The Oregon Outback, 2015 Edition

It's hard to even know where the story begins.  Do I start with last year's ride?  No, no one wants to hear about last year.  What about the taste of fame I enjoyed afterwards?  Or my team for this year?  The emails, team meetings and exhaustive preparations?  Our team Shakedown ride?  Nah, that's its own story. How 'bout we start on the way to the train station Thursday morning.

I stopped at Missing Link to say goodbye and wish their Outback team good luck.  I swung by Seven Corners, where Cory cautioned me about my worn out cleats.  I rode by People's, where a goggle of bikepackers were hanging about.  I didn't recognize any of 'em: out of towners!  These guys, who lacked a team name, rode to Portland from Winnepeg on gravel and back roads.  I led them downtown to the station, which felt like having six not-so-tiny ducks in a string behind me.  A passerby shouted "Have fun on the Outback!" as we crossed the Hawthorne Bridge together.

The hubbub at the station, the bikes, the people (so many cool people from all over the place), the SWAG, the hugs, the gear geeking - all of it just lit me on fire.  I met a gentleman who looked like he'd walked right out of Handsome Guy magazine.  Turns out he was tweeting for Bicycling Magazine, and writes a blog called Everything Will Be Noble.  He gave me a postcard filled with stickers, one of which read "Route Feminent"! If you know of my fixation with rando riding, and my bewilderment at being marked out as an F on my R12 listing, you'll know this sticker blew my mind.

Amtrak let us roll our bikes on this year instead of boxing them.  What a treat.  However, they didn't put us all on the same train car, so that diluted the party atmosphere.  Things still felt festive though, especially in the bar car and later on at the pub in Klamath Falls.

The mood the next morning was a bit quieter, probably due to the early hour.  My team was scheduled to meet in front of the Maverick hotel at 6:55am.  Two of us were missing and we wouldn't see either of them again (on the trip).  I was handed cool embroidered Oregon Outback patch that made me wish I brought needle and thread.  Everyone exchanged high fives and took pictures.  Donnie wasn't there to say "don't die" and he was missed.  7am came and off we went.

Day One: Klamath Falls to Sprague River

The first day was super fun.  The path was crowded.  I sailed through a small regatta of cows mid-morning, just before the rain started.  It had been misty, a sort of dry rain, but soon it was undeniably wet.  We ducked off the OC&E trail into an old horse barn and watched riders go by.

I couldn't help but think of my trainer, as I pushed my rig back up the steep embankment back to the path.  Sure, my team name was "Training Is For (Expletive Deleted)" but I cheated a little.  Just then, a rider slowed, staring at me and proclaimed "Maria?!  You're the reason I'm here!".  I about fell over.  Dennis had brought his team of five roadie friends, Team HardRoads, all the way from San Francisco, after hearing the interview with Donnie and me on the KBOO Bike Show last year.

I recalled saying something about being a roadie, not a mountain biker, and telling listeners that anyone can ride the Oregon Outback.  Sure, you'll need the right gear and preparations, but this adventure is open to anyone.  Dennis and his friends heard us and came!  Suddenly the rain wasn't bothersome at all.

Later on, riding with my teammates again, we agreed to match our pace to the hour.  I think it was around 9:30am then.  At 10am, we rode 10mph.  At one, we stopped at the Sprague River cafe.  I learned from some locals that Sprague rhymes with vague, not mosque as I had previously thought.  The nice man at the cafe told me last year 's Outback created his biggest revenue day of the year and he was disappointed he hadn't prepared for us this year. 

We made our camp along the river in a tight little cluster of fir trees, with features like soft beds and a place for a hammock and tarp.  It felt like a fairyville in the forest.  We were each dry and comfortable and could see each other from our little haunts.  We even had a visitor, Nick (there was no shortage of Nicks!) , who sat under my vestibule on a pillow.  Quite cozy.  We shared our team's signature cocktail, Fire And Ice, and were soon off to la la land.

Day Two: Sprague River to Silver Lake

Gal-dang it, I love a trip with numbered days. Keep in mind though, that some riders, including a chap named Billy Truelove, were done by lunchtime on this day.  In any case, today was race day for the team, as we were due at the Cowboy Dinner Tree by 4pm. To make it on time, I tapped into my inner rando and carefully kept track of miles and time cut offs.

Most of the team was ahead of me, so imagine my surprise when I pulled in to see only Clod.  By the time we sat down, Hitkicker and Emocrush slid in with us.  That still left four open seats.  Soon, we saw a friend from the Komorebi team and her riding partner and asked them to join us.

