Winter Running

This is an oldie I found in a notebook from the Wyoming days. The memories came flooding back when I was in Calgary a couple days ago--minus 22F and fresh snow on the ground. Brrrr!

Outside the snow is falling in big, soft flakes. The flag hangs straight down the pole, unbuoyed by wind. At five minutes to 12, I pull my running clothes from my bottom desk drawer and slip quietly out of the office. My faithful running partner meets me at precisely noon and we trot off into the white abyss. For the first five minutes, we work to avoid cars and the hard-packed, slippery surface, but once we turn onto the golf course, the untracked snow is soft and powdery.

Here, on this soundless winter day, there are no disturbances, no other signs of life. The snow continues to fall, leaving fluffy white flakes in our hair and eyelashes. For 20 minutes we run in companiable silence, enjoying the quiet solitude after the past few days of vicious howling winds. Those runs were laborious, leaving us irritable and unsatisfied. But today we enjoy the peaceful calm afforded us by the still air and the steadily falling snow.

As we leave the golf course and reenter civilization, we begin to chat again, sharing the difficulties of our work days and the events of our love lives. We have no secrets between us; everything comes out on our daily noon runs.

Our shoes are wet, socks soggy from the sloppy roads leading back into town. Back at our starting point, we make snow angels on the lawn before heading back to our respective offices. Tomorrow the snow will be crusty and uneven, the streets icy.

But today was perfect.

Adventures in Politics

I generally keep my political views to myself. It keeps the peace in the family and among less like-minded friends and coworkers. But on occasion (twice, to be exact) I've been coerced into joining a campaign.

The first time was two years ago when I unexpectedly had some time on my hands and limited physical ability. I spent two or three days a week campaigning for a certain presidential candidate who may or may not have brought about the hoped-for change.

The second time was today. Apparently I'm now on a certain political party's calling list and they happened to call me when I was half-way through my second happy hour beer and was feeling more agreeable than usual. The caller was seeking volunteers for the campaign of a certain non-former-professional-sports-playing candidate for governor. For a moment I thought I was off the hook since the office is in the next county over. But they graciously found a more conveniently located post for me.

This morning, I had a twinge of buyer's remorse and almost called to cancel my shift, but thought better of it and decided to follow through with a loosely- and tipsily-made promise. So I pedaled my butt down to the campaign office where I followed hand-written signs and a line of tape up stairs, through a maze of phone banks, cubicles, whiteboards and frantic staffers, then down some stairs to my assigned volunteer post. I spent two hours in front of a computer, calling voters to persuade them to cast their ballot for our candidate.

Effective? Who knows. I personally hate campaign calls and don't think I've ever been swayed by one (at least not the way they wanted to sway me). But (if I remember to mail my own ballot in time) I feel I've done a civic duty and participated in the political process. I even met a few really neat people along the way and got to see the internal chaos of a late-state major campaign office.

FAT55 Mountain Bike Marathon

I very nearly bailed out of the inaugural FAT55 mountain bike race in Oakridge, Oregon (aka OROR) yesterday. It was early in the race on an atypical rainy September morning and I was already struggling with both bike- and rider-induced challenges. I've always enjoyed racing but promise myself to keep it fun and not take it too seriously.

On this particular morning I was not having fun. And not just in the way that you don't have fun at mile 21 of a 26-mile marathon, but seriously not enjoying myself. The internal conversation went like this: "You know, I'm just not having fun here. And I really don't feel like riding my bike in the rain over wet roots and rocks all day." I decided I would finish out the current loop that would deposit me at the finish area mid-race. I would have had a decent workout and I would load up my stuff and go home. End of not having fun.

Then I exited a rocky, root-strewn section of trail and started a gravel road climb up to the Aubrey Mountain trail. I put on my iPod which I wisely programmed the day before with a solid playlist designed to encourage me uphill through the rain (the race-saving song turned out to be I'm Only Happy When It Rains by Garbage). Comforted by the knowledge that I was in this for the short haul, I pedaled determinedly up the relentless mile-and-a-half grade known as "The Wall." I whispered sweet nothings to my derailleur when I passed the poor bastard walking his single-speed.

