild. The number of small**** tornadoes we saw near the road - one within 10 metres of the van - certainly indicated that wind effects were not unheard-of in the region.
We made it to La Paz late in the afternoon, and after some no-street-sign exploring found the hotel we were seeking, which turned out to be awesome. Then out for dinner, which was great - especially the bit where the super-friendly waiter force-fed tequila to the drinkers. Beer til late, then sleeping, and now we're up and about to go shopping for turista stuff. I hate haggling, and don't actually want any of the stuff, so have assumed the role of the "no, it's too expensive, come on, let's go" guy. Nice to be useful.
* = The cat was ultra-cute, and loved Nene. They played a game of jump-up/put-on-floor for a while, then bar owner Mark took the cat outside and told us to watch the reaction. The cat attacked the welcome mat while staring daggers (or claws, as the case may be) at him
** = driving up the wrong side of a dual-carriageway boulevard
*** = City of the Insurgents, I think, which is a GREAT name for a city
**** = We guesstimated 2-5m diameter and 50-250ft high
Monday, June 21, 2010
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Buenaventuras!
Short Version:
We find a nice place to stay
Long Version:
We were woken by the twin sounds of skillsaws and pelicans diving for fish. Straight into the water for a swim, we were not long out when Janine broke the toilet, and we decided to hit the road southwards sooner rather than later. A stop at Bertha's for a second breakfast of delicious foods was rewarding, then back in the van, south a few more km, to the Hotel Buenoventura! It was closed.
The bar wasn't, though, and Craig managed to negotiate with the owners the rent of their spare house for a couple of nights for a wonderfully cheap rate. The house is on the beach, and has either 2 or 3 bedrooms, depending on whether you count the one with the toilet in it as a bedroom or a bathroom. The peninsula which forms the far (eastern) side of Bahia Concepcion* sits across an 8-mile stretch of crystal-clear water which is teeming with sea- and bird-life. The peninsula itself looks inimical to any forms of life save maybe cacti, but looking back in to the shore we're staying on from out to sea has the same effect, so we're assuming a similar habitable zone where land meets water exists over there as well.
We've spent a lot of time in the sea, which is incredibly warm, and some time on it - kayaking to and around a nearby island, in hot pursuit of a pod of dolphins - and next to it, reading books, drinking beer, and playing scrabble. We've seen eagle rays, angel fish, a dead turtle, and fishing dogs**. We've watched fish jump - including a boil-up which we all turned to look at because of the incredible sizzling noise it made - and we've seen pelicans and blue-footed boobies in action. The only negative so far was the infestation of biting ants that attacked Janine and I at 2am, but we slept the rest of the night comfortably enough on the couches, and the bedroom's been de-pested today. The food's great, and the bar owners took a trip into town this morning, bringing us back beer and delicious foods for tonight.
If this is Mexico, then Mexico is really good.
* = Conception Bay, which is kind of scary
** = Two of the three dogs (Mona Lisa and Zora) which live here spend hours standing in the shallows, snapping at the fish which cruise by. The other one, Gremlin, won't go near the sea, and spends his time hanging out in the bar near the parrot.
We find a nice place to stay
Long Version:
We were woken by the twin sounds of skillsaws and pelicans diving for fish. Straight into the water for a swim, we were not long out when Janine broke the toilet, and we decided to hit the road southwards sooner rather than later. A stop at Bertha's for a second breakfast of delicious foods was rewarding, then back in the van, south a few more km, to the Hotel Buenoventura! It was closed.
The bar wasn't, though, and Craig managed to negotiate with the owners the rent of their spare house for a couple of nights for a wonderfully cheap rate. The house is on the beach, and has either 2 or 3 bedrooms, depending on whether you count the one with the toilet in it as a bedroom or a bathroom. The peninsula which forms the far (eastern) side of Bahia Concepcion* sits across an 8-mile stretch of crystal-clear water which is teeming with sea- and bird-life. The peninsula itself looks inimical to any forms of life save maybe cacti, but looking back in to the shore we're staying on from out to sea has the same effect, so we're assuming a similar habitable zone where land meets water exists over there as well.
We've spent a lot of time in the sea, which is incredibly warm, and some time on it - kayaking to and around a nearby island, in hot pursuit of a pod of dolphins - and next to it, reading books, drinking beer, and playing scrabble. We've seen eagle rays, angel fish, a dead turtle, and fishing dogs**. We've watched fish jump - including a boil-up which we all turned to look at because of the incredible sizzling noise it made - and we've seen pelicans and blue-footed boobies in action. The only negative so far was the infestation of biting ants that attacked Janine and I at 2am, but we slept the rest of the night comfortably enough on the couches, and the bedroom's been de-pested today. The food's great, and the bar owners took a trip into town this morning, bringing us back beer and delicious foods for tonight.
If this is Mexico, then Mexico is really good.
* = Conception Bay, which is kind of scary
** = Two of the three dogs (Mona Lisa and Zora) which live here spend hours standing in the shallows, snapping at the fish which cruise by. The other one, Gremlin, won't go near the sea, and spends his time hanging out in the bar near the parrot.
Mexican TV, Mexican Roads, Mexican Foods, Mexican Tequila
Short Version:
We drive a long way, eat delicious foods, see things, drink a lot
Long Version:
Our first Mexican morning was hot. We watched some Mexican breakfast television, which was completely incomprehensible. It appeared to be total chaos, interspersed with insanity. I'm pretty sure that it wouldnèt have made much sense even if we DID understand what they were saying. We hit the road, and found a petrol station, at which a short woman (not Janine or Anoushka) made a valiant attempt at cleaning the van's high windshield and was tipped accordingly, then we carried on south, past some bloody big trucks travelling bloody fast on bloody narrow roads, and past wandering cattle and roadworkers, both of which were seemingly unconcerned at the imminent carnage heralded by the 130km/hr approach of the big white van. Had our first up-close-and-personal encounter with the local flora and fauna when we stopped for a roadside wee; Janine saw a snake, and a cactus bit me. Could have been worse; could have been the other way around.
We saw turkey vultures eating a dead dog, we saw volcanoes (The Three Virgins), we saw the oasis at San Ignacio, and eventually we saw the sea, although not before we'd driven through the odour cloud generated by the Santa Rosalita rubbish dump and that of the fish processing plant. Sought and stopped at the Gustav Eiffel-designed church and heard the cheers as Mexico beat France at the World Cup. Next stop was Mulege, which was the coolest-looking Mexican town we'd seen yet, with tiny shops nestled in next to each other, winding, narrow streets, and clear evidence of hurricane devastation being set to rights.
One of the great things about Mulege was its proximity to our intended beachfront cabana destination. Instead of what we sought, though, we found Bertha's, a beachfront restaurant on Playa los Burros** which we liked a lot. The woman who waited and cooked looked appropriatey Bertha-like, and we noted that she snuck out the back and applied a lot of red lipstick when a group of Americanos arrived, but she cooked the best quesadillas, chimichangas, and other assorted delicious Mexican foods, and by the time we left she was among our favorite people in the world. She pointed us back up the road a few km to Playa de Naranjos*, where we found a cheap waterfront cabana to rent for the night.
