Gravel Cruiser

Getting lost in the woods, one road at a time.

[gravelcruiser]

And now I’m starting to sound like a psycho. Tired and dehydrated I am solo and making my way back to the car in fading light. I’ve hesitated so far to stop and dig out my headlamp and when I retreat into the recesses of my trudging brain I realize I am being super quiet. Maybe not the best strategy as I cruise through what seem to be salmonberry orchards in the beginning of summer on this old, lightly used, road converted to trail. There isn’t much visibility of the trail ahead or what might be hiding on the fringes. I need to start singing.

So with six miles to go I try to pick a song. What do I know the words to? And from my entire career of music listening, from “Breakfast with the Beatles” as a kid with my dad to the newest Cahinsmokers record my kiddo is digging on, the only two songs I can manage to remember the words for “I’ve been working on the railroad” and ‘When the ants go marching in.” Neither of which are very long.

About an hour later after an unsuccessful bout of trying my damnedest to remember the starting tune for Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody, I switch back to marching ants. In an effort to find some sort of purpose to repeating this song over and over I decide I can not reuse any of the rhyming words I’ve already sang. I am immediately disappointed not to be able to snicker at the little ant going poo or pee, but generally find it fun to come up with more difficult rhymes. This is until I make it to seven and my psycho babbling begins. Not sure how long it lasted exactly, but it went on for a while searching for a new word, and when I failed to come up with anything I basically stopped singing all together and settled into the silence and piercing bird calls. Hoping to maybe be greeted by the questioning barred owl.

The last mile is torture. I can acutely feel the state of disrepair my feet are in. I alternate between wanting to run the last bit of trail with my heavy pack and simply sit down and rest. I decide that sitting doesn’t make my feet feel any better and if I lollygag any longer I am going to have to dig out the headlamp and fight off the mosquitoes. So I press onward in silence once again, head down, awaiting the bright spot in the woods signalling the parking lot.

The reflection of the cars’ windshield beckons to me through the dark trees as I plod out the final fifty meters and there, right in the middle of the smooth wide trail, practically still steaming, is a heaping pile of bright red bear shit. I hustle past, awoken from my silent stumbling and call out to it. “Hey Bear! I know you are hanging out and you heard me coming. Thanks for the warning, but let’s keep to ourselves, okay?” Half expecting it to be waiting for me in the parking lot, patrolling the garbage can, ready for a fight I was relieved to be able to pack up in peace. A reminder to the very last step that when travelling in bear country you need to stay Beary Aware.

[gravelcruiser]

I am hunched over my sons bike in a way that must look like I am trying to put it in a head lock and give it a nuggie. With his twenty inch bike’s seat pinched between my knees, I’ve got one of my bikebacking seat bag cinch straps pulled taught and held in place with my teeth while I use my two free hands to pull another strap as tight as humanly possible while pushing the contents as mush together as it will allow. This is a big bag on a little bike, cue Chris Farley and his coat, and the tolerances are tight. I am already reminding myself to keep my shit together when trying to do this in the dark and cold the following morning. He has been carrying a backpack containing his sleeping pad and bag for years on our families backpacking trips and I don’t know why that would change just because we are going out on bikes. Only a mile or two of bumpy gravel will prove if the bag will actually work on this little bike.

The last two times we’ve headed out to camp after school he has been a passenger of sorts. Although, both on his trail-a-long bike and the tandem, his pedaling assists me, this would be the first time he makes it to camp by bike on his own. I know giving him some of his own stuff makes the accomplishment so much more powerful. Using Dad’s big bike gear takes an adventurous bike ride and turns it into something bigger. It is a weeknight again, just he and I, and our aim is to ride the Iron Horse Trail up the I-90 corridor five or six miles to a back country camp, pitch our tent and be back to school in the morning.

We have spent enough time sleeping outside at this point that all of the specifics surrounding camp are almost a given. Our tent and bags will be warm and comfortable overnight. The dinner and breakfast routine is solid enough that it only takes a few minutes to throw all the gear together. The things I am stressing about all lay on the peripheral and end up being the things he really remembers. I absolutely can not forget the card games for after dark tent time and hot cocoa for a warm morning pick me up. I waffle between places to park and the route to take almost all the way to the exit I need to get off at. Will he be super disappointed if we don’t ride through the tunnel? Will the giant decommissioned trestles be enough entertainment? How cold is he going to be on our ride back to the car in the morning? Is he going to be able to handle waking up in the dark? How early do we need to leave to get him to school on time? Hot Damn, I hope he has fun. What if he never wants to do this again with me?

Riding up the pass on the old railroad grade is gentle, but also constant. I get to show him first hand what a false flat is on the bike. And spinning along with one hand on my handlebars and the other on his back I assure him it will be easier in the morning. The ride isn’t fast, but the time flies by. We stop frequently. First at an overlook where the railroad wrapped around the mountain side cutting right into its’ face. We stop again to investigate a fallen telegraph pole, hoping to maybe find one of the old glass insulators. And yet again to see how far above the creek we are. The rushing water is audible, but the enormous fill embankment created by the railroad must be one hundred feet tall. Each time we stop I fight the urge to rush him on. I know setting up the tent will only take a minute and if it gets too cold, we can escape to eat in our sleeping bags.

We roll into the deserted campsite and make quick work of dropping gear and pitching the tent. Our goal is one mile further on to the Tinkham Creek Trestle before dinner and dark. It is a giant, curved trestle what the Milwaukee Road Railroad built a hundred years ago towering above the creek valley. We stop to take pictures, look over the side and throw pebbles down into the latticework of steel uprights. The plink and clank as the stones ricochet from one support to the other fades to silence after what seems like an  endless fall through space. I pull freeze dried ice cream from my pocket, dessert before dinner as we eek out every last minute of light before returning to camp.

Our eyes adjust to the fading light as we ride the smooth path back to camp. I beg him to take the last rocky, dark, fifty feet into camp slowly, but am rebuked. There is a certain amount of speed NEEDED to lay down a proper skid. Water is boiled for dinner and then tea before locking up the bikes and tucking into the tent for card games, stories and finally sleep.

Sleep comes easily for him (his favorite place to sleep is with us in a tent), but always hard for me as I churn over the exit strategy for the morning. I will get up and pack everything except for him in his sleeping bag. Make breakfast before waking him up and dressing him into the clothes and jacket we stuffed into his sleeping bag the night before to keep warm. He will munch on hot cereal and hot cocoa while I take care of the rest of camp and drink my coffee. So as he finishes his breakfast, we are ready to roll out.

Riding away from camp I am surprised at how fully engaged he is after the cold, early start. He wants to affix his headlight himself, convinced he can somehow get it to attach to his bike in the same way I put small blinky lights on for urban visibility. I help him strap it on, showing him how placement is important today because we actually need to light the path ahead of us. I look up and think about how we won’t need them for long, dawn already has the sky brightening from purple to pink. We cruise down the trail, talking about what animals we might see when he interrupts. “You know what the best part of this trip has been Dad? Being with you.” I float back to the car.

It would seem that all the fussing and worrying paid off with a nearly perfect trip as I look back over the past dozen hours. I remember as we were getting ready to ride away from the car, that he was pedaling circles near the gate waiting on me to be ready. When we rode past a picnic table half way into the ride to camp, he pulled over to snack on the bar he had stuffed into his jacket pocket. When we rode into camp, he ran through all the sites to pick the one with easiest access to water. He isn’t the one worried when he walks off into the dark on his own to go to the bathroom, number two, in a pit toilet. When I went to ask him if he wanted gloves for the morning ride, he already had them on. He is only eight, but when I turn around from putting my bike on the rack and he is standing there holding his to give to me, I realize that I am quickly giving up the role of adventure guide and becoming his adventure partner.

[gravelcruiser]

The best thing to do with a bad idea is to let it sit and marinade for a long time before you act on it. Start by taking a really nice steak and using it for teriyaki. Not all bad from the start but one of those things when you tell your friends, they kind of just nod. They know that isn’t what you should be doing with the prime new york strip you just got from the local butcher, but you paid for it yourself and they are hungry. Teriyaki sounds pretty good right now. So you slather it in sauce and set in on the counter, letting those sweet juices soak in. But then that woman you’ve been flirting with from down the street invites you all over for a beer. And then you all start playing in the pool. And order pizza. SHOTS! And pass out in a lawn chair. The next morning, steak and eggs sounds like a good way to start fighting off a wicked hangover, so with one eye open you throw the counter steak in a pan, under-cook the thing with some runny eggs and feed yourself and friends plates full of food poison and salmonella.

