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| Cosmo, aka Guru Greg |
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| Handsome James |
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| Quit Quitting Keith |
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| Jason of Team Biscuit |
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| Side Quest Eric (Nylon in background) |
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| Bicycle Kitty |
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| Linda the Fisher |
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| Badass |
Before dinner, a few of us followed Guru Greg directly up to Chimney Rock. Scrambling up the steep hillside in my cheap camp shoes may not have been the best decision.
Finally at the top, I took a more-established looking trail to
get back down. It took more than an hour,
during which time I was alone and a little freaked out about being lost in the
wilderness with nothing more than a hat and a lipstick. The trail eventually led back down to the
road and I walked another half mile to get back to camp. I expected everyone to be relieved to see me,
and on the verge of sending a rescue party, but everyone was making dinner as if nothing had happened.
Day three was our earliest start at 7am. We knew we’d have miles to make up and
decided together to re-route to the highway to Spray to save time. It was beautiful riding along the John Day
River at last and into a long winding canyon through the Umatilla National
Forest. I ran out of water, even though
I’d had 5 liters with me to start. It
was very hot and there was barely any shade. I
waved down a man in a pick up truck who told me he had no water, but pointed to
the vehicle behind him and said “but they do!”. They insisted I take all I could from their 5
gallon jug as they were on their way home and not planning to use it. I overheard the man say two things to his
wife while I was filling my bottles: “This isn’t the city, we stop to help
people out here” and “You’d fit right in in downtown Portland”.
We climbed and climbed, passing inviting campgrounds and
watching the sun set. Guru Greg patiently listened to my complaints about the neverending climb. Soon he was whooping and hollering - we had arrived at a sign marked "summit". We arrived at the Anson Wright Campground after 87 hard miles. I went directly to the showers, taking my
bike in with me, before finding the group.
Everyone was going to bed and we were now in the dark on the whereabouts
of three riders.
Six of us left camp on day four, me without my gloves. I could’ve sworn I’d left them by the shower,
but no luck. All day I kept “finding”
them mentally so I'd stop and ravage my packs to look. Riding without padding, my hands exposed to
the high desert sun was so tough that I’d occasionally don my Swobo full finger
wool gloves.
The headwinds turned on high on the stretch to Condon and every downhill required pedaling. This turned out to be only a one cry day, but that one cry lasted at least an hour. Rolling into Condon felt glorious. Little U.S. flags lined the sweet homey main street. There was a drive-in burger joint that looked like it time-traveled here from the 1950s.
Batteries low, I stopped at a market facing a funny outdoor
electrical outlet. I plugged my phone
in, and, still punchy, had to go In the market three separate times to get everything I needed. An old pick up truck, really old and clunky,
pulled up. In the time it took me to
refill my water bottles, the driver got out of his car. He walked as slow as anyone I’d ever
seen. When he finally came around the
car and onto the sidewalk, I got a good look at him. At least 90 years old. An old farmer, maybe the son of a
homesteader. He had that homestead rough
and tumble, make-it-work look that saturates the area. I offered him my excess oatmeal packets and
he smiled, saying “I eat this all the time!”.
He asked if I’d ridden my bike here and when I answered “everywhere I
go”, he told me he’d been a bike rider too.
I don’t recall when I started seeing the turbines. Tall and massive, but slender, each spinning
at its own rhythm, I found them mesmerizing and had to force myself to look away. I didn’t know then that we’d
have hundreds of these white giants as company over the next day and a half.
The landscape was shaped like a blanket waiting to be
smoothed out. Each wrinkle would reveal
a little white dot, which would become a blade of a turbine. As we moved across the landscape, more turbines would appear, like an army slowly
marching toward us.
Cottonwood Canyon is a place I'd never heard of. I found it on the map and routed us through it. It was a marvel of a wind tunnel, with beautifully soft walls enclosing it. It was so windy there, each campsite had a wooden wall to act as a wind barrier. As I rolled in, just after dusk, I spied one of the riders I hadn't seen since day two. Linda, who we'd missed the night before, had found my gloves at the showers that morning, but, thinking we must've been gone, picked them up and left. I was glad to have them.
Day five was another early depart, and another long climb to start the day. Another afternoon of windfarms and sagebrush and of course, headwinds. Grass Valley was ghostly. The post office and its clerk, who informed me "I'm a trainee!", were like a cartoon from a bygone era. I picked up my box and packed it with extra stuff, my trash and raincoat. It rained a little that afternoon, and I felt like I deserved it.