And what a night! Apparently I ascended the van, claiming the stars would be clearer from the roof, all the while declaiming loudly about the relative merits of CHP Officers Jon and Ponch. I don't recall. I do recall some beer and some tequila, with some card games and some pelican-watching. A sheepish morning followed.
* = Orange Beach
** = Donkey Beach
We drive a long way, eat delicious foods, see things, drink a lot
Long Version:
Our first Mexican morning was hot. We watched some Mexican breakfast television, which was completely incomprehensible. It appeared to be total chaos, interspersed with insanity. I'm pretty sure that it wouldnèt have made much sense even if we DID understand what they were saying. We hit the road, and found a petrol station, at which a short woman (not Janine or Anoushka) made a valiant attempt at cleaning the van's high windshield and was tipped accordingly, then we carried on south, past some bloody big trucks travelling bloody fast on bloody narrow roads, and past wandering cattle and roadworkers, both of which were seemingly unconcerned at the imminent carnage heralded by the 130km/hr approach of the big white van. Had our first up-close-and-personal encounter with the local flora and fauna when we stopped for a roadside wee; Janine saw a snake, and a cactus bit me. Could have been worse; could have been the other way around.
We saw turkey vultures eating a dead dog, we saw volcanoes (The Three Virgins), we saw the oasis at San Ignacio, and eventually we saw the sea, although not before we'd driven through the odour cloud generated by the Santa Rosalita rubbish dump and that of the fish processing plant. Sought and stopped at the Gustav Eiffel-designed church and heard the cheers as Mexico beat France at the World Cup. Next stop was Mulege, which was the coolest-looking Mexican town we'd seen yet, with tiny shops nestled in next to each other, winding, narrow streets, and clear evidence of hurricane devastation being set to rights.
One of the great things about Mulege was its proximity to our intended beachfront cabana destination. Instead of what we sought, though, we found Bertha's, a beachfront restaurant on Playa los Burros** which we liked a lot. The woman who waited and cooked looked appropriatey Bertha-like, and we noted that she snuck out the back and applied a lot of red lipstick when a group of Americanos arrived, but she cooked the best quesadillas, chimichangas, and other assorted delicious Mexican foods, and by the time we left she was among our favorite people in the world. She pointed us back up the road a few km to Playa de Naranjos*, where we found a cheap waterfront cabana to rent for the night.
And what a night! Apparently I ascended the van, claiming the stars would be clearer from the roof, all the while declaiming loudly about the relative merits of CHP Officers Jon and Ponch. I don't recall. I do recall some beer and some tequila, with some card games and some pelican-watching. A sheepish morning followed.
* = Orange Beach
** = Donkey Beach
Let's go to Mexico!
Short Version:
LA, San Diego, Mexico, craziness!
Long Version:
The drive from Santa Barbara to LA ws surreal.
We set off at 1130pm, arrived at our LA hotel at 2am. By 3am we were asleep, having checked-in*, parked the van, purchased and consumed snacks**, and stood in the shower for ages. And drunk a celebratory `We survived beng lost in the desert' bottle of stout. We slept, unsurprisingly, rather heavily, right through to the bit where a jet-lagged Anoushka woke up 3 floors below us and tried to phone our room, via hotel reception. The caller we actually got was a somewhat surprised external party, and Anoushka was connected to an equally bemused different hotel guest. Eventually we were actually connected, and we met Craig and Anoushka in the lobby before heading to the dining room for our complimentary breakfast, which was surprisingly good.
After breakfast, we fluffed around a bit, and packed our stuff, and went to a mall, which was essentially a lot like a NZ mall only more so. We ate some relatively delicious foods***, then hit the road, bound for San Diego, which turned out to be full of enormous grey ships and homeless people. Also a really cool hotel which was cheaper than the nearby hostel, a classic car sales place with some seriously awesome vehicles, delicious foods, and Black Butte Porter poured from a growler while watching football on TV.
Next morning we were up early, moving the van from its overnight spot ($5 overnight, 6pm-6am. Compared to the $28 per-day parking at the hotel, getting up at 5:45am to shift the thing to a 75c kerbside spot right outside the hotel seemed like a good option). The hotel fed us a complimentary breakfast (bagel goodness) then we set off, Craig at the wheel, heading for the Mexican border.
We stopped briefly to purchase Mexican car insurance****, then headed to the border crossing. The Americans cared not one bit that we were leaving, but the Mexican Border Police found us intriguing enough to conduct a search of the van. They seemed particularly interested in the camouflage-colored backpack, which was unfortunate, as it was full of our filthy mountain-biking clothes. We think they must`ve found Janine`s sign language attempts at "We`re really sorry that our clothes smell so bad" kind of charming, because they waved us through soon after, although they may have just been so revolted by us that they wanted us gone.
Mexico!
With cries of 'Ayayayayayayayayayay!!!!' echoing through the van, we hit the motorway, rolling south. For about four minutes. Then we reached our first military checkpoint. The heavily-armed soldiers did some poking around in the van, and seemed especially interested in the camouflage-colored backpack, which was unfortunate, as it was full of our filthy mountain-biking clothes. One of them asked where we were from, and when told `Nueva Zelanda` he made a kicking motion with his foot and smiled, and waved us through. It`s good to be from a country which is playing in the football World Cup.
The rest of the day saw us drive around 800km through desert of various types. We hit many military checkpoints, some of which were kind of scary, some no problemo. At one the main soldier asked where we were going and why, and then asked if we were going to go surfing. We said no, just swimming, and beer. `Cerveza!` he said. ` Cerveza... and drugs?` I`d not been expecting that. `No, no drugs! Just cerveza!` He waved us through with a smile.
We saw some exorbitantly random driving (think Tauranga, only fast), dust, and cacti. Eventually, we reached the Vegetal Sanidad station at the northern edge of Guerrero Negro, where they charged us 10 pesos to spray the underside of the van with a cinnamon-scented liquid. Guerrero Negro lies on the border between north and south Baja, and is a town about which the guidebooks say "Unless you're here for the whale-watching*****, there's really no reasonm for you to stop, let alone stay." Harsh, maybe, but probably true. Unless, of course, your party has links to the salt industry, as Guerrero Negro is the source of one third of the world's salt. We didn't visit the salt flats, but we did eat disappointingly not-very-Mexican foods and drink beer from frozen pint glasses at the town's premier hotel, which had a very cool bar******, gourds growing on a trellis, photos of the salt works, and pieces of whale. And a room with some beds, in which we slept, soundly.
* = we'd found a special deal online and booked a Queen room, with free breakfast. Unfortunately for us, Air Tahiti were having logistical issues, and a number of their patrons were staying an extra night or three at our hotel, so the room we ended up with had two single beds instead of a queen. They could have given us a room with no beds and we'd probably have slept just as well
** = Corn Nuts! Why does no-one in NZ make and sell these? They are the awesomest, most delicious snack food. Especially the chili and lime ones, and especially at 3am. In LA.