This restaurant is a cultural center in my mind.  Although the food is the real draw, people come back for the genuine homesteader atmosphere.  We enjoyed the crazy onslaught of delicious food and I was happy to have skipped lunch.  Grinda showed up, an hour late, but still enough time for steak.  Tears flowed almost as quickly as the strawberry lemonade.  NoNickname was two hours late, but seemed satisfied with leftovers.

Earlier in the day, I noticed a car and a u-haul trailer talking with some bikepacker-looking folks.  Then I saw it again.  And again, when it parked in the grass at Silver Lake's quiet city park.  This is what brought the sheriff out late at night with his flood light and booming voice.  Instead of being put out, he was inquisitive about the ride and confessed his own plans to try it one day.

My hackles felt hackly.  Cars help bike adventure in so many great ways.  But driving along, on dirt and gravel, on our "fully self-supported" trip, just felt like buzzkill to me.  I sincerely hope this self-supported adventure doesn't become a SAGathon, at least not during the event week itself.  Luckily, the buzz was not killed as they were gone when we awoke and we never saw them again.

Day Three: Silver Lake to Sand Springs

The buzz was alive and kickin' as we rolled into the Fort Rock Tavern the next morning.  Within the tavern, we met a posse of guys who all looked like they'd just stumbled from the pages of Cute Bike Boy magazine.  One of 'em was even on a tall bike.  We drank beer and ate fries, then rolled north on Pitcher Road.  They stopped after a while to share face paint.  I opted for colored hearts on my cheeks. I don't know if they had a team name, but to me they were the California Clown Posse.

Soon it was Red Sauce time.  This is the section of super loose sand we'd all been dreading.  Especially me.  But, behold!  The red sauce had been magically transformed into a much more ride friendly surface, which I would like to anoint The Brown Gravy.  Gravy like bike messengers get as opposed to the greasy brown condiment.  Soft and reliable, and not as hot feeling since it wasn't as bright red; it was the perfect example of how terrain changes with time.

This was our only night with a campfire, which I extinguished with poop.  Just kidding, I extinguished it with water I took out of the Sand Springs spring, which was otherwise unusable.  Still, I couldn't resist scrambling down to the hidden little pond-like spring.  Just to sit and hear the silence there felt good.

Day Four: Sand Springs to Prineville

The ride to Prineville was punctuated with rolling hills.  Just when I thought I couldn't go on, much less go any faster, James panted up next to me, on his brand new Gravity fat bike.  We raced to the top.  Exhausted but in high spirits, we kept the small sprints going all the way to Prineville.

The reservoir wasn't quite as blue as I remembered, but it was still beautiful.  The water was much lower this year and not easily accessible beach-side, so we searched for a spigot at a campground.  If the Prineville Reservoir Visitor's Bureau asked me, I'd advise they put a giant spigot with a big sign at the entry to the reservoir area.  After all, this is the first water in almost eighty miles, and something to celebrate.

The patio at Dylan's Grill in Prineville is one of my favorite places.  Sun and shade, burgers and beers.  These treats, along with the first shower of the trip, felt downright glamorous.

NoNickname, who rode a $45 Craigslist Schwinn he described only as "purple", broke a spoke just outside of Prineville.  This was pretty lucky, since The Good Bike Co had announced on facebook they'd be on call for Outback riders.  Sure enough, the nice gentleman agreed to meet NoNick at the shop and even brought pizza and beer to share.

Day Five: Prineville to Antelope

This is the hardest riding day of the entire trip, but it's offset by the scenery.  The Ochocos and Trout Creek are simply beautiful.  Beautiful isn't even the right word.  Spectacular.  Pristine.  Rustic.  Sublime.  Where God goes to practice making heaven.

One of my teammates, Mister Dithers, is no stranger to endurance cycling.  An accomplished randonneur and creator of a ton of permanent routes (many with gravel) and I had no doubts at all about Mister Dithers' riding abilities.  It never occurred to me that he'd never been camping before this trip.  Never been loaded touring.  So, why not dive into the deep end and learn how to camp on the Oregon Outback?!  That guy is hard as nails.

Stopping to gather water at the creek, we experienced a great Mister Dithers moment.  While we filled our bottles and bladders, he unpacked a padded manilla envelope from his pannier.  Inside the envelope, he revealed a brand new water filter, still in its packaging.  Maybe he thought it would lose its value if it wasn't in the original box.  He held it up and asked if anyone knew how to use it.  Classic Mister Dithers.