I reached the junction to the Eugene-to-Crest and Aubrey Mountain trail sooner than I expected and was treated to a few sweet miles of well-structured singletrack. Now this is why I mountain bike! Winding along the side of the mountain, rolling through forest and meadows, then down, down, down. My tunes still spurring me on, I ripped down the trail and tore through the industrial park and into the midway aid station at Greenwaters Park. Somewhere along the way, I changed my mind about going home and decided to keep racing. I stayed at the aid station just long enough to switch Perpetuem bottles, refill the Cambelback, and apply fresh chamois cream. Eugene (a friend and the race organizer) yelled encouragement as I rode out of transition and across the footbridge toward Larison Creek and Larison Rock, the last two sections of the course.

Now I was really on fire, regaining lost ground from this morning as I pedaled furiously up the gentle gravel grade and settled into a steady pace on the steeper paved road. I passed several riders that I never saw again. Then I felt all alone as I made my way along the seemingly endless 8-mile gravel-road climb/traverse to the top of the Larison Creek trail. Periodically I would glimpse a brightly-colored jersey as it disappeared around the next corner and work steadily to catch up, then pass. Finally, feeling that the trail should surely be close, I began to falter both mentally and physically. I struggled to focus on the task at hand, to keep my upper body relaxed and not expend unneeded energy. When I really thought I might die, The trail appeared on my left.

The first bit was a smooth descent toward the creek, then the trail dropped and twisted furiously, combining tight switchbacks and wet roots to force me off my bike time and again. While dry roots can make for fun and interesting riding, wet roots are pure evil. They tend to snatch your wheel out from under you, slamming you hard to the ground. Weather-smoothed rocks are no better when rain-drenched. I rode cautiously and walked when I had any doubts about a successful outcome. I passed one rider and was passed by another. Then the trail smoothed out and I flew along the creek as it neared Hills Creek Reservoir, cornering through the lush forest and rolling gently up and down.

When I reached the paved road at trails end I felt confident in my position and knew I could reach the finish if I just kept moving. No need to kill myself by pushing hard. Instead of stopping to eat, I pedaled easily along the flat road and ate a small energy bar out of my mountain feed bag. Hardy volunteers pointed the way up the final, 4.5-mile climb to the Larison Rock trail which would deposit me at the finish line. It was raining steadily now and a miserable day to sit still for hours, marshaling slightly insane mountain bikers in the right direction.

I suppressed any feelings of shame about using my granny gear and engaged it to spin slowly uphill. The guy who passed me on Larison Creek was on the side of the road nursing a cramp. Another guy dawdled at the final aid station as I rode by. No stopping now. Must. Keep. Moving. Finish. Line. Near.

Cramp Guy passed me again. We agreed that there must be less than two miles to the summit. Maybe around the next bend? Or the next three or four. We kept going up. And up. If I didn't make the top in five more minutes, I would stop and stretch. Four minutes later, a rain-coated volunteer waved us into the trail for the descent. I thought I might be hallucinating.

I was so exhausted I could barely steer my bike. After a couple turns, I remembered that I had locked out both front and rear suspension for the climb. The trail was much more fun when I opened them up again. Then cold set in and shivering added to fatigue to make keeping my wheel on the trail a challenge. My glasses were wet, dirty, and steamy. I couldn't see through them, but without them things were blurry. Better to not see with glasses or not see without them? I kept them on, but slid them down my nose so I could peer over them. I told myself to just relax. I didn't have to ride fast, just keep riding.

After what is normally a super-fun, ripping-fast lark (but today was a miserable, cold, wet, slippery descent), I exited the trail for a brief stint of gravel road, then some fast, twisty trails back across the Middle Fork Willamette to the finish line. Feeling strong and anticipating hot food and warm clothes, I hammered in: 29th overall and second in my age group, good for my first ever prize money!