*** = Americans seem to delight in listing what would, in NZ, be the primary meal feature as a secondary ingredient. "Lettuce Wraps" was chicken salad, with lettuce leaves one could wrap salad in, should one choose to do so. "Roasted Artichoke Pizza" features grilled chicken. Staying vegetarian requires extra vigilance.
**** = Canadian and US insurance companies refuse to cover your vehicle while it's in Mexico, so there's a whole separate industry based at the border where you can buy by-the-day or -week insurance to cover you during your visit
***** = It's not currently whale-watching season. We think we read somewhere at some point that the whales are here on their way up and down the coast during spring and fall respectively, but one of us may have just made that up.
****** = The pool table ate our balls.
LA, San Diego, Mexico, craziness!
Long Version:
The drive from Santa Barbara to LA ws surreal.
We set off at 1130pm, arrived at our LA hotel at 2am. By 3am we were asleep, having checked-in*, parked the van, purchased and consumed snacks**, and stood in the shower for ages. And drunk a celebratory `We survived beng lost in the desert' bottle of stout. We slept, unsurprisingly, rather heavily, right through to the bit where a jet-lagged Anoushka woke up 3 floors below us and tried to phone our room, via hotel reception. The caller we actually got was a somewhat surprised external party, and Anoushka was connected to an equally bemused different hotel guest. Eventually we were actually connected, and we met Craig and Anoushka in the lobby before heading to the dining room for our complimentary breakfast, which was surprisingly good.
After breakfast, we fluffed around a bit, and packed our stuff, and went to a mall, which was essentially a lot like a NZ mall only more so. We ate some relatively delicious foods***, then hit the road, bound for San Diego, which turned out to be full of enormous grey ships and homeless people. Also a really cool hotel which was cheaper than the nearby hostel, a classic car sales place with some seriously awesome vehicles, delicious foods, and Black Butte Porter poured from a growler while watching football on TV.
Next morning we were up early, moving the van from its overnight spot ($5 overnight, 6pm-6am. Compared to the $28 per-day parking at the hotel, getting up at 5:45am to shift the thing to a 75c kerbside spot right outside the hotel seemed like a good option). The hotel fed us a complimentary breakfast (bagel goodness) then we set off, Craig at the wheel, heading for the Mexican border.
We stopped briefly to purchase Mexican car insurance****, then headed to the border crossing. The Americans cared not one bit that we were leaving, but the Mexican Border Police found us intriguing enough to conduct a search of the van. They seemed particularly interested in the camouflage-colored backpack, which was unfortunate, as it was full of our filthy mountain-biking clothes. We think they must`ve found Janine`s sign language attempts at "We`re really sorry that our clothes smell so bad" kind of charming, because they waved us through soon after, although they may have just been so revolted by us that they wanted us gone.
Mexico!
With cries of 'Ayayayayayayayayayay!!!!' echoing through the van, we hit the motorway, rolling south. For about four minutes. Then we reached our first military checkpoint. The heavily-armed soldiers did some poking around in the van, and seemed especially interested in the camouflage-colored backpack, which was unfortunate, as it was full of our filthy mountain-biking clothes. One of them asked where we were from, and when told `Nueva Zelanda` he made a kicking motion with his foot and smiled, and waved us through. It`s good to be from a country which is playing in the football World Cup.
The rest of the day saw us drive around 800km through desert of various types. We hit many military checkpoints, some of which were kind of scary, some no problemo. At one the main soldier asked where we were going and why, and then asked if we were going to go surfing. We said no, just swimming, and beer. `Cerveza!` he said. ` Cerveza... and drugs?` I`d not been expecting that. `No, no drugs! Just cerveza!` He waved us through with a smile.
We saw some exorbitantly random driving (think Tauranga, only fast), dust, and cacti. Eventually, we reached the Vegetal Sanidad station at the northern edge of Guerrero Negro, where they charged us 10 pesos to spray the underside of the van with a cinnamon-scented liquid. Guerrero Negro lies on the border between north and south Baja, and is a town about which the guidebooks say "Unless you're here for the whale-watching*****, there's really no reasonm for you to stop, let alone stay." Harsh, maybe, but probably true. Unless, of course, your party has links to the salt industry, as Guerrero Negro is the source of one third of the world's salt. We didn't visit the salt flats, but we did eat disappointingly not-very-Mexican foods and drink beer from frozen pint glasses at the town's premier hotel, which had a very cool bar******, gourds growing on a trellis, photos of the salt works, and pieces of whale. And a room with some beds, in which we slept, soundly.
* = we'd found a special deal online and booked a Queen room, with free breakfast. Unfortunately for us, Air Tahiti were having logistical issues, and a number of their patrons were staying an extra night or three at our hotel, so the room we ended up with had two single beds instead of a queen. They could have given us a room with no beds and we'd probably have slept just as well
** = Corn Nuts! Why does no-one in NZ make and sell these? They are the awesomest, most delicious snack food. Especially the chili and lime ones, and especially at 3am. In LA.
*** = Americans seem to delight in listing what would, in NZ, be the primary meal feature as a secondary ingredient. "Lettuce Wraps" was chicken salad, with lettuce leaves one could wrap salad in, should one choose to do so. "Roasted Artichoke Pizza" features grilled chicken. Staying vegetarian requires extra vigilance.
**** = Canadian and US insurance companies refuse to cover your vehicle while it's in Mexico, so there's a whole separate industry based at the border where you can buy by-the-day or -week insurance to cover you during your visit
***** = It's not currently whale-watching season. We think we read somewhere at some point that the whales are here on their way up and down the coast during spring and fall respectively, but one of us may have just made that up.
****** = The pool table ate our balls.
The Last Ride
Short Version:
The Buckhorn Trail must once have been pretty cool to have been accredited IMBA epic ride status, but now exists only on maps and in memories.
We found this out the very hard way.
Thank you, Terry and Jan, for rescuing us.
Long Version:
The day started well, with a 730am start into a 2-hour climb up a dirt road. Snake and lizard tracks were visible, as were some of the critters themselves. Some great views, and both of us feeling strong on the climb. At the top of the hill, we turned onto the trail, and set off, gleefully, for the long downhill run into the beautiful Buckhorn Creek valley. Unfortunately, the trail quickly disappeared under a variety of plants, many of which had spikes. Wondering if we'd gone astray, it was reassuring that we kept seeing evidence of the trail's past existence as a rideable path, and it was bound to get better once we got to the valley floor, right?
Wrong. It got worse. Many places there was no trail at all, and where there was trail, it was fit for hardcore bush-whacking hiking at best. Machetes might've helped, but they'd've been something else to haul through the nightmarish 4 mile stretch. Which took us 4 hours. By the time we finally reached another trail sign, at Indian Creek, we were exhausted, I'd had two punctures, and we'd swapped roles of willpower donor and recipient for the first of several times.
I cannot adequately describe this horrible horrible section of the "ride."
The next few miles was almost pleasant - certainly by comparison to what we'd just endured! The sections where there was trail were mainly rideable, and there were almost as many sections with trail than without.
And then came the bad decision - we had the choice of riding the dirt road 10 miles back to a point halfway up the original climb and thence back down the road to the van, or carrying on as planned, down a riverside trail, past a reservoir, and onto the paved road near the campground below the ford. With the sun high in the sky and stupidly hot, we eyed the shady trees along the river and chose to carry on. Hindsight says: "You fools!"