Later that day, after passing Ashwood and starting a series of endless-feeling climbs, a big truck went by us, on its way downhill.  The driver slowed way down but I was too tired and pushing too hard to stop and say hello.  A little while later, I heard a truck coming up behind me and saw it pass.  I looked up just in time to spy two of my teammies sitting in the truck bed with their bikes and a pair of gigantic grins.  I laughed so loudly, I may have offended our new friend.

This helpful truck driver was a local farmer, who'd been witnessing the outstretched nomadic habits of bikepackers over the past several days.  He seemed harmless and friendly, even offering us whiskey along with his warning "You won't make it to Antelope".  It was like something from a movie.

He did mention a movie to Mister Dithers, after inviting him in for a glass of water. The movie is called Deliverance and the detailed description that the farmer offered was enough to light a fire under that particular rider, who we didn't see again until Antelope. Yes, we did make it to Antelope.  A haunted feeling place.  We didn't see a single soul.  Those same morning doves from last year were coo-cooing hysterically and sent us off to sleep.

Day Six

A riot of birdsong woke us up the next morning, our last day on the road.  I felt sentimental during the nine mile climb to Shaniko.  Rolling into the park just in time to see many of the same gang I saw there last year made me even mistier.  They recalled my post office delivery from last year and asked if I had champagne and chips to offer again.  This was Team Leisure, made up of many members of last year's Whiskey And Wheelies gang.

On to Grass Valley.  First, we had to find the left onto Haggerty and off of I-97 with its adrenaline of double long semi trucks and RVs rushing past, just hairs away.  C'MON HAGGERTY I yelled several times.  Finally, back to our territory: the off-road serenity of gravel roads south of the Columbia Gorge.

There's a time during Spring in the Pacific Northwest when the sun is so high, it's hard to tell which way is south.  Mesmerized by heat and pebbles, I continued heading west instead of south.  I just put my head down, hypnotized by the blare of LeTigre from the chest pocket of my pink cowboy shirt.  Which reminds me, if you haven't stopped at the Western Shop in Prineville yet, make a point of it next time you're in the area.  This year I obtained a genuine cowboy shirt there, which I toted the rest of the way across the state, a gift for my nephew's 13th birthday.

Seven bonus miles later, I rolled up in front of the Grass Valley Cafe.  The image of a fresh cobb salad, topped with all good cobby things, disappeared quietly, like a picture in a book being slammed shut.  Not only was there no salad, there were no friends.  Not a soul.  My team would cross the finish line without me.  I sighed in exasperation and started eating candy.

A flutter of rainbow flag caught my eye.  Nearby a neon open sign looked lit, so I headed over.  Cold drinks!  Crazy crystals!  Tons of riders reclined in the grass.  Bathrooms.  A water spigot.  I was elated.

We split up again, a few opting for pavement.  I don't like the trucks, so I tried my luck on gravel again.  Then another split up as some of us detoured on Van Gilder, which should be renamed van GLIDER.  We started to turn left and noticed Grinda coming up the hill from our right.  She was on her way from Moro. The undulation of the team felt like a snake getting longer, then shorter, head and tail far apart, then close together again. 

The Fulton Canyon offers some of the longest, gentlest descending you'll find anywhere.  And just a soft breeze.  That's right.  Although the Columbia Gorge is known hereabouts for dishing out a nasty gusty headwind, the kind of heartbreaker that makes riders push hard downhill to maintain ten miles an hour.  That wind was nowhere in sight today.

We were no longer on the ride, we were on the home stretch and it was a celebration.  We screamed and yelled and waved our arms around like lunatics.  Rolling into the park, our finish line, was one of the better moments I can ever remember living.

Here we were, a ragtag hodgepodge of a team that had come together to conquer the challenge of the Oregon Outback.  Some thought they might not finish.  Others were confident but cautious.  One had never been camping before.  But none of that mattered, because we did it, and we did it as a team. 

That was going to be the end of my story, but it turns out there's just a little bit more.  Terrible news awaited us on our return to Portland.  It has nothing to do with the Outback, except that it offers some serious perspective.  While we were out joyriding in the desert, two cyclists were killed by cars in Portland.  Another lost a leg just before we left.  The Safe Streets and Vision Zero movements need to be spread as far and wide as the Oregon Outback.

Oregon Out 'N Back 2017

So, you've always wanted to ride the Oregon Outback, but you're not into the ginormous headwind in the home stretch to the gorge.  Or maybe you just want easy logistics!   Whatever the case, you might consider joining this bastardization of the Oregon Outback, called the Oregon Out 'N Back.