Riding all the paved road in Rainier National Park, self supported, in a single ride sounded kind of cool in the beginning. 150 miles with five big climbs totalling close to 17,000 feet of gain, earning three awesome viewpoints and five ripping descents. Yet every time I brought the idea of the ride up with my strong, skinny tire inclined friends, they would smile and nod politely saying that maybe sometime, but not right now. I am not in good enough shape. These are all strong dudes, people fitter than I am. I’d laugh and say something about only needing to pedal half the distance because for the other half we’d be cruising downhill. Still no takers. My search for a riding partner for this folly went on for years with the same results.

So it wasn’t until I was three quarters of the way up the second climb, to Chinook Pass, that I realized that I was eating that rotten counter meat and this was a big, dumb idea. Mount Rainier’s East face was blazing white hot in the morning sun, filling in the roads shadows with reflected light. Gazing at the mountain as I cruised up the pass in light traffic it struck me. The summit of the mountain I had set off to pedal around all day stands 14,410 feet above sea level. I was planning on riding uphill a hair less than 17,000 feet during this ride. Not only that, I could ride from sea level (0’) touching actual sea water, to the summit of the mountain in fewer than my planned 150 miles if there was a road to do so. It was the moment when my “ride all the paved road in the park in one day” ride became my “big, dumb ride next to Mount Rainier.”

Chinook Pass felt good. It is hard not to feel good riding those three, beautiful, stepped switchbacks. They twist up the mountain side, carved into a practically vertical face. It is one of my favorite climbs around and I was happy to still be fresh enough to enjoy it. Looking East off the pass, I had the audacity to guess how fast I was going to complete the ride. Two climbs down, three to go. I can do this in ten hours I thought, maybe nine. I took a picture of the giant, timbered welcome gate before clipping in and ripping down the pass. These paved roads in the park are pretty straight, making for long stretches with little to no brakes. I was watching the mile markers ticking by, and by the time the number I’d seen reached the double digits, my optimism was turning into concern. I was flying down this descent and knew that it was my last climb of the day. It was going to be hard.

I paid to get into the park at the Stevens Canyon entrance and started the eighty mile out and back that would bring me up to Paradise twice and all the way to the Longmire Entrance on the West side of the park. It was hot and it was hard. I almost puked in the shade of the Paradise visitor center and contemplated bailing on doing all I had set out to do. Nursing an ice cold Coke, I thought about a saying we tell our son when he wants to give up, “You can do hard things.” It was the only encouraging thought I had and the only one that mattered. It helped me get off my duff, back on the bike and pedalling down the mountain away from the car. Committing to the whole, big, dumb thing.

From there the highs got higher and the lows got lower. I struggled into the wind on my way down the pass only to flirt with the old ladies working the register at the Longmire General Store. The second time I rolled over the top at Paradise my body finally got what it wanted and puked behind a maintenance backhoe, only to fly, arms outstretched, no handed down the straight stretches of the Stevens Canyon Road. The last ten uphill miles took nearly an hour and a half of slowly turning the pedals over, every minute wishing to catch sight of the next mile marker. Even though I was in rough shape, as those mile marked brought me within three, two, one mile of cresting that climb, I stopped feeling shitty and started feeling happy one last time. I was about to do it. Finish a ride I wasn’t even sure I could do in the first place.

Coasting back under the park entrance for the final time at the car, the ride was done and I was dusted. Dismounting the bike, I put one foot on the ground and fell over. I picked myself up and changed for the drive home. My body was a wreck, eating made me nauseous, I was having a hard time pressing the clutch in the car, yet I felt good. I was proud of myself. And while the first thing I told my partner when I got home that the ride was a bad idea, it only took two days for me to think of something bigger, something harder, something even more dumb.

[gravelcruiser]

None of my usual work arounds are going to work this time. When I make plans for dawn patrol or a sub twelve hour backpacking trip I can pigeon hole the outing into a specific schedule usually by waking up earlier, hiking faster or walking back to the car in the dark. I can plan the trip by the seat of my pants and roll with the changes. Running out of food, extended bushwacking and unexpected trip extensions are typically only an inconvenience and managed with a silent grimace. Having E along for a summit mission meant that we couldn’t skip breakfast, forget a water bottle or elect to pass on snacks when the trip ran long. A family summit hike for Father’s Day meant that the concessions I was going to need to make were of a family variety not a personal one.

So when calculating a start time I didn’t want to wake E up early and we had to eat breakfast. We planned to grab breakfast enroute and leave right after he crawled out of bed. “Hey Dad, can I have the biscuit that isn’t good for me now?” He hadn’t ever seen a McDonald’s hash brown before and when he asked what it was I simply answered with a “Not good for you.” He had inhaled his sandwich and was still hungry though. “Do you want mom’s meat from her sandwich too?” I handed them back together and I was afraid I might lose a finger. At least he’d have the calories on board later to burn.

We were only twenty minutes into the two and a half hour drive to the trailhead and E already had asked for tablet time and to talk about the railway. Delaying railway talk is easy as he understands its special place is on the trail, but talking him out of the tablet is harder. We had decided that a half hour each way was reasonable, sixty more minutes than most car trips. Much to my surprise we were able to deflect from the tablet for almost 40 minutes playing “Ask me anything.” Where we learned about a little of the trouble he has gotten into at school and all of the places in the world we want to visit most. He got his time watching some video after that and science podcasts got us the rest of the way to the trailhead.

We set out on the trail only leaving two cars in the lot behind us in perfect weather. The thin tree cover of the Eastside’s Tennaway Mountains allows for pretty good views from the first switchback. I’ve had weeks to remind myself to keep a positive attitude and not push E too hard. We kept things relaxed and made steady upward progress. We let E pick one package of anything he wanted from the candy aisle at the gas station. Reasonably spaced requests for a snack break were honored with a little bit of sugar and eventually protein chasers. Between the broadening views and constant talk of the railway he (and we) reached the pass none the wiser to the elevation we had gained.

At the pass, the snow banks, whipping wind and panoramic views of Mt. Stewart’s knife like ridge lines were a instant reminder of our height. It was hard to split time between soaking in the view, staying on the trail and glissading down every snowbank. With the summit in sight we made quick work of the final half mile and few hundred feet of elevation.

Reaching the summit didn’t feel like a moment of triumph because with triumph there must have been some sort of adversity to overcome. All I felt was happiness. So happy to be spending a perfect day with my family in such an incredible place. And as if I needed a cherry on the cake, perched squarely atop the highest point was one of the old, brass Mountaineers summit registers. A small, nerdy prize for those who reached this peak. E insisted on signing it himself and I couldn’t believe the magic released in the moment. The first register he was to ever make it to and sign on his own would be one that has sat atop the mountain for decades. A rare little piece of Washington’s mountain history.

It always amazes me how quickly time passes on top of a mountain. Julie mentions that it is probably about time to start heading down, we have a long drive ahead of us and school the following day, and I find myself taking cues from E’s stalling tactics when I am trying to get him to leave the park. I glance at my watch and see we’ve been lounging up here for almost an hour and regrettably agree with her. I arrange the family into one last summit self portrait, take one more 360 degree view before stepping onto the leeward side of the ridge line to start our decent.

Every available steep patch of snow is utilized for feet glissading and I am repeatedly amazed at how good E is at it. I shouldn’t be, he has been goofing off in the mountains on his own two feet since we moved west almost six years ago. He has heard all the cautionary tales, taken his fair share of falls and had a handful of near misses. Yet after the billionth time of asking for caution, he reminds us he has been backingpacking for more than four seasons already because he is planning the railway’s 4th anniversary. It is a discussion that carries us quickly down the mountain, hopping from rock to rock, skidding into every switchback in a cloud of dust.

I catch sight of the road and do my best to stay in the moment. Not worry about the drive, dinner, cleanup or tomorrow's work load. Julie and I decide to split the drive and she gives me the honor of the empty dirt road rally section while she silently forces a smile through Seattle’s after-weekend exodus from the mountains. And while I sit in the passenger seat, eyeing up snow conditions of a summit I’ve been wanting to bag for a couple seasons, I find myself thinking that I can probably get up that one in a few weeks. But it wouldn’t be the three of us. The one on the other side of the valley though, that one E could do too.

