Cycle Tripping, pt 3.

October 1, 1993 on 8:50 pm | In Mountain, Road, Touring |

Cycle Tripping 1993 - Part Three of Three

The road home. Our cross-country journey is almost complete. Along the way we will witness our first September storm and see for ourselves the savage flood damage in the Plains. All passages in quotes are from my personal journal.

Oregon is a land of incredible extremes. Coastal areas can receive over 100 inches of rain a year. As moisture is carried inland, where the Cascades rob it from the air and leave only 20 inches of rain annually in central and eastern Oregon. Temperatures can vary over 50 degrees within a hundred miles. The relationship between water and elevation makes Oregon a two-faced friend.

“The moon lights our way across the desert. An experiment unfolds in Oregon.” We struck out of Bend on Sept. 3 and into a land of great desolation before the sun rose.

“We climbed up to the Millican Valley with our backs to the Cascades. Moonlight gave way to morning; Millican, Brothers, Hampton, Riley to Hines. The high desert rises east. Sitkas and ponderosas give way to sage and juniper. Today’s roadkill was as unpleasant as the comments tossed from trucks based in past rich insecurity.”

Our first leg of the day could be the longest straight stretch of road in the world. Thirty-two miles of linear perfection is optimal for efficient riding. However, headwinds stymied our progress and nearly doubled our workload. I believe they are the same rogue winds that slowed yesterday’s progress. After lunching in Buchanan (pop. too few to mention) we climbed over Stinking Water Pass (elev. 9,848 ft.), dropped six miles, pushed up Drinkwater Pass (elev. 9,213) then dropped nine miles into Juntura (pop. 55).

Jim and I cruised down the barren Malheur River Valley into the Snake River Basin. We crossed the Snake River and left Oregon. That night in Notus, Idaho, Jim and I were visited by Melanie. I’d met her at Dean’s Grocery. She was a spunky 11-year-old who wished to be a pro basketball player or an astronaut. Melanie brought to our attention that we had rolled our bikes through a patch of “goatheads” and, moreover, were camped in the lair of the most unforgiving, rigid and ruthless ground vine of them all! The goatheads, had, between our four tires, enumerated at least 40 punctures. Melanie wheeled us to her stepfather’s garage. We patched late into the evening. The nachos and homemade salsa she delivered provided a zesty nightcap.

Resting on the sandy soils that dominate Southern Idaho’s plains regions, Boise has the appeal of urban isolation. Idaho’s famous Sawtooth Mountain region starts here, behind the capitol. The winds blowing up the Snake River shifted to our favor at the end of the day, pushi9ng us the last 65 miles in under three hours. It was glorious.

Jim and I knew that we were looking at five more days in the heat of the Great Basin. We decided that a car ride to Salt Lake City would provide a justifiable break. Just outside Glenn’s Ferry, we rolled into a rest area on Rt. 84. Ten minutes later, we found our ride. We piled our bikes into the old van. This was a problem machine-vacant windows, shimmying wheels, and nearly brakeless. We drove 285 miles of desert that day.

We thanked our Mexican friends and parted with them in downtown Salt Lake City. The climb is 18 miles to Parley Pass. Once into the Wasatch Mountains we biked into Park City at dusk. We were preparing to look presentable to enter the Wapatcha Brewpub when a guy yelled to us from a balcony. He said that he had seen us climbing the pass. He invited us up after our beers.

Once we had sampled the stouts, we buzzed up to the apartment. The man who had seen us, Mike, led us up to their party. We were immersed in a condominium full of young strangers-all of them mountain bikers. A crazy shaved-leg group of folks. The whole town is buzzing with the impending 1998 Winter Olympics. We were exposed to Beavis and Butt-head on Andrew’s television. My commitment to media deprivation had proven a wise choice.

“We dropped (from Daniel’s Pass, elev. 8,000) out of incredible mountains today from Park City. Jim and I are preparing lentils and rice under the Utah sky on sacred Ute land. The shooting stars are bountiful; the rhythms of the far off drums soak the cooling desert air with their reclamation. Tonight we’re back in the Great Basin with 130 miles to Dinosaur, Colorado. Tomorrow, we pass through Roosevelt and Vernal. The stars are watching. The desert is a familiar place.”

We had stopped for lunch on the shore of the enormous Strawberry Reservoir. Nearly 20 miles to our west, the section of road we had just completed popped over a pass and followed the headwaters of the Strawberry River, numerous streams converging as and when they desired to the water body. Only three cars could be seen following the lake’s perimeter. Five minutes after coming into view, a pickup truck crunched into the gravel lot, coming to rest 20 feet from our bikes. Why in all the world, more specifically the expansive basin, would they decide to bother us? Two men got out and initiated interaction.