We'll head out from Klamath Falls at 8am on the Friday, May 26th, and spend five or six days exploring the OC&E trail, the Cowboy Dinner Tree, Fort Rock and maybe even the Crooked River if you're fast enough.  Stay tuned for more specifics on the exact depart location.

Speaking of the Cowboy Dinner Tree, you'll need reservations.  Dinner (which they don't allow you to split) includes: salad, soup, sweet yeast rolls, 30 oz (!) steak, baked potato and fixins, desert, coffee/tea/pink lemonade. It costs $35, cash only, and that includes tip.  The atmosphere is authentic old west, the meat is from their own ranch, the service is adorably accommodating and the food is delicious.  To reserve, call 541 576 2426.  My posse is eating at 6:30pm Saturday.

We'll turn back when appropriate to finish at Klamath Falls, enabling us to take the train both ways. Because it's an out and back, riders can choose their distance and turn back any time they like. 

There are two rules. Leave no trace and bring no car.  I cannot emphasize enough the importance of following these.  If you'd like to ride the route and have a car meet you along the way, great, just please pick a different week to do it and don't rain on our car-free parade. 

This is a create your own adventure. This is also a SELF SUPPORTED CAR-FREE event. No support is offered, gather all the millions of information available on line so you might survive. Most of all, don't sue me if things go sideways.


Here's a possible route: https://ridewithgps.com/routes/17839578

We're planning a shakedown ride the last weekend of April, from Scappoose to Wilkerson:
https://www.facebook.com/events/770921619723037/ 

We've already gotten press!

http://rideoregonride.com/diy-adventure-oregon-outback/

 

The Oregon Outback, 2014 Edition

It all started in 2011 on Old Moody Road, when a group of us on tour veered off course and onto this steep gravel road.  As a confirmed roadie, I'd never ridden off the pavement before.  Soon, I was commuting to work on the unimproved blocks in my neighborhood, and signing up for Velodirt rides like the Dalles Mt 60, the Rapture, and even the Stampede.  I am starting to get better at gravel handling, but still consider myself an asphalt lover.

So, naturally, when I heard about Donnie and Gabe's slideshow presentation of their Oregon adventure ride last summer, I attended.  I watched with interest but told Donnie afterwards "no way will you see me on that ride".  Then, in November, when the link to register was posted, I found myself pointing, clicking and committing. From that moment, the tension grew from a small buzz in the back of my head to a fever pitch all around me of social media mentions, news coverage, bikes being built - you name it.  Everyone knew about the ride and the words Oregon Outback were on everyone's lips. The ride was legendary before it even began.

Just in case you haven't heard about it, the Oregon Outback is a 360-mile, mostly off-road odyssey that dissects the state from Klamath Falls to the Columbia River.  Completely self-supported with such features as an eighty mile no water stretch (not even creek water), a twenty mile loose sand section and extremely limited services on route - this ride was no joke.

The Outback would more than double my lifetime dirt and gravel miles.  I'd have to learn to sterilize water and carry at least three days' worth of food.  I'll admit it: I was a little terrified.  Especially as those riders who missed the registration deadline and rode the course a week early reported in with warnings of treachery and danger and abandoned the ride only halfway through.  Bewildered by self-doubt, I spent boatloads of money on gear and many hours packing, unpacking, weighing and repacking.

At long last, it was time to go.  With butterflies in my stomach, I got on my bike and rode to the train station.  Forty of us boarded the train in Portland that afternoon.  Amtrak put us all in one car for our pilgrimage to Klamath Falls.  Boxed wine, labelled Oregon Outback Emergency Water, was circulated.  Chammy butter samples were dispensed.  Gear talk was thick in the air.  I felt like part of something, part of something big that all of the cool kids were into.  

Eight hours later, we teamed up to unload our boxed bikes from the Amtrak cargo car and set to work reassembling and repacking our loads, there in the dark by the tracks.  For the first time in many hours, it was quiet.  News rolled in that the brew pub had stayed open late in anticipation of our arrival.  

I wore my lucky pink jersey with matching lipstick for the early morning start in front of the Maverick Hotel the next day.  I had a pretty funky looking set up with my 26" wheeled, aluminum GT mountain bike, rack, panniers, homemade polka dot frame pack and mega basket hydration system.  I anticipated hating that bike by the end of the trip, but instead ending up loving it even more.