[gravelcruiser]

This f%$@ing sucks! I was either muttering it under my breath or shouting at the top of my lungs. Volume regulation was taking a backseat to the hyper focus of walking across another mish mash of saggy, fallen trees across the old trail. My heavy breathing would have made it erratic either way. It was definitely loud enough that my buddy, who had tagged along on this ill fated outing, heard me.

We charged up the faint winding trail that weaved in and out of the trees and mounds of dirt pushed around to decommission the old road that lead to Dirty Harry’s Balcony. I’ve seen this done before to old roads, but from the get go, the trail that twisted up the mountain seemed far too faint for what would be a heavily trafficked Seattle I-90 corridor hike. I had been up this way before though, surely it would go. We were aiming to be standing on Dirty Harry Peak for sunset, but if this got much worse, we might not be able to turn around and make it back to the car before dark, let alone summit. I wouldn’t believe the trail could get worse.

And we charged forward, refusing to admit that what we expected to essentially be a steep road walk to a non-technical summit, was turning into a arduous bushwack. With every pile of trees we climbed over that blocked the ever dwindling trail, my frustration grew.  A peaceful hike, that had been perfect for our young family five years ago, had been ruined. When the road was blocked badly enough, the expletives would pour out of my mouth and my buddy and I would trade the lead as the other backtracked to get out of a predicament.

We climbed higher and the forest thinned out allowing us to parallel the road for stretches, walking more quickly through the open third or forth growth forest. I let a gap develop and silently mulled the pointlessness of decommissioning the road. Unless this stretch of forest becomes part of the Alpine Lakes Wilderness, the road will be re-leveled and these trees will get cut again. It just didn’t make sense to go through all the work they did to cover the road and our trail. This was supposed to be easy and fun, now we were struggling to gain each step.

We had been out for an hour when we stopped to discuss our plan. It was clear we couldn’t make it back this way in the dark, especially when I was informed I had the only headlamp. I knew other people had summited recently, so it was obvious there was another way and a better trail someplace. We poked around a little to make sure we weren’t stupidly paralleling it. When that didn’t pan out we simply put our heads down and proceeded up. This is when I pulled out my GPS to get a spot on where we were. I knew we had to be getting close to a lower lookout area where we should be able to find a trail. If we could just get there without breaking a leg, we could make a more solid plan based on the time.

We walked in silence. I pushed off the road, giving up entirely on a path re-emerging from the rats nest created by the bulldozer. We had been out for almost two hours already, moving at a snail's pace, but we were about to hit the spot I expected a new trail to be. We could have turned around a long time ago, backtracked and made it to the summit by now had there been a trail. But our combined stubbornness didn’t allow for that and there wasn’t anything left but to march through the woods and emerge on the trail.

Suddenly, as if magically swept through the fallen pine needles and decaying wood, I was standing on the trail. I hadn’t seen the path until I was literally on top of it. I shouted to my trailing buddy that I had found what we’d been hoping for. It wasn’t a cry of elation or excitement. It wasn’t a shout of frustration or anger. It was a call of resignation, admitting that my ass had just been handed to me. Yet we still had the second half of the mountain to ascend. After regrouping on the trail and taking a long drink, we silently looked at each other and turned up the trail. We’d have to make good time in order to see the sun set.

[gravelcruiser]

It seemed like they had set the ferry schedule specific for this adventure. All winter I had aspirations of using Seattle Public School’s early release on Wednesday afternoon to go skiing with E. Unfortunately dreams of slashing sweet sleeper POW days never materialized. So as days of perfect weather this spring poured in one after the other, I vowed not to waste the opportunity any longer. It seemed like a trick that I couldn’t see the punchline to, but as long as we made the 7:55 AM ferry departing Bainbridge Island, I should be able to get Elliot to school just in time for the morning bell. So with a perfect evening forecast, I packed Elliot’s lunch for the following day, stuffed two panniers to the brim and loaded the front rack on our tandem with firewood.

The final bell in the afternoon on Wednesday for Elliot is at 2:10, giving us 45 minutes to pedal essentially all downhill to the Puget Sound where we will hop onto the 2:55 ferry for Bainbridge Island. It would be followed by what should be an easy seven mile ride to Fay Bainbridge State Park where they have a handful of non-reservable hiker/biker/kayaker campsites. It all seemed like the perfect recipe for a weeknight escape from the city.

We made the ferry handily and parked the bike in the special bike parking in the ferry que. E has been on the ferry a boat load of times, but I don’t think he made the connection until we hopped off the bike to await the ferries arrival that we’d actually be riding on like a car. He was stoked to ride through the empty car lanes to the front of the boat and help tie up the bike. After his stuffy friends were instructed on guarding the bike and our gear we headed up to the gally for an ice-cream.

The half hour trip to Bainbridge always seems too short and before long we were washing our face of chocolate and making our way back to the bike. In anticipation of departure, all the cyclists line up at the front of the boat looking like the first line of calvary about to charge. With the toss of a rope and the shout from the captain we are released and charging up the bridge. Being let off first we turned up and off the main drag before any cars were able to buzz by, starting a pleasant ride from the first turn.

The ride from the ferry to the park seemed harder than it should and I made note of that for our time critical return in the morning. Then I slipped a pedal and noticed that they stopped turning all together. It was when I realized that there are three levels of kid assist on the tandem. Times where he is standing up and mashing making it noticeably easier. Times when he is sitting and putting some effort into the pedals, seemingly neutralizing his weight. And then times like right now, where he is loafing, sitting on the saddle, not resisting the pedals, but not helping them spin either. The ride wasn’t hard because of the terrain, it was hard because the bike weighed 80 pounds and he weighed another 50.

We arrived to a nearly deserted state park. Not only could we have chosen from all the biker/hiker sites, but just about every other “official” campsite as well. With the biker sites being a little closer to the beach we choose the one with a giant driftwood bench and we went about setting up our meager camp. With the tent up, E dashed off to explore the playground and I wandered around grabbing left over firewood from the empty sites. We spent our time though sunset wandering back and forth between camp and the beach. Dashing out to the beach when we heard the barking of sea lions and drifting back when we go hungry for dinner. Back out the beach in the fading light to see last light on Mt. Rainier and then back to the warmth of our fire. After a quick walk to have a good look at an exploding sunset sky, we retired to the tent far too late for a school night but all too early for an evening in camp.

My night was restless with thoughts of the mornings schedule, but awoke quickly when the alarm finally went off. I got out of the tent and prepared E’s breakfast and made myself coffee. While he ate, I packed up camp and as he took the last swig of hot cocoa, I had my bandana ready to wipe it out and stash it on top of a pannier while he buckled on his helmet. We were off and our timing was perfect.

It may have been because the single cup of coffee wasn’t enough to wake me up fully or I might have gotten a better sleep than I thought, but we were riding into Bainbridge Island before we knew it. The slog of a ride from the afternoon before seemed way easier in the other direction and once again we were waiting in front of the car que with the boat fast approaching. It all seemed like deja vu, only this time Elliot was snacking on crispy crunchy cereal and I was drinking hot coffee instead of cold.

As the ferry nosed into dock on the Seattle side of the water we had twenty minutes to make it up the hill to school. The plan was all coming together and it seemed so easy I wondered why we haven’t been doing something similar every week. And just like that, a little more that 17 hours after he hopped on the tandem coming out of school, he was clambering off and putting his backpack on just in time for the morning recess bell. As we coasted up the bike path approaching the school, E asked from behind exactly the same thing I was thinking. Can we do this again next week?

[gravelcruiser]

I had developed a fool proof training plan for the ALMANZO 100 in Spring Hill, MN and was calling it "Couch to 160k." It mimicked in premise the couch to 5k program that aspiring runners use to overcome the uncertainties of doing their first running race. Start small by, in my case, getting my butt out of my desk chair and pedalling around the block. Then slowly build over the course of weeks, doing longer and longer rides, until I’d be ready for race day and fit enough to ride 100 miles. It is a proven strategy for building fitness. I started the program with a solid base of couch sitting. Then skipped everything in the middle, finishing my training by showing up on the day of the ride with about ten miles in my legs total. I needed to find a supplemental plan.