In a surprising twist, given the map's accuracy thus far, the riverside trail turned out to not exist, and pushing the bikes through the deep, soft silt took most of the last of our energy. Eventually we pulled the plug, hiked the bikes dispiritedly back upriver, clambered up a bank to the road, and set off for the Ranger Station, because Rangers are helpful. Bear in mind that the Ranger Station in question was not the Ranger Station kind of near our campground, and that as a general rule they don't put Ranger Stations very close together. At any rate, the Ranger Station at which we eventually arrived was gated and locked, and no-one answered our calls for assistance.
It was a sorry-looking, bedraggled pair who limped into the camp area near the Ranger Station. Terry and Jan, we're really really sorry we killed your evening, and we're so incredibly grateful to you both for setting aside your nearly-cooked dinner and driving us two hours out of the wilderness to the top of the dirt road that led us homewards.
The slow leak in my rear tire and the gathering gloom were problematic, especially once the road ended in a quite-deep body of water and we were forced to go in search of a path. Horse people, your instructions on how to get to the road were invaluable, and the wee torch you gave us was brilliant.
We made it to the van at 930pm, 14 hours after we left it. It was pitch black by the time we made our way through the ford, and we used that to our advantage while getting naked and bathing with cold water and dishwashing liquid - to get rid of the poison oak oil - before dropping off the bikes (five hours late) and hitting the road to LA.
The Buckhorn Trail must once have been pretty cool to have been accredited IMBA epic ride status, but now exists only on maps and in memories.
We found this out the very hard way.
Thank you, Terry and Jan, for rescuing us.
Long Version:
The day started well, with a 730am start into a 2-hour climb up a dirt road. Snake and lizard tracks were visible, as were some of the critters themselves. Some great views, and both of us feeling strong on the climb. At the top of the hill, we turned onto the trail, and set off, gleefully, for the long downhill run into the beautiful Buckhorn Creek valley. Unfortunately, the trail quickly disappeared under a variety of plants, many of which had spikes. Wondering if we'd gone astray, it was reassuring that we kept seeing evidence of the trail's past existence as a rideable path, and it was bound to get better once we got to the valley floor, right?
Wrong. It got worse. Many places there was no trail at all, and where there was trail, it was fit for hardcore bush-whacking hiking at best. Machetes might've helped, but they'd've been something else to haul through the nightmarish 4 mile stretch. Which took us 4 hours. By the time we finally reached another trail sign, at Indian Creek, we were exhausted, I'd had two punctures, and we'd swapped roles of willpower donor and recipient for the first of several times.
I cannot adequately describe this horrible horrible section of the "ride."
The next few miles was almost pleasant - certainly by comparison to what we'd just endured! The sections where there was trail were mainly rideable, and there were almost as many sections with trail than without.
And then came the bad decision - we had the choice of riding the dirt road 10 miles back to a point halfway up the original climb and thence back down the road to the van, or carrying on as planned, down a riverside trail, past a reservoir, and onto the paved road near the campground below the ford. With the sun high in the sky and stupidly hot, we eyed the shady trees along the river and chose to carry on. Hindsight says: "You fools!"
In a surprising twist, given the map's accuracy thus far, the riverside trail turned out to not exist, and pushing the bikes through the deep, soft silt took most of the last of our energy. Eventually we pulled the plug, hiked the bikes dispiritedly back upriver, clambered up a bank to the road, and set off for the Ranger Station, because Rangers are helpful. Bear in mind that the Ranger Station in question was not the Ranger Station kind of near our campground, and that as a general rule they don't put Ranger Stations very close together. At any rate, the Ranger Station at which we eventually arrived was gated and locked, and no-one answered our calls for assistance.
It was a sorry-looking, bedraggled pair who limped into the camp area near the Ranger Station. Terry and Jan, we're really really sorry we killed your evening, and we're so incredibly grateful to you both for setting aside your nearly-cooked dinner and driving us two hours out of the wilderness to the top of the dirt road that led us homewards.
The slow leak in my rear tire and the gathering gloom were problematic, especially once the road ended in a quite-deep body of water and we were forced to go in search of a path. Horse people, your instructions on how to get to the road were invaluable, and the wee torch you gave us was brilliant.
We made it to the van at 930pm, 14 hours after we left it. It was pitch black by the time we made our way through the ford, and we used that to our advantage while getting naked and bathing with cold water and dishwashing liquid - to get rid of the poison oak oil - before dropping off the bikes (five hours late) and hitting the road to LA.
Friday, June 18, 2010
California!
Short Version:
A long drive. A short ride. Ladybugs.
Long Version:
Bio-security check at the California state line saw our campfire wood sniffed but passed as OK. Bloody enormous snow-covered Mt Shasta dominated the landscape, and was beautiful, from the road and from parts of the campground we found on the shores of man-made Lake Siskiyou. Not from our campsite though - it was perfectly serviceable, but we learned a lesson about allowing counter-monkeys to select the site for us from the number of as-good-or-better sites which were empty and had views. We did have hordes of matte black, military-style lizards scampering around, chasing each other and playing in the food storage locker. And there were stars in the sky, and showers, for the first time since the Old St Francis School. That's one week exactly for those of you who lack the skills to add things up right*.
We left relatively early, with an eye on the Interstate and a run for the south, with another IMBA epic ride near Santa Barbara - The Buckhorn Trail - before putting the bikes into storage and heading to Mexico with Doctor R and her trained monkey. First, though, we needed gasoline. And, as it turned out, tacos. At 1030am. For 49c each.
Gassed-up and gassed-up, we jumped on the I5, pushed the needle up to 75, and motored. And motored. And motored.
10 hours, two rest areas, three dead coyotes, a bunch of miles and one sunburned arm per person later, we stopped for more gas at Atascadera, then hit the coast and found a campground, which was insanely expensive, right next to a heavily-used main road, and populated by some really strange groups of people. Between the feral cats and the feral teenagers, I feared a sleepless night, but I slept incrediby well, and woke bright and early and ready to surf the net on a stolen connection while doing laundry. In the fog, which wasn`t what we expected from California.
Then onwards, on highway 101, south to Santa Barbara, to a local bike shop for advice and a map and some new shoes and gloves for Janine. The bloke hadn't done the Buckhorn Trail himself, but it was marked on the map he sold us, and he recommended Romero Canyon as a nice short ride we could knock off that afternoon before heading out to the campground at the start of the Buckhorn. We got stuck in traffic on the way there, which proved fortuitous in the end, as it meant that we crossed paths with a young woman (Hi Amy!) who rode up the hill with Janine, leaving me free to ride at normal person pace. They, of course, gas-bagged the whole way up, and by the time I arrived at where they'd been waiting for agesarrangements had been made to meet after the Buckhorn, and for our bikes to live in her garage for the duration of our Mexico sojourn.