 

Almost two hundred of us rolled out of the Maverick Hotel parking lot that Friday morning at 7am on the dot, Donnie-style.  Fewer than two hundred finished.  There was no fanfare except for the spectacle of us.  

All during the trip, I'd hear townspeople and farmers, children and road cyclists, talk about seeing Outback riders go through.  One waitress said, in a whispered awe "I saw twenty five of you ride right through town, just yesterday".  There was a small amount of media present - an NBC sports cameraman with a car early on day one.  And, then there was Ira Ryan's videographer, who I met at the pub in Klamath Falls Thursday night.  He'd be meeting and shooting Ira every 50 miles. 

I had dreamed and prepared for this ride for months and now it was actually happening.  It felt surreal to finally ride on the now famed OC&E trail, completely unknown to Portland bike fiends just a year ago.   The trail was dicey and slow at times.  Sidelined riders sprinkled the route, adjusting their loads or fixing flats.  I stopped and let some air out of my tires, hoping for a softer ride. 

That first day may have been the best day.  I felt like I could see the entire state of Oregon spread out in front of me with no task ahead except to pedal and survive.  The route was still crowded so I had the opportunity to ride with lots of different people.  

I'll never forget the few miles I spent with Mike, who was on a borrowed Bullitt cargo bike with a goal of finishing in three days.  We swapped stories and skipped the fork to Sprague River.  Up the path another mile we encountered a big fence with barbed wire on the top, no trespassing signs everywhere and an "electrified fence" warning.  We decided to go back and take the fork after all.  Mike made his goal, and rode back to Portland afterwards. 

The Sprague River cafe owner had put up a poster on the path advertising his iced tea and burritos.  While he filled my bottle with tea and I filled my platypus with water, my teammate walked up to me.  "I'm calling it", he said.  I didn't understand what he meant and asked him to repeat it.  His Outback was over.  His knee had blown up.  My only other teammate hadn't made it to the start, so now I was racing solo, but still surrounded by friends.

It's difficult to do justice to the beauty of the land we were passing over.  It changed rapidly every day, every mile.  I marveled at the views of valleys along riverbeds, canyons, castle-looking formations and breathtaking rockfaces carved into the hillsides.  So many scenic sights later, we arrived at camp early - 3pm.  There was easy creek access, a soft pine bed, and pretty purple flowers everywhere.  It started to feel like vacation then.  After dinner we rode a mile down to visit the next camp.  Outbackers were everywhere.

Day Two taught me some valuable lessons, one of which was not to trust tire tracks.  I spent ten hard miles lost on the OCE, riding uphill on some tough surfaces.  At first, there were tire tracks, then after the second or third gate, the terrain changed to grassy sagebrush.  When the gravel started again, I didn't see any tracks.  Maybe they're just not visible in this type of gravel, I reasoned.  Then I looked back and saw my own tracks, very clearly the only ones.

I was in tears, sure my entire trip was ruined.  Then I heard my Dad's voice in my head.  Pedal.  Point the bike north and pedal.  Just pedal. The worst thing that can happen is missing the Cowboy Dinner Tree and camping alone, but my ride is not over and not ruined!

As the day wore on, I watched the crisscross of airplane trails, generally pointing north.  I was completely alone and felt pretty sure the rest of my trip would be solo. Through woods and canyons and sagebrush-dotted desert, I rode.  The terrain changed so quickly it didn't seem real.  Finally on the last stretch, I encountered a man in an ATV (all terrain vehicle).  He stopped, turned off his loud engine, and asked me if I had enough water.  His tires were as tall as me and twice as wide.  Seeing me admire them, he commented "hillbilly tires!". 

Soon after, I rolled into the driveway of the Cowboy Dinner Tree with fifteen minutes to spare before my dinner reservation, another surreal moment.  There were a half dozen Outbackers inside, and, amazingly, there was my teammate who hadn't made it to the start.  I was overjoyed to learn he planned to rejoin my tiny little team.

The Cowboy Dinner Tree was a highlight and not to be missed, according to Donnie.  You can choose from either an entire roast chicken or a thirty ounce steak.  You must reserve in advance and you must pay cash.  I had planned my trip around this oddity.  It was an old farm building of some sort, clean and crowded, with bandanas in the windows instead of screens.