That plan came in the form of an orange jumpsuit, a hidden cave and hopes of a swimming hole. My friend Stevil, his long time friend Gene and I took stock of ourselves and knew what position we were racing for. We were going to win DFL, figuring it the best way to embrace our lack of fitness and own our place within the group. We’d bring up the rear with high fives and smiles while racing for the title we deserved and hold dear. In order to keep ourselves committed to our quest of finding enlightenment through mediocrity, we listened to the firing of the start gun from a parking lot five blocks away. A hero's welcome was ours for the taking from the lingering crowd as we coasted down an empty mainstreet. The lead out police car even flipped a u-turn to escort us across the re-opened highway.

For a town of 2,425 people this annual bike ride comes in second only to independence day and the folks living along the first mile of course had been sitting at their curb all morning eagerly anticipating the parade of cyclists. And with all the love only a small town can give, there were many still waiting for the stragglers as we rolled through, cheering us on to a victory we'd never had a sliver of a chance of getting.

We stopped to slap fives with neighborhood kids. We took pictures with the lead-out ambulance. We helped and offered help to the numerous mechanical casualties already along the course. We picked up a lot of trash and then at 8 miles made a call for the rescue of a fallen and injured rider. When at ten miles we stopped to take pictures with a family cheering people on from the end of their driveway, we'd later learn the leaders were already approaching the first aid station 40 miles in. The disparity in our paces was remarkable, but earning DFL is hard work and takes that special kind of extra effort.

The ride into Preston and the first aid station at mile 40 was wonderful. Our spirits high, the weather pleasant and the riding sublime. The rolling terrain of the midwest was not yet baring its’ teeth. Screaming down the backside of a hill and rolling out the gained momentum on the frontside of the next had not yet lost its novelty or become painful. The three of us rotated through periods of conversation and solo pedalling. A nice balance of being social and meditative all the way into the checkpoint where booze and refreshments were already the norm. Things were still looking pretty good, we were almost halfway through, feeling good and continuing to bring up the rear.

I left a little bit before my buddies who were sneaking in one last round of party and assured them they would catch me slow rolling in just a handful of miles. That single grip turned into all my fingers and toes before they caught me settling into a nap in a cemetery. They had roped in a new friend Hurl who seemed to make our gang even merrier. We weren’t trading places in the paceline to gain an edge speed wise, rather the rotation promoted new conversation and a healthy mix of topic. We rode this wave all the way into the picnic shelter of mile 68. The warmest greeting so far, this oasis in the shade of an oak grove had every amenity a bike rider could ask for. Spicy pickles, ice cold domestic lager, friendly dogs to pet, well mannered babies to hold and a barbecue with flaming hot weiners.

It was a party we were sad to leave, but when you've made a commitment to bring the party to the entire course, you can't stop early. So, reluctantly we got up to try to spread their fun further up course. As we climbed up out of the state part the wind started to shift on our idyllic bike ride and we stopped one final time to visit with our final support vehicle. We had just over thirty miles to go.

"How far do we have left?" "34 miles." "Cool. It is just like if I rode to work and realized that I forgot my lunch and then rode home. Then I ride back to work and realize I forgot my keys so I have to ride home again. Then I ride back to work but half way there realize it is Saturday and ride to the bar instead. That's not too bad..." When Stevil put it that way, it didn't seem too bad either, but in the back of my mind I knew I was falling apart.

We kept it together until the water crossing, faking good spirits. Our failing joviality became transparent when we didn't enjoy what would have been a solid swimming pool. Crossing the stream we didn't linger, silent heads down, climbing out of the streams low point. Cresting the hill and crossing the highway we were presented with what was to be our misery for the next twenty miles, loose, newly laid gravel that rolled upward into the horizon. Suddenly, finishing in five hours instead of nine sounded awesome.

Finding a friend in Gene suddenly proved to be an amazing acquaintance to make. Turns out DFL for him is more of a lifestyle and less a fitness choice. As Stevil and I imploded he took charge and ushered us up the road. The miles, although painful, ticked by remarkable quickly when all I focused on was keeping my front tire tucked, only inches, neatly behind his rear as we sped over the uneven surface.

We came up on a crossroads and I stopped short. My group hesitated and turned left. I took one look, unconvinced at the hill they were starting to descend and knew I was gonna lose it and blubber like a baby if I had to come back up that hill after a wrong turn. I pulled out the cue sheet to verify their route and found it to be correct, but more importantly, the turn was marked at mile 93.7. We had less than ten miles to go. One trip to work.

We were rolling on a bike path around the outside of a wastewater treatment plant when I blurted out, "Where the fuck is this town!" I had been constantly scanning the horizon for a water tower for the last hour. Both my body and mind were ending this ride soon whether or not there was a finish line. Then, as if dropped from the heavens, we rounded a corner and a woman with a bullhorn sweetly called out my number to the record keeping gods cementing me as an official finisher of the ALMANZO 100. We lost our race, many people finishing behind us, the coveted DFL earned by a more worthy racer. Even if we hadn't won our race, I was certain we won an amazing day on the bike, made a whole host of new friends and destroyed our knees, back and neck for at least a week.

[gravelcruiser]

What in the world am I doing here I thought to myself as our group leader started the kick off meeting with the question of who thinks they've done the longest ride thus far this year. It is February and I live in Seattle, but this was hardly an excuse for this group. The first question was followed up with who had ridden in the coldest. I couldn't compete with either question while the results were being categorically combined into who had ridden the longest ride at the coldest temperature. Then the question was asked, who had ridden less than ten times total this year. My hand went up with maybe a few others to surprised looks. 8 times? Yep. Less than 6 times? My hand is still in the air, but I had obviously won this competition after eight. Disbelief followed by a meek 5? I put my hand down and claimed five, but I was lying. I had gone out and pedalled for a whopping total of three rides this year, on the eve of participating in a 90 mile, 6,000 foot gravel leg breaker. I didn't feel like I was gaining any acceptance into my new bike clan while they gave each other eyes of who was going to be the person to tow me back into town with a rope.

The first week of February isn't the time of year you are prepared to do such a ride unless you are working really hard for a constant state of earned fitness or you live in Southern California. The Rock Cobbler in Bakersfield California is a Gran Fondo style event put on and for exactly such people as well as the fool hardy like myself. Any lack in preparation was to be my own fault as I had willingly signed up for it months ago. I tried to be reassuring to the group, my daily commute with a 50 pound tandem and accompanying 50 pound son through the hills of Seattle had to count for something, right? Right?

I did my best to counter doubts with pure stoke. Constant enthusiastic high fives, jumping my Shimano Di2 equipped Rock Lobster Gravel bike off of any bump I could find and skidding into every stop like I was driving the General Lee. It seemed to be working. I had learned most names and as we rolled onto the start line everyone brightened by the warm temperatures and sunshine was smiling, seemingly unconcerned with my almost guaranteed forthcoming falling to pieces. As if having escaped cold weather and rain was enough to make whatever was to come totally worth it.

With the buzz of six hundred knobby tires on pavement, the initial twelve mile, neutral rollout felt like the big group rides I had done out of Santa Cruz years ago when training for racing elite level cyclocross. Fast enough to know the people on the front were going to crush the entire course, but big enough that it felt like a free ride tucked into the shelter of the group. Through town and along the river out of Bakersfield. Every pedal stroke getting the group closer to the steep bits the foothills of the Sequoia National Park were hiding. Then as if being rudely awoken, with a sharp u-turn off the pavement, around the barbed wire menacingly poking out from the inside of the turn, we were on dirt for the first time and the ride got real.

A series of punchy climbs did exactly what they are put in any course to do in short order as the group 300 strong slimmed down into single file line. A row of ants marching across the hillside as far as I could see. With fairly fresh legs, time and time again I threw fuel onto the fire, burning whole packs of matches when I had only brought a handful along, to ride steep, loose pitches instead of walking. After successfully riding a particularly steep, channeled out section that most were walking, I turned around and descended to help one of the neutral support dirt bike guys get his moto out of a rut. I wasn't worried about a little extra elevation yet and needed some good karma.

I bripped, braaped and buzzed through the initial stages of single and double track towards the first aid station. If this was any indication of what was to come, I was in for an amazing treat. The energy at the first aid station was infectious. Positive attitudes, adult beverages in abundance and a hint of surprise floating through the air. Or rather a distant roar of debauchery that was hard to place. As we left the aid station, we slid down through a chicane of grass, through a fence gate and into a palace of a backyard. After spending an hour riding through pretty barren and arid dry hills, it was literally a desert oasis. And then we were inside, riding through someone's kitchen, into the adjoining living room and wheelieing off their front step! The group I was in all silently looked at each other as we coasted into the street. Did that just happen!? Was that real or was it really a desert mirage?