I had little interest in explaining our trek to the inquisitive locals. However, part of wilderness survival is knowing how to get away from those who scare you. “Not only are you crazy, you’re fuckin’ nuts,” exclaimed the older, rounder, bearded ex-Marine. He had a rifle proudly displayed in the truck. My eyes avoided his, although I knew to look him directly in the face to show strength.

“Want some beef jerky?” offered the second man. Before I could answer him, the first man barked in while looking at me, “They don’t eat that stuff, do you?” Jim had gotten his gear together and was ready to leave. Thanking them for the offerings of water, jerky, and whiskey, we escaped the encounter. I felt uneasy, as if I had just gotten away with something that was not yet far enough behind. Twelve miles down the 40-mile drainage, the truck screamed by with honks and waves to their 3,800-acre ranch. As we rolled into Dechesne, I resisted the possibility that this man’s admonishments might be accurate. “You going through the Ute Reservation? Better be careful, they don’t take to folks passin’ through, specially with the looks of you two. Know what I mean?”

Dinosaur National Monument, and anomalous bulge in the desert, passed to our left. There is a 20-mile ride to access the heart of the area. Blue Mountain smoothly emerges from Dinosaur. The town lies across the Green River just into the state. The terrain was starting to change into mountains again. Rocky Mountain foothills released heat into the brown air. Jim’s rough face glowed orange from the tangent rays of the setting star and the knowledge that our journey across the hottest lands of the return trip was behind us. The next day, I would be crossing my path. Psychologically, the concept of overlapping six miles of Rt. 40 from the trip’s beginning fired me up. Maybell, CO, was a long awaited landmark. That night, we camped outside of Craig in the rain.

“There is an exciting tension in the air as the first cumulonimbus clouds we’ve seen in weeks build in the foothills. Old Man Winter, blow us up and over these massive mountains. Autumn has come. The Aspen are turning banana yellow. The cool breeze whispers of transition. Today, we leave the desert. This is a time of great in-betweens, a power time. Visions of serpentine lines of flame incinerating the few plants that survive in desert range gave way to fir, aspen, spruce, and snow.”

Jim and I got snowed in Steamboat Springs. Colorado’s fist snowstorm hit the mountains hours before we did. Fortunately, it cleared later that night. The pass was plowed clear by the time we hit it the next morning.

We climbed 16 miles at a seven- percent grade. “Blue skies paved the inconsistent shoulder a hopeful hue.” We reached a snow covered Rabbit Ears Pass (elev. 9,400) and dropped 1,200 feet to Muddy Pass. Like many of the summer’s big climbs, Jim was waiting patiently for me at the top. He’s a monster. From this vantagepoint, one can see Rocky Mountain National Park to the east and follow the Continental Divide down a hundred miles into Summit County. It is a spectacular platform from which to comprehend the hugeness of Colorado’s Rocky Mountains. For mid-September there was a great deal of snow.

Berthoud Pass stood between Denver and us. We climbed the 11,340-ft. obstacle after fueling in Winter Park. On the way up through Indian Peaks Wilderness, a Jeep full of Germans interviewed me with a video camera. When I reached the crest, Jim was exchanging addresses with the boys. Looking back at the valley I had just climbed out of, I counted my blessings and said goodbye to the end of the world. Except for a couple two-mile climbs, we would drop all the way to the land once known as short grass prairie, now the metropolis of Denver. We bundled up for the drop to I-70 and zoomed down the next 20 miles hitting speeds up to 50 m.p.h.

I’d managed to time my arrival to see my sister Karen before she left for Mexico. My oldest sister Amy and Michael, her roommate, were very good to us. We stayed for nearly a week. Our bodies needed the rest. My muscles had only had the evenings over the last eight days to rebuild. Saddlesores had been causing me great pain. Internalization was helpful, but rest was essential. My skin was thick and scorched.

“It has become ever apparent that I must create enormous blocks of adventure time and truly commit to a life of flexibility and serenity. Happiness is imperative. We look forward to the Great Plains the way that a dog awaits an open door. My head is really coming together right now. This is the most incredible summer conceivable. I have great hope and drive.”