I flashed back to my first loaded tour, a San Francisco bike messenger tradition known as the Russian River Ride.  It was eighty miles, longer than I'd ever ridden at that point.  I was scared and stressed out about that ride.  Then, about halfway through in the middle of nowhere Northern California, amidst cornfields for miles, we came across a small shack with a pile of messenger bikes outside.  This shack was a bar and the Russian River Ride tradition was to throw back a shot of whiskey and sprint to Petaluma.  It was thrilling to realize that all these years later, I can still find rides that scare me.

The steak didn't come until after the huge salad, cowboy beans, baked potato and tin of freshly made dinner rolls.  And did I mention the bottomless mason jar of strawberry lemonade?  My slab of steak was prepared perfectly - bloody on the inside and crisp on the outside.  It was as big as a loaf of bread.  I put away two thirds of it, to save room for the marionberry cobbler dessert.  After one of the best meals of my life, we rode the modest five miles through a spectacularly gorgeous plain to Silver Lake, a small barely-inhabited ghost town.  I skipped the laundromat showers with the reasoning I'd only get dirty again tomorrow.

On Day Three I rolled out with Michael and the self-described "old guys" Jon and Ted, who were on Surly ECR fat bikes with four inch wide tires.  Amtrak had tagged their bike boxes with big yellow cards reading HEAVY, which they saved and tied to their saddle rails.  I had also brought a charm, a small Hello Kitty, who jumped ship early on day one.  Goodbye kitty.  Brad from Metropolis made and gave out burnished leather Oregon Outback patches, and I managed to keep mine (tied to my pannier) for the entire trip.

We found water spigots at the four corners known as Fort Rock, named for the dramatic rock formation a few miles north.  I filled up alongside the "Whiskey and Wheelies" team. This would be our last water for eighty miles.  This would also be the day we'd encounter the "twenty mile loose sand zone" (insert menacing voice of doom here).  The volcanic rock surface was a soft, red, slippery sand.  I named it Martian Sandscape School.  School, because I finished that part with a much better knowledge of bike handling then when I entered it.  I learned to glide through it, pretend I was swimming, and stopped freaking out at every fishtail.

To my surprise, this was the easiest day of the trip.  My mantra had been "is this the hard part?" because there had been so many warnings about treacherous terrain and so far it just felt like a bike ride.  A new mantra, on the lips of many Outback riders, was "twenty eight hours".  That's the amount of time the first finisher, Ira Ryan, took to ride the whole route.  I took six.  Days, that is.   It was so boggling to the rest of us out there, we'd chant his time during the hard sections. Another catch phrase I heard was "how many days?".  Everyone wanted to know everyone else's ride schedule to anticipate who they'd be riding and camping with.

On Day Four, I woke up to the taste of blood on my lips.  Turns out the biggest challenge of my trip was a little bit of a princess problem.  In my effort to be a minimalist, I had packed just one lipstick, a pale pink to match my lucky jersey.  Without chapstick or a more opaque lipstick, my lips were beyond chapped, to the point of bleeding.  I felt lucky and thankful that this was my only problem.

After oatmeal and coffee and a luxurious morning, my teammate and I turned left out of camp and slogged through twelve more miles of Mars.  If we had gone straight, like everyone else who stayed on course did, we would've been on regular friendly gravel almost immediately.  Instead, our bad turn added about twenty miles to the day.

Finally back on route, we plodded along the barren but beautiful Crooked River Highway.  I had developed a nice rest stop routine, which went like this: kickstand down, butt pillow out, map packet open, cop a squat and relax.  Studying the map was a fun new hobby.  A farmer in a pick up truck stopped to offer water.  He wasn't the first and he wouldn't be the last.  People out here were downright hospitable!  

The descent into the Crooked River valley, and the view of the Prineville Reservoir, were absolutely dazzling.  I cried and yelled and sang in sheer happiness.  I had just finished the last of my water so I stopped to fill up, feeling competent now at water sterilization.  Next I set my sights on Prineville, home of beer and lipstick.

I nearly cried for the third time of the trip when I learned that the brew pub in Prineville was closed.  Then we found Dillon's Grill, sat on the patio with our bikes and our beers and not a care in the world.  Except that my teammate's hand hurt.  He decided to stay at the hotel, along with Jon and Ted and some others, but I headed south to the RV Park, dead set on getting my money's worth from my new tent.  I enjoyed my first shower in days and shared the small tent site with a road tourist from Sisters.  She had seen many of our group during her last few days of riding.

The next morning I found my teammate in front of the hotel, ready to pack it in.  He hadn't been able to use his hand since yesterday and was afraid of permanent nerve damage.  Jon and Ted had just left, so I took off, hoping to catch them.  Alone again, the ride out of Prineville was bittersweet.  Sweet because I felt so fantastic myself, but bitter because my teammates were missing out.