The ups and downs between the first and second aid station seemed longer and more gradual. It made it so that we could develop a semblance of a maintainable pace. We paused for high fives, to help broken bikes and riders as well as investigate the burnt out remains of the Enchanted Forest. The second aid station sat at the base of what was to be the days big climb. I slow rolled up the pavement and hitched my rope to the wagon of a member of our group that dug the same leg friendly speed. We were both feeling good still, but after decades of miles under each our belts, instinctively knew that with fifty miles to go we had no business pushing limits.

So my new friend Topher and I ticked off the miles together. Climbed big hills, becoming acquainted when they were gradual and silently suffered when they were steep. We bombed down rutted, hoof hole riddled double track side by side. Encouraging each other with stoke when things got quiet, constantly reminding each other how awesome it was to be riding in the warm sun on isolated gravel roads. At some point we had begun riding toward the sun, a subliminal signal that we were on our way home. And then we saw the pop up tents of the last aid station on the horizon, far above the road we were riding. I wasn't looking forward to riding up there.

Luckily, we didn't have to ride up there. Unluckily, we had to literally climb up a slope far too steep to ride, let alone run and barely possible to walk. Crawling would probably the closest to  the literal description of how most ascended to the top. For the few minutes it took to accomplish it was the worst, but once on top all the grief blew away in the wind and there were only more sweet dirt roads to ride.

With a wicked, swooping, canyoned, descent to the river valley we were back in familiar territory that signaled the final twelve miles back to the finish and the sweet, sweet finishing line beer rewards. It was twelve miles where an acquaintance became a good friend and any doubt of whether I belonged in this squad of gravel crushers evaporated entirely. I may have gotten clobbered by what the Rock Cobbler dished out this year, but we all did, and it brought us all closer together.

[gravelcruiser]

From an ordinary pullout on Highway 2, up typical trail, though insignificant new growth forest and atop an unimpressive ridge stands a pretty remarkable place. I feel about it the same way I feel about Silver Falls. Silver Falls lays directly beneath, mere feet from, Highway 2 between Index and Baring Washington and for as close and easy it is to get to, I always expect more people to know about it. Shit, I’ve never actually even stopped and walked down there. Until recently it was the coolest thing everyone drives past on their way into the mountains. Now that Heybrook Lookout has been fully restored (and rentable) thanks to the Mt. Baker Snoqualmie National Forest, The Mountaineers and Filson I am pretty confident it now holds the crown as the neatest thing you speed past on your way to Stevens Pass.

Frankly on the account of technology, lack of funding and vandalism it is remarkable the lookout is even still there. Of the six hundred lookouts that used to dot the high points of Washington’s landscape only about 100 still remain. Heybrook was originally built as a tent platform in the twenties and later replaced by a series of buildings. The most recent of which was built in 1996, primarily by the Everett Mountaineers, at the ranger station in Skykomish and trucked up to the original 1964 timber tower structure. This new cabin didn’t fare much better with vandals over the past two decades than the original had and it seemed that when the copper lightning protection system was stripped and stolen the shutters may have been buttoned down for good.

The second growth forest has grown up around the square timber legs of the lookout in kind. Following the trail along the ridge the trees mask the lookout from view until directly below it. The tower hiding amongst its kind. It is only after ascending the hundred stairs and removing the pair of fist sized locks can you see above the canopy of trees in practically all directions. Mount Index lies directly across the Skykomish River Valley while the twin fin of Baring Mountain commands the Eastern view.

The log book is new, with its tight binding and blindingly white pages. We had the privilege of signing the second page and I couldn’t decide whether I should wax poetically about the colors of a sunset or record weather, wind and barometer readings for good measure. The book collection is outdated and haphazard. I will forever be confused as to why, how and with what intention an entire out of date encyclopedia set has been hauled up there. The shelves have yet to be populated with Kerouac, Abbey and Snyder, but I brought up a pair of titles appropriate to the local. The lookout is built to last against the elements and provide modestly for someone spending a season suspended eighty feet off the ground, even if you are only spending the night.

[gravelcruiser]

From the summit of Wright Mountain we looked out across Gem Lake at the foreboding North face of Kaleetan Peak. I turned to my buddies, one who had not been up it and one that had and said “there isn’t anything about that mountain that doesn’t look scary.” The buddy who had been up there was trying to convince us it should be our next weeknight objective. He kept prodding us with something about a three foot gap to the highest inches and a big set of cajones. The following Tuesday afternoon while sitting on a rock at Melakwa Lake where the unmarked Kaleetan Peak trail cuts off I can see the summit and the 500 feet of rock leading up to it. I turn to my friend and tell him it still doesn’t look any less scary.

The trail to the lake through Hemlock Pass was steep, but now it doubled down to go straight up and gain the ridge. This wasn’t calming my nerves at all knowing it would only get steeper, but I’ve started to get used to the sensation. I’ve spent this year testing my limits, pushing my exposure, being uncomfortable and settling myself down. I am learning that when things get sharp if I slow down and make each hand and foot placement solid I can make it.

So when we reach the final scramble, as my buddy scampers up the steep rock, I take a minute and a few deep breaths. It had been mostly steep walking to this point, but now it counted. Half way up this thing and a fall was going to have a bit of radical air time and some pretty serious consequence.

I reach the top and my partner is sitting on the kiddie pool sized summit block. It is a sheer drop off on three sides and he isn’t so sure about standing up on the precarious slanted rock. Months ago on McClellan Butte I was so nerve wracked that I couldn’t enjoy the summit views and barely could stand. I was so worried about the down climb. Now, I step across while telling him to move over and walk a circle around him. I am awestruck but not scared, gazing in 360 degrees.

It has been a week and I am ascending the last few feet to the lookout on Granite Mountain. Kaleetan is the first mountain, directly North, with higher prominence. Standing there panting I am stunned. The sun is shining directly into the South facing couloir we ascended. It feels like a dream and had I not been standing on the summit a week ago I’d not believe it was something I could do. From this angle it doesn’t look any less scary.

[gravelcruiser]

This story was in the final print issue of Bicycle Times.

Three miles from the end of the road, the rain cloud that we’d been skirting for the last 15 miles finally caught up with us. It opened up as we wove along Carbon River past the ranger station, blasting the sheet of water off the windshield with the wipers set to Mach 1. For the first time in the last 90 minutes, my son was silent in the back seat. At 5-and-a-half, I wondered if he had yet gained the emotional ability to be pensive. Truth be told, the confident front I was putting up to hide the butterflies in my stomach probably wasn’t fooling even him.

Mom is away and the boys are going to play. He and I were headed straight from school on a Friday afternoon to the northwest corner of Mount Rainier National Park for a quick overnight in the backcountry. Though Carbon River Road has been closed to vehicle traffic since it washed out in spots back in 2006, it’s still passable by four-wheel drive, or bike—its five-mile stretch leading to the marvelously appointed, and now remote, Ipsut Creek campground.

It seemed like an easy-enough introduction for him to the wonderful world of bikepacking, and we were both eagerly awaiting sleeping outside for the first time this season. The rain let up a little, and I turn back to him. “We should be there in a minute or two, are you ready?” To which I got an enthusiastic response: “Yeah Dad, I am ready to go bikepacking!”

When we first brought home an Adams Trail-A-Bike, I noticed almost immediately that the hand-me-down had enough random holes in the rear dropouts that I could probably get a rack onto it. A family bike-camping trip was being hatched right there and then. I found a rear rack for a 24-inch bike at our local bike co-op, and have been ready for the adventure ever since. All winter I had been eyeing the waiting rig in the corner of our basement, and when the day finally arrived, I attached my Rock Lobster gravel bike and loaded it down with two full panniers, a bear-proof barrel and a 45-pound kid.

The rain started letting up. Struggling around the gate like an 18-wheeler in a Walmart parking lot, we were on our way into the backcountry with, save for our car, an empty parking lot behind us. We were going to have it all to ourselves.

If there were any moments along the way when I began to get discouraged because I couldn’t ride a soft, rocky, uphill section, my spirit would instantly be lifted by the giggles of my boy. He thought it was hilarious that I was off the bike, grunting and pushing while he got to pedal. He would even clamber off and help push, because, apparently, pushing your bike is a necessary part of bikepacking, and I was giving him the full experience.