A quick blast back down the hill, with a brief stop at the spot where the thousands of orange ladybugs were congregated, then back into the van and back north through the city and east over the mountains to Paradise Road into the Santa Ynez River Valley. Past a bar, past the Rancho Oso RV park, past a couple of Day Use Recreation Areas, and a pause at the western edge of a ford to wait for the opposing traffic to get through. Eventually we tired of being the politer party, and decided it was our turn. We took the foot-deep curved concrete path somewhat slower than some of the others weèd seen, then we were off up a side-valley to the Upper Oso campground, where we set up and ate and prepared our stuff and cleared with the camp host** to leave the van in an out-of-the-way spot the next day without paying for an extra night, on the grounds that we'd be back by middayish, then hit the sack so we'd be raring to go for the morning's early start, riding the Buckhorn Trail.
* = Killdozer, "New Pants and Shirt"
** = He was a nice chap. He had the dirtiest fingers I've ever seen
A long drive. A short ride. Ladybugs.
Long Version:
Bio-security check at the California state line saw our campfire wood sniffed but passed as OK. Bloody enormous snow-covered Mt Shasta dominated the landscape, and was beautiful, from the road and from parts of the campground we found on the shores of man-made Lake Siskiyou. Not from our campsite though - it was perfectly serviceable, but we learned a lesson about allowing counter-monkeys to select the site for us from the number of as-good-or-better sites which were empty and had views. We did have hordes of matte black, military-style lizards scampering around, chasing each other and playing in the food storage locker. And there were stars in the sky, and showers, for the first time since the Old St Francis School. That's one week exactly for those of you who lack the skills to add things up right*.
We left relatively early, with an eye on the Interstate and a run for the south, with another IMBA epic ride near Santa Barbara - The Buckhorn Trail - before putting the bikes into storage and heading to Mexico with Doctor R and her trained monkey. First, though, we needed gasoline. And, as it turned out, tacos. At 1030am. For 49c each.
Gassed-up and gassed-up, we jumped on the I5, pushed the needle up to 75, and motored. And motored. And motored.
10 hours, two rest areas, three dead coyotes, a bunch of miles and one sunburned arm per person later, we stopped for more gas at Atascadera, then hit the coast and found a campground, which was insanely expensive, right next to a heavily-used main road, and populated by some really strange groups of people. Between the feral cats and the feral teenagers, I feared a sleepless night, but I slept incrediby well, and woke bright and early and ready to surf the net on a stolen connection while doing laundry. In the fog, which wasn`t what we expected from California.
Then onwards, on highway 101, south to Santa Barbara, to a local bike shop for advice and a map and some new shoes and gloves for Janine. The bloke hadn't done the Buckhorn Trail himself, but it was marked on the map he sold us, and he recommended Romero Canyon as a nice short ride we could knock off that afternoon before heading out to the campground at the start of the Buckhorn. We got stuck in traffic on the way there, which proved fortuitous in the end, as it meant that we crossed paths with a young woman (Hi Amy!) who rode up the hill with Janine, leaving me free to ride at normal person pace. They, of course, gas-bagged the whole way up, and by the time I arrived at where they'd been waiting for agesarrangements had been made to meet after the Buckhorn, and for our bikes to live in her garage for the duration of our Mexico sojourn.
A quick blast back down the hill, with a brief stop at the spot where the thousands of orange ladybugs were congregated, then back into the van and back north through the city and east over the mountains to Paradise Road into the Santa Ynez River Valley. Past a bar, past the Rancho Oso RV park, past a couple of Day Use Recreation Areas, and a pause at the western edge of a ford to wait for the opposing traffic to get through. Eventually we tired of being the politer party, and decided it was our turn. We took the foot-deep curved concrete path somewhat slower than some of the others weèd seen, then we were off up a side-valley to the Upper Oso campground, where we set up and ate and prepared our stuff and cleared with the camp host** to leave the van in an out-of-the-way spot the next day without paying for an extra night, on the grounds that we'd be back by middayish, then hit the sack so we'd be raring to go for the morning's early start, riding the Buckhorn Trail.
* = Killdozer, "New Pants and Shirt"
** = He was a nice chap. He had the dirtiest fingers I've ever seen
Stuffed Stuff
Short Version:
A beaver and a cougar and a volcano and dairy gluttony
Long Version:
Left Lake Toketee with a bunch of new additions to our list of places to go ride, courtesy of Seattle folks Scott and Wendy and Fiona and Lulu, who arrived while we were asleep and were settling in for a couple of days' riding. They'd been en route to ride at Ashland - our next destination - but one of their friends had got there early, and had fallen from his bike and lost most of his teeth. We changed our plans and headed to California via Crater Lake instead.
A quick stop at the Toketee Ranger Station to confirm roads were open yielded viewings of a stuffed beaver and a cougar in a box, both of which were rather impressive. The cougar had really big feet. Armed with a bunch more pamphlets, we set off eastwards. Stopped and looked at several waterfalls but didn't go run up any, saw some pretty lakes and a weird-looking mountain, then paid our fee to a Ranger named Nanette and started up to Crater Lake.
Crater Lake is, like Lake Taupo, a bloody great volcano which has filled with water. Unlike Lake Taupo, Crater Lake is small enough (60m2 to Taupo's 240m2) that its craterness is obvious. Being atop a bloody big snow-covered mountain helps. The lake water was a stunning color, especially near the shores of Wizard Island and the submerged youngest volcanic vent, the Phantom Ship.
Drove down the southeast side of the mountain and into the Rogue River valley. Stopped for eating at a scenic gorge, then decided we had room to gorge and purchased ice-creams from a tiny shop. The shape of the salespeople should have been a clue, but observant me, left to collect the cones once completed whilst wife purchased drinks from the store across the road, didn't notice until handed the completed items just how much frozen dairyness had been crammed in to and on to each cone. Mine, a small cone, was bad enough, but some piglet had ordered a slightly bigger one, and what she got was basically a sugar-cone with a ball of ice-cream the size of a rockmelon perched on top. She made a valiant effort, but the sheer size of the thing, especially in combination with the filthy Dr Pepper* soft drink she'd bought had her feeling a little the worse for wear. Perfect time, then, for some winding road action down the Rogue River valley, across a couple of lakes**, and into Medford, where we found a Safeway*** and the sun.
* = This stuff is vile. Do not go there.
** = Americans not only build bridges across rivers, they do it across inconveniently-located lakes as well.
*** = And, therefore, free internet and delicious foods
A beaver and a cougar and a volcano and dairy gluttony
Long Version:
Left Lake Toketee with a bunch of new additions to our list of places to go ride, courtesy of Seattle folks Scott and Wendy and Fiona and Lulu, who arrived while we were asleep and were settling in for a couple of days' riding. They'd been en route to ride at Ashland - our next destination - but one of their friends had got there early, and had fallen from his bike and lost most of his teeth. We changed our plans and headed to California via Crater Lake instead.
A quick stop at the Toketee Ranger Station to confirm roads were open yielded viewings of a stuffed beaver and a cougar in a box, both of which were rather impressive. The cougar had really big feet. Armed with a bunch more pamphlets, we set off eastwards. Stopped and looked at several waterfalls but didn't go run up any, saw some pretty lakes and a weird-looking mountain, then paid our fee to a Ranger named Nanette and started up to Crater Lake.