Fueled by real coffee and an omelet, wearing my new pink cowboy shirt and darker lipstick, riding in my new team of one, I still felt relatively fresh.  Nothing was sore.  Spirits were high.  I didn't know it then, but this would be the hardest day of the trip.  I caught up with Jon and Ted at the entry to the Trout Creek area.  I was glad to see them, not only for the company but because I knew the "easy to miss" turn was coming soon and I didn't want to get lost again.  Thirty lost miles was plenty.

We climbed and climbed, then climbed some more.  Jon saw a chalk note telling Mat and Kim to meet someone at Trout Lake.  The higher we got, the lower the temperature dipped.  I finally gave in and dug out my puffy jacket.  The dirt downhill was soft and supremely fun.  Jon and Ted flew ahead while I navigated a bit more slowly, or, well, a lot more slowly.

Soon I was picking my way along a never-ending ridge along the Trout Creek river valley.  I heard the rush of water and came to a dead stop at this first creek crossing.  I recalled the warnings of a thigh-deep river crossing.  This one was only ankle deep, but each time I heard the rush of the river, my heart jumped into my throat.  But, just like the entire ride had been, the fear was bigger than the reality.

We entered Ashwood, which consists of a grange hall and a couple of farm houses.  A farmer waved us down.  "Do you guys need water?  The folks yesterday sure did.  Come on over and fill up.  You've got a five mile uphill up next."  I had hoped he was exaggerating, but he was right on.  I couldn't believe how good I felt on that climb.  I think there's something in the air over there.

That night, Jon and Ted and I camped in Antelope.  Morning doves hoo-hooed but otherwise it was hauntingly quiet there.  Each evening, I'd rate the day from one to ten (one is easy, ten is hard).  My rating system included terrain, hilliness and overall toughness.  Nothing was ever harder than a seven, except for the terrain on Day Six, which I rated as a nine. The average of all numbers from all days was 5.55, which makes it sound pretty easy.  Another nightly habit was to wipe down my dusty bike, lube my chain and check all the bolts.  I never did have any mechanical problems, not even a flat.

Jon and Ted shared the last of their brandy with me, celebrating their last night.  We left early the next day, our last day, and climbed the tarmac up to Shaniko, where a box awaited me at the post office.  There at the park, we found a big gang of riders just about to leave.  I asked them to wait while I opened my box and champagne to share.

I jumped on the fast train of riders on highway 97 and experienced the highest speeds of the week.   You could see forever on these high rolling plains.  A dark pillar of rain touched the horizon to the west, and it was headed our way.  The weather had been stellar all week.  Cloudy and sunny and only sprinkling occasionally, but always when I was in my tent.  The rain didn't catch us until were safely inside the cafe at Grass Valley.  I enjoyed a Cowboy Dinner Tree-sized cobb salad and homemade strawberry rhubarb pie.  By the time we went outside again, it was sunny and dry.

Turning west onto gravel roads, I knew we'd be on the last section of the Oregon Stampede route soon.  Just the thought of that death-march day, my hardest day ever on a bike, slowed me down.  I spied the gang waiting for me at the top of the next hill and heard myself say to them "I'm slow and chickeny on the chunky stuff, so don't wait for me."  I had gotten into the habit of making chicken sounds when descending slowly, partly to amuse myself and partly to warn other riders.

Solo again, and on the last page of the map with just twenty miles to go, I felt sentimental and sad that this adventure of a lifetime was almost over.  So, I slowed down and savored it.  The wind kicked up, reminding me of my fear of gorge gusts.  It felt like a big hand on my chest, pushing me back and taking my breath away.

Finally at Fulton Canyon, I raced ahead to see the Columbia River come into sight, my eyes filled, and just like that, my Oregon Outback was over.  Each day was its own tough, fun, stunningly beautiful exploratory adventure through our magnificent state and its friendly inhabitants.  Much like a kid's favorite carnival ride, I plan to get back in line and ride it again and again.
 