It only took about 100 feet for me to start sweating through my rain gear, and another mile to get a little tired. But as soon as I’d start wishing for the campground to be just around the next bend, I’d hear a yell from behind, letting me know that he was shifting into a better gear to help more as if he could tell I was feigning. A flurry of pedaling would ensue from behind, and—like a black-and-gold ’73 T-Top Firebird—my underweighted front tire would lift off the ground. We happily swerved, wheelied and bounced up the river valley, keeping a keen eye out for bears.

I had been watching the weather forecast for the weekend degrade for days, but we had been granted a window and made it to the campground without it raining. Even better, we were able to set up the tent and get most of dinner in before the next set of showers rolled through. We climbed into the tent, and I settled in for trying to contain a little boy after a long car ride and not a whole lot of rumpus time. Expecting this, I came prepared. I got him into dry, warm clothes, and surprised him with a little Lego set he didn’t see coming. It brightened his mood and gave us a light, compact and fun in-tent activity.

As the last blocks clicked together, the rhythmic patter of rain slowly fell silent, and we left the tent to make a short pajama-clad exploration of Carbon River. The sun slowly sank below the ceiling of clouds on some far, unseen horizon, bathing a perpendicular valley in a blaze-orange sunset. A bear could have appeared in the river bottom riding atop a moose juggling live salmon, and we would still have been more surprised by the sunset on this rainy evening deep in the mountains.

The rain really started in earnest at about 1 in the morning. After that, I didn’t sleep much, trying to plan our exit strategy the best I could. I knew the hardest part was going to be getting out of the tent to retrieve the bear barrel, but after that I could cook from the relative shelter of our vestibule.

I awoke the sleeping boy after his oatmeal and hot cocoa were already cooked and cooling. Keep him warm was my mantra. The hot chocolate, a two-prong approach, warmed the belly and put a little extra oomph in his step. After hours of restless worrying, the transition from bag to bike went swimmingly, and we were cruising downhill in no time. It would have been rad to stay and explore the river and trails some more, but it seemed foolish to tempt the rain any further, and we had a violin recital to get to.

Three miles into the five rainy miles back to the car, I was a little apprehensive on what his outlook would be. This could turn him off forever. I try not to push things on him, lest he never want to do them again. The proof was to be in the pudding.

I had taken my hood down so I could hear all the chatter from him as we rode. He had gotten silent again for a bit, and I called back to make sure I wasn’t spraying him. He replied, “No Dad, I just think we made the right decision by camping and not staying home.” An hour later in the car, when asked by his Mom on the phone what his favorite part of the trip was, he enthusiastically responded, “Riding through the rain this morning on the way back to the car!”

This had been an amazing time with my son in the backcountry, our first father-and-son-only camping trip. I will remember it fondly, forever.

[gravelcruiser]

I have had a working familiarity of Yosemite Falls though the photography of Ansel Adams. As a photography professional, educated in the days of darkroom printing, his work and methods are held in high regard and his photographs of the falls are often the centerpiece of discussion. Seeing it for the first time, running full gas over the lip, swelling with spring melt, was life altering. The cacophony of sound from the pounding water resonating off the surrounding cliffs is entrancing. The shifting of mist with the wind and the pockets of water falling with tails outstretched left me memorized. Then I look at the ground and am snapped straight out of my daze. More orange peels.

I am going to put this first and foremost, I am a guilty party, have paid dues and am reformed. I am not here to shame, only to educate and I am going to do my best to curse as little as possible. But now that we are in the same boat floating along the river of wrongdoing, don’t leave your orange peels in the woods, especially beside the trail where they are going to send me on an explicit worded tirade with my 6 year old about trash.

See our family just spent three days in Yosemite Valley which is arguably one of the most beautiful places on Earth. And about as often you’ll be treated to a beautiful view of a waterfall you can look down and see orange peels left all over the trail. If you had to guess how long it takes those things to decompose, from the frequency of them dotting the trail, I would bet most don’t think it is six months. With four million visitors every year, that means that the orange you ate and left parts of walking to the bridge to look at Vernal Falls potentially was seen by 333,333 people. Ashamed yet, because I was kind of embarrassed for humanity on how dirty that place is.

There are record numbers of people entering our nation’s public wild places. Many for the first time or first season and I think we all, greenhorns and grizzled bears alike, need a basic refresher on some very simple leave no trace principles, having emphasis on one of them.  Which is funny, because there are only seven and they are pretty common sense things.

One – Plan ahead and prepare. Basically, use your head and minimize the impact you are bringing with you. Have a small group size, have a map so you don’t need to make rock cairns or paint markers and repackaging things as to not create garbage in the first place.

Two – Travel and Camp On Durable Surfaces. This seems pretty simple, but I see it all the time. Don’t cut the switchback, you took the time to get into the woods, why are you rushing to finish the hike. When you set up camp, use a designate campsite. If there are none, do it on a bare spot as to not kill more of what is already being trampled. And don’t set up camp on the very edge of the lake, even if you don’t mean to, you are getting stuff into it and I hate watching you cook and wake up from up the shoreline. Remember the adage, it “grows by the inch but dies by the foot.”

Three – Leave What You Find. My six year old gets it because it is as simple as pre-K math. Take nothing, leave with memories. Or whip out that smart phone you can’t stop looking at and take a picture. Bringing home pottery shards is essentially looting. Trundling rocks kills people. Let other people get the same experience you’ve been lucky enough to have.

Four – Minimize Campfire Impacts. Even better, don’t have one at all. Yes, I know there are situations where a fire can keep you from freezing to death, but generally, you don’t need to go to bed smelling like an ashtray. The burn mark you leave is going to be there for a long time. Especially if it ends up spreading over the course of hundreds of acres. It scares away wildlife you might see and over time it removes a layer of necessary ground cover and strips trees of limbs.

Five – Respect Wildlife. Again, pretty simple. Don’t feed the marmots, or deer, or bears, or the geese. When you feed geese they just shit all over your yard. When you leave food out for bears, you are just going to get in trouble.

Six – Be Considerate of Other Visitors. Do I ever hate hearing bad rap music from across the lake five miles from the nearest road. Even worse, to hear it chasing our slow toddler and elderly dog family down the trail. Also, uphill traffic has the right of way. I am sorry it is going to destroy your personal record for hiking time on this trail, but you could wait for us to get through this tight muddy spot on the trail instead of pushing my kid into the puddle.

Seven – mother f*&%ing seven. This one is so simple, yet so utterly ignored, it is infuriating that various symptoms of its total lack of regard are constantly being seen. Dispose of Waste Properly. Do you know what two shit filled diapers that have been left next to a lake during the rainy Pacific Northwest spring and then ripped apart by some animal look like? Diapers are made to absorb the 26 gallons of piss and vinegar tiny kids have when you neglect their needs for hours on end. They get gigantic and then are spread all over the place by a squirrel, which I hope died from ingesting the diaper insides, lest it be covered in your kids shit and shunned from its family. And while we are talking about poop, eventually you are going to need to do it in the woods and it is NOT acceptable to wipe your rear and then leave the paper/hanky/leaf under a big rock. Guess where the poop rag is going to blow after that diaper squirrel digs it out. Probably straight through my approved campsite. And then my kid is going to step in it and my dog might try to eat it.  Dig an eight inch deep hole and bury it. Don’t have a shovel, use a rock, or stick, or your hand. Humans dug holes with their hands millennia ago. That goes for rover too (don’t even get me started on Mr. Ed the horse), bury dog crap. Even better, pick it up with a bag, but then carry it out of the woods because poop bags are about a billion times worse than rock cairns for trail markers. I am not sure what magical poop fairy people think exist, but toilets have made us lazy. This is all 200 feet from a lake or river by the way. Since I am on a human waste bender and we just covered how far we should be from the beautiful creek when we pee, we know not to pee in the river or lake. So why the hell are people washing their dishes in them. See those soapy bubble accumulating in the eddy? That is because even though you haven’t properly washed your hands in days, you couldn’t leave that last morsel of oatmeal on your plate. Put a little water in that cup, swish it around, scrape it out and then scatter it into the woods 200 feet away. Four hour old oatmeal isn’t going to kill you or destroy your next cup of Starbucks instant coffee. As the person responsible for dishes at home I relish the opportunity to get into the woods and barely clean them at all. Let us call it “liberating.”