Descending into the DesChutes River valley is enough to make you fall in love with that river. It's big and powerful and it rages. And it lives in the steepest stone-walled canyon I've ever seen. I gasped and gasped, wowed and awed. I felt scared, not of falling, or of getting hurt, but of the bigness of this earth and the smallness of me.
Curling down the river, riding upstream but feeling downhill and easy, we started to see little houses on impossibly high ledges. We'd arrived in Maupin, a sweet little town straddling the river and offering all the creature comforts one could want. Some riders enjoyed a cabin while the rest of us camped by the river.
We left camp at 7:30am the next day, day six, but we could've left at 9:30am with the same result. Riding to and from another private, impassable "road" made for 15 bonus miles. Blood boiled and I began to think I'd have no friends by the end of the trip.
The highway from Mapin was hot and unprotected and full of traffic. I was thankful to meet flaggers holding groups of 5 vehicles each way, as I could pull aside while semis screamed by, then own the road again for a time.
I'd hoped and hoped for a vending machine at the rest stop, but no such luck. A lady in the bathroom asked where I was riding. I said if Bend is the sink, and the high ceiling is the Columbia, River, we'd done a wide arching circle between the two.
Onward and downward, I coasted to a halt by a gentleman wearing a pink t-shirt, leaning against his bike and smoking a cigarette. He had nothing with him and was traveling to Portland by way of The Dalles. He asked if I had a Clif Bar to spare, but I didn't, so I gave him a pack of raw ramen instead with the advice to pretend it was Japanese crackers.
I finally saw another rider from our group after entering Madras, but we immediately lost each other so I stopped to buy beer. The home stretch to Lake Billy Chinook seemed to take forever. Several times I stopped to check if my tire was flat or if my brake was rubbing or maybe my headset was loose. The bike was so slow and wobbly. There was nothing wrong though, just a tired rider.
The descent into the Lake Billy Chinook canyon was just gorgeous. Our group campsite was huge, and came with free firewood. Seven of us made it to this final night and we celebrated by the campfire for many hours.
The last day was the most eventful. Again we started the day climbing up and out, which spread the group out. The gravel road called Squaw Flat was hauntingly peaceful. I'm glad I stayed on it because three riders took the planned route, which yet again led through private property, after a long gravel downhill with no dead-end warning signs.
I don't blame them for climbing the fence, but I wish they hadn't. The land owner promptly called state troopers, who promptly found me and another rider on the public road. He showed us photos of our friends and asked if we knew them. I told him of our routing difficulties and he quickly produced a little orange card with instructions on how to download Avenza, which I will use in the future.
We saw the trooper three times all told. By the third time, we felt like friends. He was quite charming but warned there may be citations of up to $6000 each. The worst part was that the landowner requested that I receive one of those high dollar tickets, since I was the route planner. After that drama ended, we found the network of gravel roads slowly leading us to Sisters and the end of our adventure. I felt sad and already homesick for vacation. I was also filthy and physically exhausted, with swollen eyes and lips, and glad to be done.
Our finish line party took place first at Three Creeks Brewing, then at EuroSports. We swapped tales of trespassing, of bonus miles and apologies, and of plans to try again next year.
Day five was another early depart, and another long climb to start the day. Another afternoon of windfarms and sagebrush and of course, headwinds. Grass Valley was ghostly. The post office and its clerk, who informed me "I'm a trainee!", were like a cartoon from a bygone era. I picked up my box and packed it with extra stuff, my trash and raincoat. It rained a little that afternoon, and I felt like I deserved it.
I'd hoped and hoped for a vending machine at the rest stop, but no such luck. A lady in the bathroom asked where I was riding. I said if Bend is the sink, and the high ceiling is the Columbia, River, we'd done a wide arching circle between the two.
Onward and downward, I coasted to a halt by a gentleman wearing a pink t-shirt, leaning against his bike and smoking a cigarette. He had nothing with him and was traveling to Portland by way of The Dalles. He asked if I had a Clif Bar to spare, but I didn't, so I gave him a pack of raw ramen instead with the advice to pretend it was Japanese crackers.
I finally saw another rider from our group after entering Madras, but we immediately lost each other so I stopped to buy beer. The home stretch to Lake Billy Chinook seemed to take forever. Several times I stopped to check if my tire was flat or if my brake was rubbing or maybe my headset was loose. The bike was so slow and wobbly. There was nothing wrong though, just a tired rider.
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| A well-kept homesteader cemetery |