I am very grateful to all of those who helped and supported me, including:

Linda, for the bike.
Brigid and Laura, for the go get'ems.
Mom, for the polka dot vinyl.
Dad, for the homemade jerky.
Butch, for the seatpost.
Kim, for the tire inspiration.
Smithermania, for the advice.
Seth, for the pro-tip to reinforce my mega basket with a strip of innertube.
Nick, for the trunk bag and spirit.
Donnie, for the ride and those last minute maps.
Gabe, for the hats.
Matt, for believing in me.
Brad, for the souvenir patch.
Trevor, for the chamois butt'r.
Nick S, for the laughs.
Kelley, for the finish line beers.
Lawson and Michael of Team Relegate, for leaving me high.
Farmers and Landowners and Motos and ATVers, for the offers of water.
The two guys who abandoned halfway through (and thought I couldn't finish)
Portland Society, for asking me to recap my trip before I'd even started.
BicycleKitty blog readers, for staying with me every mile of the ride.

The Backs

Bikepacking the Oregon Outback in 2014 set me off in a whole new direction as a cyclist. This little blog gained a lot of attention and even influenced some to do the ride the following year.  The former is great but the latter is my mission - helping motivate people to ride, to do any ride at all, feels very important to me.

When some friends asked how challenging the Oregon Outback is (kinda hard but not soul crushing) and if it was something they could do (hell yes!), I decided to create a team. In 2015, "my" nine riders joined me at the start, and every single one of them finished. Since then, I’ve put together some other bikepacking adventures and it's been fun to include "back" in the name, which is meant as a tip of the cap to the original.

In 2016 I took a break from the "Backs" to compete in the Steens Mazama 1000. I suppose that race counts as bikepacking but it felt harder because it was so dang long.

In 2017, a group of us rode the Out-n-Back, a six day trek starting in Klamath Falls, tracing the route of the original Oregon Outback and u-turning near Fort Rock to ride south back to Klamath Falls.

In 2018, we rode a fictional route called the NorthBack, a 500 mile mixed-terrain loop from Bend to the Crooked River, Prineville, the Ochocos, Mitchell, Condon, Cottonwood Canyon, Grass Valley, Maupin, Madras, Lake Billy Chinook and Sisters. The list of town names might imply a civilized trip, but much of it felt remote.

For 2019, we put together a mini-tour and called it the Baby Back. Nine riders, some from other "Backs", some experienced, some on their first bikepacking trip, set out on Saturday morning from the Cup and Bar café on MLK, which is a deluxe spot to meet due to its central location and indoor bike parking.  We headed up to Washington Park, and soon found ourselves in a rainy portion of the western suburbs, picking up our 10th and final rider for the weekend.

The rain and the traffic picked up right around the same time. We kept riding anyway. Finally to Gales Creek, I ignored intuition and passed a diner with a large "milkshakes" sign on my way to another store a couple miles down.  The second store had apparently been closed for a couple of years so I turned back and arrived at the first diner just as two other riders were getting their milkshakes delivered.  After the break, we went back out to find the rain had dried up.  A few miles later, I heard dogs barking so I thought we were in Timber, but not quite! Some more climbing took us to an innocent-looking street sign with some discreet yellow zip ties poking through the base.  These were Randonneur markings, I was sure of it, so I added my own pink zip tie to the mix and carried on.

The cabin in Timber made the whole ride worthwhile. Tired riders congregated on the couch. It was a cozy getaway complete with a kitchen, woodburning stove and laundry.  The next morning our enjoyment came to a quick halt as we headed up a steep little climb on a nice quiet gravel road.  Once again, I ignored the intuition beckoning me onto a paved downhill slope to second breakfast in Vernonia. Instead, I joined the group and we all rode up, up and more up onto gravel that ascended into single track, with lots of stunning and well-earned vistas. We made it to Vernonia barely in time for a late lunch. Our planned bonus miles to Yankton pie were a joke now.  In a handy twist of fate, we did yank a pie plate from Cosmo’s wheel before leaving lunch for Pittsburg gravel.

We made it to Camp Wilkerson and enjoyed the luxury of a large group site with leantos and picnic tables and a fire pit.  After a fun and restful evening, we were all charged up and ready for our day three.  We decided to nix the somewhat dull planned route, which would've taken us to North Plains and back through the suburbs.  Instead we headed down Camp Nine Road, which is a new favorite, to the Crown Zellerbach Trail.  We quickly passed through Scappoose, then headed west into the Dutch Mountain Canyon to climb Otto Miller Road and Dixie Mountain Road and finally regrouped at Skyline Tavern for a well-deserved beer and dinner.

Some of us had done one or all of the Backs, some were new to the posse, and some were new to bikepacking.  By the end, we were all fast friends.  Some shed tears, justifying the name of our tour, all laughed, and all had a fantastic time!

Just for kicks, here are my three bikepacking (or loaded touring) rigs, each in their native environment.