Why in the world do people leave trash in the woods? Beer cans, candy wrappers, shards of camping equipment, clothing. There isn’t a sock monster in your dryer, you just left the thing at your (now our) campsite and I put it in a dog poop bag and carried it out. I was taught early to leave things better than you find them. Blow out the power tool your neighbor lent you or run your buddies truck through the carwash after you move your couch. But when applied to the outdoors this means simply that I am picking up after other people. Something that would be completely unnecessary if people didn’t leave their garbage behind. When applied in the other direction it means that people expect someone else to take care of their laziness. I get it, the occasional wrapper falls out of a pocket, but when I throw a half full grocery bag into the can at the end of the trail something is systemically wrong.

Spring is finally here for most of us. The snow line slowly creeps higher towards the lofty peaks opening up more and more opportunity for finding those secluded lakes far from the beaten path. We all need to do each other one simple favor every time we pack up and head back to our car. Turn around real quick, look around and make sure no one is going to know you were ever there.

[gravelcruiser]

I opened the beer I had brought to drink on the summit with my ice axe. That’s right; in my life’s pursuit of trying all sorts of dumb ways to open a can of domestic lager, on this day, I used the same tool that might one day save my life, to influence me closer to my grave. As I pulled the tab up with the adze side of the axe, my climbing buddy and I were chuckling for a few reasons. The first being the most obvious, it was that on the first day of ownership I’d be misusing such an important tool. In hindsight though I had worked for this one.

For starters, we were not drinking the summit beer on the top of the corniced, 5,200 foot, peak of Iron Mountain. We were sharing the beverage in a picturesque bowl off the northwest aspect away from any steep snow travel. Secondly, short of driving the pick of the axe into the snow field to self-arrest a fall, I had just used the axe in every other configuration it was built for. Not to mention that on the summit, my nerves were so shot from the steepness of the climb and the anxiety of going back down what we had just ascended, I am not sure I would have been able to hold the can still enough to take a drink.

It was as if my brain and body simply refused to figure out the best way to jointly keep their shit together. I couldn’t get past the steepness of the slope, the exposure and its cumulative effect on a potential fall. I was pretty convinced I was just about to die. The reality was that albiet steep, the snow was perfect. And even though I was practically crawling, slamming the pick of the axe as far into the snow as I could get it with every baby step forward, I knew my seasoned, mountain rescue qualified friend wasn’t going to bring me anywhere I was going to die. I mean, he stood up in my wedding. He is the one friend, when I tell my partner I am going out with, where she doesn’t ask any more questions. Yet I am on the summit trembling like a freshman that got called out to behind the gymnasium after school by the varsity football team’s starting center.

I sat in the snow on the summit and barely moved, my nerves were preventing me from enjoying the view. My sole concern was getting back into the relative safety of tree line. Luckily, my friend understood and was patient as I slowly made my way down the slope. Constantly checking in and giving instruction on travelling properly and safely over steep snow wearing snowshoes. Far below the summit, he asked me if that was too much, if that had been beyond what I was expecting and wanting for the day. I realized it was a little bit of both. It was absolutely more of a risk than I had been expecting to take, but it hadn’t even approached what I felt was beyond my capability. Honestly, I was relishing the chance to test my boundaries and practice a skill completely new to me. To recognize that being scared of something for the first time only happens once.

[gravelcruiser]

I’ve never been scared on my feet before. Generally I am not scared of heights and willing to take calculated risk. I’ve stood in places that have made my knees week and walked across things with extra caution. I ride my bike on dumb shit down super steep scary trail all the time, but never had standing in a particular spot frightened me before.

A buddy and I were less than a tenth of a mile and 100 feet below the summit of McClellan Butte, a horn of rock jutting up out of the I-90 corridor East of Seattle. The type of summit you look at from the car and just wish you were up there. For the last five and a half miles the trail had been in the shelter of the trees and views minimal, but the small saddle immediately before the short scramble to the summit would offer our first big views. Views for which I was unprepared. Standing with the summit block of rock immediately in front of you there is a sheer drop to the left and a slope of solid rock that disappears into the horizon to the right. A slope, offering zero protection, with nothing to catch a fall. That if one were to start rolling down there would be nothing to stop the momentum.

I led the two of us to that point, churning up the trail like a diesel engine. As I came to the edge of the ridge and onto that first exposed spot of rock, my body functioned without any conscious effort. I took one step out and then immediately three steps back. Even as my buddy scampered out on the slope to ascend to the summit, I remained in the safety of the ridge’s side. I had to talk myself though every small bit of forward process, terrified. My body calmed as I realized all the rock was solid and bailing on the summit after all the work of getting there was not an option. I stood on the summit trembling, blaming it on the cold morning wind, but knowing full well I had just scared the living shit out of myself.

[gravelcruiser]

Our family relocated to Seattle from Chicago to have a better proximity to the outdoors and our cordless drill was pretty much ineffective when we made the trip. It was one of the few necessary items that got packed into our jammed station wagon and made the drive across the country separate from all our other belongings in the moving truck. It was useless, it should have gone in the garbage in Chicago, but it went into the trash here. I remember making a trip to the hardware store to buy a new, premium, moonrock battery, 21 speed, rapid firing, quick draw sparkling model and on a whim spun through the REI around the corner. I picked up the Mountaineers, “Day Hiking Snoqualmie Region” book on the recommendation of a friend.

To the flatlander I was, my mind was blown. The Snoqualmie book is one of nine that cover Washington State and it has 123 different hikes in it. None of them are the most dramatic Washington has to offer. None of them are the hardest, but none the less, we were excited to this window of printed opportunity. I quickly dog-eared the pages with fire lookouts. We immediately started hiking to the largest waterfalls we had ever seen. Many of the hikes we looked at and said, “Yeah, we’ve got this one. We can tote our two year old in a backpack up there.” Others; they’ve lingered. Some because of distance, others are downright intimidating. My partner tackled the quintessential Mt. Si a couple seasons ago, no easy feat. Mailbox Peak has lingered for all of us.

The opening line of trail description offers the reader a dose of caution and jeering, “Wimpy hikers, turn the page.” I dog-eared this one too, but the summit remained shrouded in an air of mystery and respect. I learned there was actually a mailbox on the summit containing the summit register. Not getting up there just allowed the desire to mature and grow inside me. The local trail association has built a new trail to the summit in the last couple years and I have worried that they will soon decommission the super steep, unsustainable original trail. The need to hike up there had become a pretty regular thought. After four years, that desire burst forth in a manic frenzy of tossing scraps of food, some water and a few warm garments at a backpack on a sunny autumn afternoon. I had four hours. I’ll be leaving before the afternoon rush of traffic and, then, run? up the two and a half miles of trail in order to be home for dinner. 4,000 feet. Yeah, let’s just hope that the hike offers more than just “pain and heartbreak” like the book so discouragingly says.

I strode quickly up the first mile hoping my legs wouldn’t notice where I was going. Figuring I could get through two miles just by telling my legs to shut up. It worked mostly as I trudged straight up hill for a while. That was until my heart seemed to catch up with me. I was sweating through my shirt in the chill air and stopped for a drink. As I looked down to unscrew the cap of my bottle I could see my heart attempting to leap out of my chest. I was pushing it and it felt good, but this pace was proving unsustainable. About as soon as I wanted to relent the tree cover thinned out and the trail became less apparent. It became lost in a maze of trampled pine needles and roots. I was forced to slow down by the necessity of route finding. Luckily, finding where the trail led was pretty easy. Up. Up. Then up some more guided by these small white diamonds nailed to the trees.

A quarter mile below the summit the trail pops out onto a scree field putting the summit in view. Adrenaline and excitement take back over and I seem to sprout wings picking my way straight up through the large rocks, foregoing the gradual, winding path made for the new trail. Within 100 feet of the summit, you can see the mailbox, cemented to its pedestal and know that relief from the climbing is coming to an end.

I can feel my brain etching a check box in my memory as I open the mailbox to pull out the few scraps of paper that make up the summit registry. Sitting low in the eddy of a rock, listening to the wind whip around me and doing my best to not let the few pieces of folded and torn paper sail into the ether, I simply sign my name with the date and stuff it all back into the mailbox. Raising the warm can of shaken beer high above my head, I open it and watch the foam spray off the summit in congratulation. The sun is low and I know I can’t linger if I plan on making it home in time. Looking out over the Snoqualmie Valley, I can’t help though but to think of the last line the book provides for this summit. That I’ve “conquered perhaps the most difficult hike in this book!”

