The Salmonberry Trail

Built in the 1930s, this old Pacific rail line once connected the Oregon coast and Portland.  Flooded and repaired again and again, it was finally abandoned in 2007 and left for nature to grow over. 

As we set out to ride this future rails-to-trails project on a morning in 2016, I thought riding on the pilings between the tracks would be the worst part of the day.  I was wrong.  By the end of the day, any section of pilings clear enough to bump over while on our bikes would have felt like pure luxury. 

We invented a new term that day: bushpacking.  Our credo: "we don't ride bikes, we carry them!".  The bike was actually pretty useful in helping me navigate steep climbs on foot and it made for a nice water and snack carrier.  Otherwise, it was almost completely useless on this epic adventure. The word epic is often overused, but in the case of this particular adventure, it felt perfectly appropriate. 

One rider carried a machete, but the woods were too thick for it.  We'd scramble and rest and repeat over and over.  One treacherous creek crossing featured a deeper than apparent current that almost took my bike away, and gave me a bloody ankle.

After the creek, we encountered a steep muddy cliff.  We stood there and looked at it for a whle.  How could we turn back?  I didn't want to do all of that hard stuff again! We spied a knotted rope, tied to a tree near the top and decided to give it a try.  At that point, our group was split up and there were just two of us.  I was able to scramble up the cliff and reach the rope.  Once I got the rope, I felt like a junior high student in gym class, but with more on the line than potential humiliation.  Finally at the top, I was able to hang on to the rope and grab my bicycle as it was handed up.  Next, my friend, a tall guy with a big bike, handed his bike up.  I was able to put the rope through his front wheel and just hold it while he scrambled up to help me retrieve his machine.

This entire operation took around 45 minutes.  We laid at the top exhausted and covered in mud and sweat.  Just then, we heard people clapping.  Some hikers on the other side of the river must have spectated our entire ridiculous ascent.

The afternoon wore on.  I missed riding my bike.  We kept going, often seeing fallen trestle bridges, sometimes crossing those yet to fall.  Finally, we could go no further.  We hadn't seen the tracks in some time, and had been scrambling over boulders between a loud rushing river and a steep stone cliff.  There was nowhere else to go, so we turned back.

We found a tiny gravel path that led to a gravel road and took it with the hopes we could escape the Nehalem River valley and get back to civilization before nightfall.  We trudged up the steep hill for a very long time.  It was so steep that it was easy to stop and rest, you just leaned onto the hillside.  The sun was starting to set and my friend said we might be spending the night out here.  Between us we had an emergency blanket, water, a large chocolate bar and a small flask of whiskey, so we knew we'd be okay.  

A lifetime later we reached the top of this diabolical road (which we later learned is called Beaver Slide Road) and we mounted up and rolled east.  Sitting on the saddle never felt so good.  The vistas were incredible and we quickly undid the day's miles in an hour.  It had taken us eight hours to traverse 13 miles of this undeveloped rail trail through the woods.

Steens Mazama 1000

This is the sort of race that I knew I had to do from the moment I first heard about it.  First of all, there is no car support allowed.  This is a rule I can get behind. Second, and even more important, this looks way too hard for me.  So, I'll suck it up and actually train for this one.  A thousand mile loop, visiting the two highest points of Oregon, is no joke and I'd like to do it in style.  Plus, I'll get to sleep every night, which is more than randos can say.

When I described the event to my dad, he said he didn't understand why I'd want to do something so hard that is guaranteed to hurt.  "Why would anyone want to sign up for so much pain?" he said.  Normally very supportive, his feedback gave me pause. 

I used the pause to ask myself the same questions he'd asked me.  Why would I want to do this race?  Bragging rights?  No.  Ok, yes, but also the adventure of it.  The challenge.  The views.  Will it just be all pain all the time?  No.  Ok, maybe, but there'll be breaks between the pain and I'll cope with it. 

The bottom line is this: what if this is my last chance to do something like this?  What if all this global warming or political lunacy or an asteroid or earthquake end everything and I missed a chance to do something amazing?  I don't want to know, so I registered.

Since that moment of publicly committing to compete, it's pretty much all I think about.  I've put together a team of three, because I like riding with friends.  I taped a series of map pages on the wall with the route sharpied in.  I created a day plan.

Unfortunately, I also got sick.  And my knee's been weak.  But I won't let these things stop me, or even slow me down.  I'm still training.  I got a new fit on the bike.  I visited a physical therapist and have signed up for regular massages.  I'm doing it.