On Sept. 22 we departed Amy’s apartment and worked our way out of the sprawl of Denver. We camped outside of Watkins, in a large field next to a volunteer fire station. Refreshed from a long riding hiatus, we stayed up late watching the stars, satellites, and airplanes. We fell asleep exposing ourselves to night’s sky. I woke from a crazy dream to find Jim staring at a low flying helicopter that was miles away but approaching rapidly. I could see Jim’s attentiveness, but we remained silent. The searchlight blasted from beneath the beast. Like the tongue of a fly sampling a luscious goody, it moved in. We were soaked with the tongue; lapping, licking and sucking. I was petrified. The brief eternity under the scrutiny of the pilot ended. Jim and I simultaneously took our first breaths. Remarkably, sleep pulled me back in immediately following a shooting star. Jim woke me up hours later. Rainclouds had replaced the clear night sky. My down bag was soaked. We got the tent erected in record time. This was a harbinger of conditions to come.

The Rockies began forming 60 million years ago. East from the Continental Divide, sediment washes down 3,000 vertical feet across 800 miles of ancient seabed into the Mississippi River valley. As a result of the mountains intercepting moist air, the dried out interior favors a dominion of short and tall grasses over trees. I’ve driven the Plains numerous times. Never did I have the appreciation that I can no longer deny.

In the shadow of the Rocky Mountains, the Earth’s curvature becomes conceivable here. Gradually, towards the 100^th meridian, mid-sized grasses provide the appropriate graduation to the tall grasses that dominate the eastern third of the Great Plains, ceasing in western Indiana. We pushed 30 miles from county seat to county seat across Kansas on Rt. 36.

Hours after we had rolled across the Colorado/Kansas border into St. Francis, I called my roommate, Dan, to find out when our Fall Ultimate Frisbee Tournament would be. He informed me that I had nine days to get home. Eleven hundred miles in nine days?

“11:28 p.m., Seneca, Kansas. Riding time: 9:14.5 hrs. Average speed: 16.2 m.p.h. Distance: 150.34 miles. What can I possibly say other than my body is beat. Half way home (from Denver) tomorrow. Time is so warped. Thoughts of sleep dominate my conscious state.”

Once we had crossed Kansas in three days, Jim and I decided to find a ride across the flood zone of the swollen Missouri and Mississippi Rivers. To maintain 135 miles per day was too much to ask of my body. We crossed the bloated Missouri River into St. Joseph, MO and stopped for a rest at a gas station. I spied Kevin, who would drop us off 40 miles east of St. Louis.

I am still amazed by the amount of water that inundated the heartland during the summer of ‘93. It’s a good thing that we took the car ride because the floods wiped out many of the secondary roads and bridges across the waterways of Missouri and Illinois. Even I-70 was down to one lane with the water only feet from engulfing the pavement.

With 200 miles to go, we camped in Illinois’ Red Hills State Park. “This park feels very familiar to me. Oak, maple, beech, ash, and topsoil, yeah, real dirt that tent spikes slide easily into, interrupting the chasms of earthworms…all remind me of my Ohio childhood. I’m grounded by the deciduous forest. The woolly bears that cross the highways tell me that winter is just around the corner. My cold fingers are testament to that. From the giant hemlock of the Olympic Peninsula, through the fir of the Cascades, between high desert juniper and pungent sage, across the grasses and sporadic cottonwood of the Great Plains, to the oak of the Midwestern prairie-I’ve taken them all into my lungs. I’ve left a good deal of my soul, not to mention emotional baggage, in many abstract envelopes.”

The hills of Indiana snapped us out of our cornfield dreamriding to offer us more resistance tan we had imagined. With only one day left to ride, Jim and I climbed a 17 percent grade, the steepest all, summer, in Washington-Jackson State Park. We had a celebratory 12-pack.

“We are camped on a grassy slope with two dramatically different views: to the North, the moonlight silhouettes a series of abrupt hills; to the South, a great flatness glides down to the light pollution of Louisville, KY.” Shortly after dinner, I shined my headlamp toward a rustling to my right. Three pairs of eyes blazed back. They belonged to large, wild hounds. Moments later, the surrounding area exploded with howling, barking, and a most indescribable yelping. I was unnerved. Once we climbed into our nylon shelter, our camp was overrun with dogs. Those hills are alive with hounds. Sniffing and pawing at the tent throughout the night, sleep was restless. They entered my dreamstate, manifesting demon dog nightmares.

The last 100 miles were filled with emotions of regret, sadness, and finality. The joy of returning to my home did not touch me until I effortlessly floated up Marshall Avenue and found my housemate and close friend, Rob, in the side yard. Big hug.

My little white dog, Paco, projected her ecstasy into my bewildered and charged being. Her claws sliced into my thighs.

Pain and joy were mine.

Enjoy the final pics from this life changing tour.