[gravelcruiser]

The liquor dispensing establishment in Gold Point, Nevada is unlike any other I’ve ever set foot in. But I have been in plenty that are trying to be like it. You know the dive type bar that has all sorts of crazy vintage/antique/old timey crap on the wall, trying to give off that friendly vibe and aura that no one really gives a shit. This is that, but the old timey crap was always there and everyone was nice because it seemed they just liked the company. Gold Point is in the middle of nowhere, probably the most middle of nowhere I have been in the US. Look it up on a map, I mean it. So you can imagine that when Booker and I roll into the town of 27 (I think that is an overage on the census) we were noticed. We park the bikes on the dirt main street and a guy up a hill in front of us working in a pile of seemingly junk next to his pickup yells that he will be down in just a minute, but to go inside. Three old guys are sitting on the porch talking about the number of active mines left in the county, zero. Inside it is dim, yet bright from the desert sun. A giant wood burning stove sits in the very center of the giant room, a functioning and wage earning barber chair is at the end of the bar. Left from the door the room stretches far back past a stage with a working player piano to a pool table covered in dust and dead moths. The women’s undergarments hanging from the ceiling tell that this town must not be so sleepy on the weekends. There is so much rusty old stuff packed on the walls and in the rafters that it seems like if it could be saved from the desert sun and wind it was brought in. A treasure trove for the eyes. To the right and across from the door there is a long bar, which is stocked with more booze than we’ve seen thus far on the trip. There is some difficulty ordering a can of Budweiser and are given cans of BudLight from off the rings of a six pack in the fridge. It is then explained that they are free, but if we’d like we can donate some cash to the upkeep of the building and town which considering is a bargain and also seems mandatory because of what it must take to get the booze there. We take the cold cans to the back and play a game of pool, which is constantly delayed, gawking at the stuff crammed on the walls. We are instructed by the locals what to go look at around town and take a break from this haven from the sun to see what the rest of the town has to offer.

[gravelcruiser]

We decided to chase the sucker hole. To change course from a five day mountain bike shuttle fest to a fly by night, transitory, dirt bag whirlwind tour of Eastern Oregon’s mountain bike trail. Once a year I get turned loose with five or six days to do whatever I damn well please while my family travels to the Midwest to visit family. Inevitably, somehow, every year the weather in the Pacific Northwest decides to turn two shades to shitty and piss rain the entire time I have untethered from work, family and home responsibility.

With all our stuff scattered across the driveway, awaiting the Tetris game of fitting it into a not quite large enough vehicle, we spitballed all the options. Give up on Oakridge Oregon entirely and go to Vancouver? No, the forecast is the same. Head to Leavenworth Washington and ride familiar but not often ridden trail? Nah, too typical to waste vacation days on. Suck it up and ride in the rain in Oakridge? Didn’t really sound fun. We are checking weather forecasts as far away as Idaho and California, after all, we’ve got 6 days. It all seemed to piece together as we notice the weather was supposed to move in from the Southwest. We could chase the rain shadow around Mt. Hood. To go to Hood River that afternoon in the sun, half way to Bend the following day as weather built, sleep out the rain in Bend and ride after it passed on the third day. We’d then only be a couple hours from our main objective in Oakridge after the rain passed and hopefully had been riding hero dirt the entire time. This suddenly sounded better than our original plan.

I am going to have to be careful from here on out. This has the possibility to roll out two ways. The first, we ripped around on some of the buffest, tightest, steepest single track around for five days straight. The other, a guide to brew pubs and pretty places to drink canned yellow beer in Eastern Oregon.

Rolling into Hood River I knew Dirty Fingers Bicycle Repair was the place to grab a pint and get the beta. I also knew that Double Mountain brews beer there and had a tasty pastrami sandwich. It being just after noon with a late sunset, we opted for lunch to loosen up after the drive. Brad greeted us at the bike shop and laid down the best way to ride Post Canyon, gave us a killer camp spot tip and recommendation for the following days ride. He unassumingly highlighted a loop on the map that led us through butter smooth jump to berm lines that demanded to be ridden time and time again. Day one, no rain.

The directions to the next spot were vague, but they included a fire tower, so I was excited by the possibilities. It ended up being probably the easiest fire tower anyone can ride a bike to. Fivemile Lookout is about 20 minutes from the trailhead, atop a pretty scenic traverse. While I always carry a beer to drink at the top, this somehow didn’t seem to command the reward. David and I toasted our momentous effort and declared it vacation with no pretention. After some shenanigans at the summit, we plummeted down off the mountain, stopped for a small lunch at the car and proceeded out onto the second loop, both of which I recommend doing clockwise. The “44 Trails” were both ripping fast and grindingly long and slow. Day two, hail, but no rain.

Dinner time in Bend is a busy time and that is when we rolled into town. It took us three breweries and three pints to find an open table, outside, just as the rain moved in. The plan was all lining up, I was having a hard time believing it. We were going to have hero dirt in the morning. After packing up a dry tent the following morning, we headed down to Cog Wild where we paid to be brought as high onto Mt. Bachelor as they would take us. The engine of the giant van roared and we were a block from the lot before we realized we left the most important tool behind. “Strava” someone suggested as I moaned aloud, “No, the beers!” The ensuing 45 miles were buffed out, interlaced turns and jumps mixed with some bonk inducing pedaling. About midride we caught the first unfortunate drops of rain climbing a fire road. We pulled over, hid under a tree and waited it out, snacking on fancy cheese and dried salami because after all we are not complete savages. We kept calling it “Pocket meat” in order to not feel like we were too classy. Day three, rain, but pocket meat, so we will call it a wash.

We got to Oakridge way after the rainclouds declared it dark. We set up the tent in the pouring rain. We had been pushing our luck and were due for this. Our map said that on average Oakridge gets 1.5” of rain in June, it all fell that night. It had been three days since a proper shower and the practically new car we were driving had lost the new car smell and was developing a nice nuance of hockey bag. In the morning it was time to do laundry and let some of the water run off the trail. We milled around town with the locals for a few hours, did laundry, wrenched on the worn bikes and waited for some buddies to show up. There may have been laundry mat beers, there were definitely parking lot beers and then there were camp beers. We didn’t move towards riding until past 3PM.

When the collective ball got rolling we headed down to Warner Mountain. We’d self shuttle up to the trail head, ride up to the lookout and then descend down singletrack with a stop at Moon Point. Holy shit were these all good choices. That road is long and steep. We got to the lookout right as a rain storm blew in and we were able to weather it from the cupola 50 feet off the ground. The views from Moon Point were first class, the trail was even better. Trail plunged through magazine worthy landscapes at speeds that rendered them in my mind as watercolor paintings and not photographs. Day Four, rain on the lookout, but not us, winning.

We were slow starters the next day, the shuttle wasn’t until almost noon, so it didn’t matter. We showed up early to secure a spot, but it never came. Turns out, the Forest Service can decide the trail is too wet to allow for commercial shuttling, but “you can self shuttle if you want. The road isn’t bad.” Better late than never, we were rolling up to the epic of Oakridge, the 26 mile, Alpine, Tire Mountain, Cloverpatch, Alpine connection boasting 7,000 feet of descent and 4,000 of ascent. Fast tight single track, amazing views, brutal climbs, blistering descents. It has everything everyone has said or written about it. The weather was perfect, our hydration was on point, I couldn’t have asked for a better finale to the trip.

It is easy to remember a trip as a ride report. The number of feet climbed, or more importantly descended. The number of miles ridden. The best trail. The worst trail. The “right” trails. To quantify it to a point where the experience is lost. If I look back on this trip and think of every beer we shared, and damn there were a lot of them, I can remarkably still remember all the numbers about the ride, but it highlights the trip in a different way. Maybe we were celebrating the end of a long climb. Or trying to hang onto the rush of a big descent that popped us out onto a fire road. Maybe it was the last trail side beer David and I shared atop the final climb, before the last four miles of an almost constant plunge to the car. The mosquitos so thick you don’t want to stop. That beer was cracked and finished in two big gulps, one a piece, before a high-five, where we ro-sham-boed to lead the final downhill. Most often my rides are scheduled into razor thin margins of time, so in these rare instances where there is not a schedule it feels great to remember it like a party instead of a ride.