But the most exciting part of the weekend was the ongoing saga of the Cultus Lake Carjacker. Eugene was concerned that the race course would be impacted by the manhunt. The morning of the race, the local sheriff brought him a map of the area where the suspect was thought to be corralled. Later that night, we got word he had been shot and captured near the Fish Hatchery--which we rode through during the race!

Hells Canyon: The Rest of the Story

The three miles between Wild Sheep and Granite rapids disappeared in a flash at the high flow. We made a mad paddle for a campsite on river right, just above Granite. The site featured a gravel beach with a flat-ish area for the kitchen and a row of tent sites on a partially wooded bench above and to the right. A trail hugged a granite wall downstream to a view of the rapid.

The first camp was a bit chaotic as we struggled to remember where we had packed certain items. It took me several hours to round up everything Scott and I needed to make breakfast the next morning. The Cattertons served up a tasty meal of hamburgers, green salad and potato salad. It was clear and warm, so Scott and I opted to forego the tent and sleep on our tarp under the stars again. We had a few minutes to regret this decision when it sprinkled a few drops in the wee hours, but it stopped before we could rouse ourselves.

After breakfast (Spanish eggs with corn tortillas and orange slices) we began the arduous process of getting all the gear back into the boats. Why is it that gear always seems to expand beyond the capacity of the storage space that it came out of?

We hoped to run Granite before the river came up, but we timed our launch almost perfectly with the high flow. We were able to confirm this at Pittsburg Landing a couple days later when we could look at a flow chart and mentally insert our position on the river at various stages. We scouted the giant wave train that formed a "green room" mid-way down. It seemed possible that the overhead curlers could flip the smaller raft. Cindy decided to hike around which meant ferrying across the river to let her out on the opposite bank where she could follow a trail and then bushwhack through a poison ivy thicket to the shore below the rapid.

When it was all said and done, Granite gave us more fun than fear. We relished the memory as we sat in the poison-ivy-laden eddy to wait for Cindy. After watching us float through, I think she regretted her decision. She and Mike lathered up with Technu as soon as we were back on the water.

The rest of the trip was much more relaxing if less exciting. Day two featured lots of Class II and III water with epic canyon scenery. We spent two nights at the second camp, enjoying the layover day with no packing, loading and unloading. I hiked, others napped, swam, and chilled out. Although we had tied the boats up in two feet of water, we admired the 10 feet of beach that had appeared between them and the river when the river abruptly dropped and never rose again. On Day four, lunch at Pittsburg Landing meant the end of the whitewater.

The rest of the canyon was mellower, but no less beautiful. After three days of seeing few people other than a few jet boats and a small guided raft party that took out at Pittsburg, it was a bit of a disruption to begin seeing jet boats in greater numbers. We were nearing Fourth of July weekend and the motorheads were laying claim to the best beach campsites. The last night, we squeezed into what I named the "barefoot camp" since the sandy kitchen area made it easier and more comfortable to go without shoes--at least until hopping across a rocky creek to the tent sites on the other side.

The last day we stopped at Kirkwood Historic Ranch for a quick tour of early American life in Hell's Canyon (we got a brief glimpse of late Indian life two days earlier when we passed the point where Chief Joseph led his tribe across the river during spring floods when the early Americans chased them from the Wallowa Valley). A few hours later, we all groaned in disappointment when we rounded a bend to see Heller Bar--the end point for our week-long adventure.

Hell's Canyon Rafting Trip

It all started in the damp and dark of January when the Four Rivers Lottery opened. The lottery is how one procures permits for the Main Salmon River, the Middle Fork Salmon, the Selway, and the Hell's Canyon section of the Snake.

Scott, our friend Justin, and I agreed on dates to submit on our applications and that we would all apply. A few weeks later, the lottery results arrived by email: I was successful in drawing a Snake River permit to launch June 28. Seventy-eight river miles, 4-6 days. Non-transferable. When I asked Scott and Justin about their results, they confessed that they never actually got around to submitting the application.