Crater Lake is, like Lake Taupo, a bloody great volcano which has filled with water. Unlike Lake Taupo, Crater Lake is small enough (60m2 to Taupo's 240m2) that its craterness is obvious. Being atop a bloody big snow-covered mountain helps. The lake water was a stunning color, especially near the shores of Wizard Island and the submerged youngest volcanic vent, the Phantom Ship.
Drove down the southeast side of the mountain and into the Rogue River valley. Stopped for eating at a scenic gorge, then decided we had room to gorge and purchased ice-creams from a tiny shop. The shape of the salespeople should have been a clue, but observant me, left to collect the cones once completed whilst wife purchased drinks from the store across the road, didn't notice until handed the completed items just how much frozen dairyness had been crammed in to and on to each cone. Mine, a small cone, was bad enough, but some piglet had ordered a slightly bigger one, and what she got was basically a sugar-cone with a ball of ice-cream the size of a rockmelon perched on top. She made a valiant effort, but the sheer size of the thing, especially in combination with the filthy Dr Pepper* soft drink she'd bought had her feeling a little the worse for wear. Perfect time, then, for some winding road action down the Rogue River valley, across a couple of lakes**, and into Medford, where we found a Safeway*** and the sun.
* = This stuff is vile. Do not go there.
** = Americans not only build bridges across rivers, they do it across inconveniently-located lakes as well.
*** = And, therefore, free internet and delicious foods
Blessings Upon the Tubs
Short Version:
A ride, some golf, a ride, a crash, a soak, and some fried-egg sandwiches
Long Version:
The North Umpqua River Trail is best done as a point-to-point three-day ride, starting at Digit Point and ending 79 miles downriver at Stillwater. We're keen to go back and do that, preferably with a support vehicle to carry all our stuff. This time, though, we were doing two out-and-back daytrips from our base at Toketee Lake.
Because I was weak as a kitten with a wasting disease, and had sore hips and back after having been poisoned by my lovely wife, we swapped the planned order of the two rides, and hit the less-strenuous Deer Leap Segment of the trail first. I'm told that it was beautiful scenery, and wonderful, wonderful trail - fast and flowing, wandering up and down across the face of the slope. I remember very little. We rode about 9 of the 9.7 miles downriver before Janine decided that I was too feeble to continue, and we turned back. Riding back the other way was apparently also great, but more uphill than down, which was exactly what I needed.
Wives planning to poison their husbands then make them go on an 18 mile ride take note: Janine has set the standard, and you WILL be expected to push your husband and/or his bike up the hills on the way back to camp.
Back at the campground, we ate delicious foods (my first solids for a day and a half) then busted out the disc golf discs, and played our way around the area. Saw a brown frog and some very cheeky chipmunks. It was still raining, so we dug some drainage channels around the tent before bed.
They seemed to do the trick, as we didn't wash away overnight, and we set off in the rain, upriver on the Hot Springs Segment of the trail. At 3.8 miles long, this is one of the shortest segments of the North Umpqua River Trail. It was pretty nice to ride, and dropped us out at a fallen-tree bridge over the river by the hot springs from which the segment takes its name. Although not marked as such on the maps of the area, the trailhead there has - unsurprisingly - developed into a campground of sorts, and a bunch of people were packing up and heading off as we passed through and onto the [dramatic music] Dread and Terror Segment.
13 miles long, the Dread and Terror Segment is the part of the trail we'd heard most about. For most of the three hours we spent riding up it I wasn`t entirely sure why, but once we turned at Baughman`s Bluff and started heading downriver - the direction in which most people ride the segment - I understood pretty quickly. I`d not realised just how much climbing we`d been doing until I got to ride down it - we were motoring along at a good clip, and it was great! Some challenging bits, but mainly fast technical descending. The curves were sweeping and fun at the speeds we were travelling, and we were having a ball. At one point I spied a bare human footprint, which was only mildly bemusing until Janine didn`t appear for so long that I started walking back up the trail looking for her, at which point the prospect of either a sasquatch with a hunger or a local yokel with a different kind of hunger became cumulatively scarier with each passing moment. Turns out she hadn`t been carted off to be eaten or beaten, but had instead clipped the cliff wall with a handlebar and fallen down the cliff towards the river, 30 feet below. Luckily, she'd landed on her back on a rotten log 10 feet down and was able to scramble back up, dust herself off, and continue on, albeit slightly slower than beforehand.
Thirty minutes later we arrived back at the Hot Springs trailhead. We hid our bikes about as well as we did at Rainey Lake, then climbed the steep rocky path to the hot springs proper. The awesomeness was boundless. Six pools of vivid blue water surrounded by multi-colored mineral deposits. The pools stepped their way down the hillside above the river in sequence, hottest at the top and gradually decreasing in temperature. The second-to-top was the perfect temperature, and had a fairly sound wooden structure built over it, which provided welcome protection from the still-persisting rain for us and our gear. We timed our arrival really well in that one group of peple were leaving as we arrived, and we`d snaked past the family from Kansas City in Missouri on the way up, so we got the best pool, and kept it. The downside was that Missouri family Dad managed to convey to us on the way up that theyèd really rather not encounter any of the nudity that the trailhead sign warned of, so we wore pants until they left. And then gave the campers across the river a show when we stood up to dry off (we could tell from the cheers).
Putting the wet, cold, muddy riding gear back on wasn't the best feeling ever, and we were pretty tired, but some tooting helped get us up the last few hills, and pretty soon we were back at camp, cooking up fried egg sandwiches.
A ride, some golf, a ride, a crash, a soak, and some fried-egg sandwiches
Long Version:
The North Umpqua River Trail is best done as a point-to-point three-day ride, starting at Digit Point and ending 79 miles downriver at Stillwater. We're keen to go back and do that, preferably with a support vehicle to carry all our stuff. This time, though, we were doing two out-and-back daytrips from our base at Toketee Lake.
Because I was weak as a kitten with a wasting disease, and had sore hips and back after having been poisoned by my lovely wife, we swapped the planned order of the two rides, and hit the less-strenuous Deer Leap Segment of the trail first. I'm told that it was beautiful scenery, and wonderful, wonderful trail - fast and flowing, wandering up and down across the face of the slope. I remember very little. We rode about 9 of the 9.7 miles downriver before Janine decided that I was too feeble to continue, and we turned back. Riding back the other way was apparently also great, but more uphill than down, which was exactly what I needed.
Wives planning to poison their husbands then make them go on an 18 mile ride take note: Janine has set the standard, and you WILL be expected to push your husband and/or his bike up the hills on the way back to camp.
Back at the campground, we ate delicious foods (my first solids for a day and a half) then busted out the disc golf discs, and played our way around the area. Saw a brown frog and some very cheeky chipmunks. It was still raining, so we dug some drainage channels around the tent before bed.
They seemed to do the trick, as we didn't wash away overnight, and we set off in the rain, upriver on the Hot Springs Segment of the trail. At 3.8 miles long, this is one of the shortest segments of the North Umpqua River Trail. It was pretty nice to ride, and dropped us out at a fallen-tree bridge over the river by the hot springs from which the segment takes its name. Although not marked as such on the maps of the area, the trailhead there has - unsurprisingly - developed into a campground of sorts, and a bunch of people were packing up and heading off as we passed through and onto the [dramatic music] Dread and Terror Segment.
13 miles long, the Dread and Terror Segment is the part of the trail we'd heard most about. For most of the three hours we spent riding up it I wasn`t entirely sure why, but once we turned at Baughman`s Bluff and started heading downriver - the direction in which most people ride the segment - I understood pretty quickly. I`d not realised just how much climbing we`d been doing until I got to ride down it - we were motoring along at a good clip, and it was great! Some challenging bits, but mainly fast technical descending. The curves were sweeping and fun at the speeds we were travelling, and we were having a ball. At one point I spied a bare human footprint, which was only mildly bemusing until Janine didn`t appear for so long that I started walking back up the trail looking for her, at which point the prospect of either a sasquatch with a hunger or a local yokel with a different kind of hunger became cumulatively scarier with each passing moment. Turns out she hadn`t been carted off to be eaten or beaten, but had instead clipped the cliff wall with a handlebar and fallen down the cliff towards the river, 30 feet below. Luckily, she'd landed on her back on a rotten log 10 feet down and was able to scramble back up, dust herself off, and continue on, albeit slightly slower than beforehand.
Thirty minutes later we arrived back at the Hot Springs trailhead. We hid our bikes about as well as we did at Rainey Lake, then climbed the steep rocky path to the hot springs proper. The awesomeness was boundless. Six pools of vivid blue water surrounded by multi-colored mineral deposits. The pools stepped their way down the hillside above the river in sequence, hottest at the top and gradually decreasing in temperature. The second-to-top was the perfect temperature, and had a fairly sound wooden structure built over it, which provided welcome protection from the still-persisting rain for us and our gear. We timed our arrival really well in that one group of peple were leaving as we arrived, and we`d snaked past the family from Kansas City in Missouri on the way up, so we got the best pool, and kept it. The downside was that Missouri family Dad managed to convey to us on the way up that theyèd really rather not encounter any of the nudity that the trailhead sign warned of, so we wore pants until they left. And then gave the campers across the river a show when we stood up to dry off (we could tell from the cheers).
Putting the wet, cold, muddy riding gear back on wasn't the best feeling ever, and we were pretty tired, but some tooting helped get us up the last few hills, and pretty soon we were back at camp, cooking up fried egg sandwiches.
Sick
Short Version:
My wife poisoned me.
Long Version:
The road from Black Butte to Oakridge passes the McKenzie River, and it was a big call not to stop so each of us could ride part of the trail while the other drove the van to a meeting point. In the end, we just drove on by, then hooked left and up into the hills past the Cougar Dam* and Terwilliger Hot Springs**, and through to Oakridge, which was kind of a weird place, but with some neat features*** and a friendly local bike shop guy (Hi Derek @ Willamette Mountain Mercantile), who not only hand-drew me a map to and of the best of the local rides, but also pointed us at the best of the local "dirtbag camping" spots, which was pretty bloody good, with an eagle fly-by and our first campfire. The only drawback didn`t become apparent immediately; turns out we were camped quite close to the point on the road where the logging trucks did their unmuffled engine braking. At 6am. I was mostly asleep initially, then thought it was some enormous tetchy carnivore expressing a combination of hunger and/or ire before it started eating its way through tent wall and then us. I was trying to figure out from which direction it was approaching so that I could hide behind Janine, but the noise was so immense and so close it was impossible to tell. Then it stopped, so we went back to sleep. Repeat x 4.
I`d been feeling slightly odd since the previous evening, but it wasn`t until we`d had breakfast, and coffee, and prepped for the ride, and secured the van that I figured out that I was actually kind of really not very well, and that riding was not necessarily a good idea. Or possible. So we desecured the van, and changed back into fashionable**** casualwear, and hit the road with Janine at the wheel for the haul through to the campground we`d had recommended as a good base for those riding the newly-accredited IMBA***** epic ride along the North Umpqua River Trail.
By the time we arrived at Toketee Lake, Janine had racked up a bunch of miles on highways, byways, and the Interstate, and had done so with only one near-miss. And that was my fault. Sorry, guy in the red pickup who was in the lane I said was empty! We`d failed to find internet access or much in the way of delicious foods, but given how far I`d descended into the madness of food-poisoning, I wasn`t too concerned. My usefulness at camp setup was even more limited than normal, and the sleeping started pretty much as soon as the tent was up. Janine says I had a raging temperature, but I remember being cold despite the multiple layers of clothing, blankets and sleeping bag. I`m still not sure what exactly I said or did (or failed to say or do) that finally convinced her to poison me, but it was obviously only a warning because some time in the middle of the night the fever broke, and in the morning I declared myself cured, although feeble and still disinterested in food. Which is, of course, a perfect setup for a day on the bike!
* = The tallest rock dam in Oregon, apparently, with an air intake that sucked so hard it created small waterspouts. Also home to a grumpy-faced matte black lizard with spiky scales and a short tail which looked very much like it was military spec.
** = Named after Sideshow Bob.
*** = Really just the red covered bridge
**** = May not have been fashionable
***** = International Mountain-Biking Association
My wife poisoned me.
Long Version:
The road from Black Butte to Oakridge passes the McKenzie River, and it was a big call not to stop so each of us could ride part of the trail while the other drove the van to a meeting point. In the end, we just drove on by, then hooked left and up into the hills past the Cougar Dam* and Terwilliger Hot Springs**, and through to Oakridge, which was kind of a weird place, but with some neat features*** and a friendly local bike shop guy (Hi Derek @ Willamette Mountain Mercantile), who not only hand-drew me a map to and of the best of the local rides, but also pointed us at the best of the local "dirtbag camping" spots, which was pretty bloody good, with an eagle fly-by and our first campfire. The only drawback didn`t become apparent immediately; turns out we were camped quite close to the point on the road where the logging trucks did their unmuffled engine braking. At 6am. I was mostly asleep initially, then thought it was some enormous tetchy carnivore expressing a combination of hunger and/or ire before it started eating its way through tent wall and then us. I was trying to figure out from which direction it was approaching so that I could hide behind Janine, but the noise was so immense and so close it was impossible to tell. Then it stopped, so we went back to sleep. Repeat x 4.
I`d been feeling slightly odd since the previous evening, but it wasn`t until we`d had breakfast, and coffee, and prepped for the ride, and secured the van that I figured out that I was actually kind of really not very well, and that riding was not necessarily a good idea. Or possible. So we desecured the van, and changed back into fashionable**** casualwear, and hit the road with Janine at the wheel for the haul through to the campground we`d had recommended as a good base for those riding the newly-accredited IMBA***** epic ride along the North Umpqua River Trail.
By the time we arrived at Toketee Lake, Janine had racked up a bunch of miles on highways, byways, and the Interstate, and had done so with only one near-miss. And that was my fault. Sorry, guy in the red pickup who was in the lane I said was empty! We`d failed to find internet access or much in the way of delicious foods, but given how far I`d descended into the madness of food-poisoning, I wasn`t too concerned. My usefulness at camp setup was even more limited than normal, and the sleeping started pretty much as soon as the tent was up. Janine says I had a raging temperature, but I remember being cold despite the multiple layers of clothing, blankets and sleeping bag. I`m still not sure what exactly I said or did (or failed to say or do) that finally convinced her to poison me, but it was obviously only a warning because some time in the middle of the night the fever broke, and in the morning I declared myself cured, although feeble and still disinterested in food. Which is, of course, a perfect setup for a day on the bike!
* = The tallest rock dam in Oregon, apparently, with an air intake that sucked so hard it created small waterspouts. Also home to a grumpy-faced matte black lizard with spiky scales and a short tail which looked very much like it was military spec.
** = Named after Sideshow Bob.
*** = Really just the red covered bridge
**** = May not have been fashionable
***** = International Mountain-Biking Association
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Black Butte
Short version:
Last ride at Bend - for now! - and Black Butte action
Long version:
We'd seen our first mountain before bed on that day of the beards, but it was gone again by morning. The trails weren't, though, so we broke camp and drove 400m to the main Phil's Trailhead, and set off for one last blast in the forest at Bend before moving on.
What a ride!
Rode up the original Phil's trail, which was a near-perfect up trail (and proved almost as fun on the way back down) then a forest road to the top of Whoops, which we'd heard about from our McKenzie River shuttling Canadians. Turns out their high praise and repeat runs were not unjustified, and we also rode back up the road for another crack at it once we were done on the first run. Such a sober description really doesn't do justice to the sheer fun of the trail - it was great! Big berms on really really fast sections, tabletop jumps, and more flow than I can adequately describe. At the top was a combination seat/structure, which was slightly too scary to ride, and full of locals reclining when we first saw it, but which proved comfy when we perched on it for a photo before heading down the second time... which was even better than the first run, as we knew a bit more about what was coming, so rode just that little bit faster. After the second Whoops we powered straight into Ben's Trail, which was flatter and faster and almost as good. Then VooDoo into Grand Slam, which gave us some technical rock-riding, and then back down Phil's to the trailhead.
The friendly locals - who seemed to have a penchant for hardtails and 29ers - were the first we've met who've offered opinions on US foreign policy as part of their idle chit-chat, and recommended a local micro-brewery, which we hit before leaving town. They gave us small samples of 8 different beers, which got Janeine slightly pissed, which meant she bought heaps of stuff. Nice sales technique! I'm not complaining though - I ended up with a fancy new "Black Butte Porter" cycling shirt to ride in.
We headed northwest through Sisters and camped in the woods at the foot of Black Butte itself, next to a massive orange-trunked pine. I believe the Amerikans call these "white" pines. The forest was very cool, and even more so in the morning with sun on it, once it had risen over Black Butte. Pancake breakfast and some trip planning then we set off up Black Butte to see what we could see.
What we could see, as it turned out, was lizards and mountains and burned trees and glacial valleys and historical structures and friendly locals (Hi Ron Ross! Hi William Bartholemew Coleman Horsell Jr VII!). The sun was out, and it was warm except where the alpine wind whipped across whichever face we were on. Awesome views from the top, with a bunch of the Cascade Range volcanoes showing their faces; Broken Top, two of the Three Sisters, Gnarled Butte, Belknap Crater, Mt Washington, Mt Jefferson, and even the top of far-off Mt Hood, where we stayed and rode what seems like an age ago. Lizards galore, big fat chipmunks*, and a bird having a bath in a puddle complemented the three ages of fire-watch structures, the need for which was evidenced by the large areas of burned forest visible both on and around Black Butte. Unlike NZ, where they're lit by subhumans, forest fires here are generally lightning-induced, apparently, which makes it seem less tragic and offensive than otherwise.
Back to the trailhead for noodles, then off to Oakridge to ride their apparently stupendous trails - hoorah!
* = For some reason, the chipmunks in and around the Bend trails were all tiny. And had a penchant for running out in front of bikes. Maybe the two are connected.
Last ride at Bend - for now! - and Black Butte action
Long version:
We'd seen our first mountain before bed on that day of the beards, but it was gone again by morning. The trails weren't, though, so we broke camp and drove 400m to the main Phil's Trailhead, and set off for one last blast in the forest at Bend before moving on.
What a ride!
Rode up the original Phil's trail, which was a near-perfect up trail (and proved almost as fun on the way back down) then a forest road to the top of Whoops, which we'd heard about from our McKenzie River shuttling Canadians. Turns out their high praise and repeat runs were not unjustified, and we also rode back up the road for another crack at it once we were done on the first run. Such a sober description really doesn't do justice to the sheer fun of the trail - it was great! Big berms on really really fast sections, tabletop jumps, and more flow than I can adequately describe. At the top was a combination seat/structure, which was slightly too scary to ride, and full of locals reclining when we first saw it, but which proved comfy when we perched on it for a photo before heading down the second time... which was even better than the first run, as we knew a bit more about what was coming, so rode just that little bit faster. After the second Whoops we powered straight into Ben's Trail, which was flatter and faster and almost as good. Then VooDoo into Grand Slam, which gave us some technical rock-riding, and then back down Phil's to the trailhead.
The friendly locals - who seemed to have a penchant for hardtails and 29ers - were the first we've met who've offered opinions on US foreign policy as part of their idle chit-chat, and recommended a local micro-brewery, which we hit before leaving town. They gave us small samples of 8 different beers, which got Janeine slightly pissed, which meant she bought heaps of stuff. Nice sales technique! I'm not complaining though - I ended up with a fancy new "Black Butte Porter" cycling shirt to ride in.
We headed northwest through Sisters and camped in the woods at the foot of Black Butte itself, next to a massive orange-trunked pine. I believe the Amerikans call these "white" pines. The forest was very cool, and even more so in the morning with sun on it, once it had risen over Black Butte. Pancake breakfast and some trip planning then we set off up Black Butte to see what we could see.
What we could see, as it turned out, was lizards and mountains and burned trees and glacial valleys and historical structures and friendly locals (Hi Ron Ross! Hi William Bartholemew Coleman Horsell Jr VII!). The sun was out, and it was warm except where the alpine wind whipped across whichever face we were on. Awesome views from the top, with a bunch of the Cascade Range volcanoes showing their faces; Broken Top, two of the Three Sisters, Gnarled Butte, Belknap Crater, Mt Washington, Mt Jefferson, and even the top of far-off Mt Hood, where we stayed and rode what seems like an age ago. Lizards galore, big fat chipmunks*, and a bird having a bath in a puddle complemented the three ages of fire-watch structures, the need for which was evidenced by the large areas of burned forest visible both on and around Black Butte. Unlike NZ, where they're lit by subhumans, forest fires here are generally lightning-induced, apparently, which makes it seem less tragic and offensive than otherwise.
Back to the trailhead for noodles, then off to Oakridge to ride their apparently stupendous trails - hoorah!
* = For some reason, the chipmunks in and around the Bend trails were all tiny. And had a penchant for running out in front of bikes. Maybe the two are connected.
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