Scott and I started making some vague plans and inviting people that we knew would enjoy such an adventure. When it was all said and done, only seven of us made the trip: Scott and I, our friend George who has accompanied us on several 3-day trips down the Deschutes, our next-door neighbor Darcy, my friend and former co-worker Janeen who lives in Boise and is known to be adventurous, and our Wyoming rafting friends the Cattertons.

On June 27, George and Darcy met at our house where we spread out a ridiculous amount of gear, food, and beer that somehow had to fit in two vehicles plus a flat-bed trailer while leaving room for the four of us to sit. When it became apparent that this would take a while, Darcy went home and returned with a pitcher of Bloody Marys to help speed things along.

Some hours later (I won't say how many) everything was loaded and we were driving toward Halfway, Oregon, the last bit of civilization we would see for a week and the meet-up point with Mike, Cindy, and Janeen.

We arranged shuttles and stocked up on block ice at Scotty's Hells Canyon river supply store then mosied to the cafe next door for dinner--the service was nearly as bad as the food.

After a night of camping under the stars, we drove to the launch site where I made coffee and Janeen made jalapeno-cheddar french toast while three carloads of gear, food, and beer were once again strewn about and sorted into dry boxes and coolers for the trip.

Much later in the day than we wanted, we shoved off and peeled into the current, Scotty and Mike on oars and Darcy commanding the rest of us in the paddle raft. The first few miles were fairly uneventful Class III with some welcome splashing to cool us off. But we were all a bit anxious about Wild Sheep, the infamous Class IV lurking downstream.

The river was running high and we reached the scouting point for Wild Sheep in no time. Stomachs in throats and adrenaline surging, we surveyed the scene from a trail high on the river bank. No clean line was visible, so conversation turned to potential consequences of screwing up a particular line as a means of choosing the lesser of several evils. Mike wanted to take the left side through a series of lateral waves that seemed sure to push the boat into a pile of rocks below. The rest of us preferred the right-hand line with big waves and more laterals, but fewer obstacles.

Mike went first while the rest of us watched to see what happened to his boat. He went in a bit farther right than I thought desirable and the entire boat occasionally disappeared under the turbulent water. But each time, his helmet emerged on top and he finally floated into calmer water below the rapid. Scotty went next and we followed him in the paddle raft. Our strategy was to hug the right side of the hole that bordered the channel so as to (hopefully)remain in the left side of the current and not get pulled to the right into the strong laterals.

We entered exactly as planned with the boat pointed dutifully left, paddling for all we were worth. But it made no difference; the strong current tugged us right and before we could turn the boat to hit the laterals head on, the right side of raft pitched up high. I was sure we were going over. Then I felt a release and the boat plopped back down right-side up. Incredible! Then I realized George was out of the boat. Darcy was yelling "Swimmers! We have swimmers!" I looked behind me and saw that Cindy and Janeen were also missing. I looked ahead and saw all three bobbing feet-first through the wave train, tightly clutching their paddles. But Darcy and I were still in the meat of Wild Sheep and needed to keep the boat upright before we could think about a rescue. She shouted commands and paddled from the rear while I knelt in the floor at the front of the raft and paddled on the left or right as instructed.

As the current began to mellow out, Cindy swam into an eddy and was suddenly beside us. As I fumbled for the throw rope, Darcy stuck the T of her paddle toward Cindy who was able to grab on and get pulled toward the boat. Darcy likely could have pulled her in solo, but knowing Cindy had already had a long, tough swim, I wanted to make sure we got her in on the first try; I got behind Darcy and we pulled together on a count of three, the three of us falling in a giggling heap on top of me.

Okay, Cindy wasn't giggling. She was gasping. And after she got safely off our boat at camp, she never got back on it again, opting for the safer ride atop Mike's heavily loaded gear boat. George and Janeen both swam into the pool below the rapid and boarded Mike's raft for a short float to our first camp.

Check back for the rest of the trip report including the other Class IV, Granite Rapid.

Eastern Oregon Road Trip: Day 7

It's been a while, but I'm finally getting back to this. Stay tuned for a run-down of our week-long adventure down the Hell's Canyon section of the Snake River--maybe I'll get that up by Christmas!

The last day of the road trip--I was stoked to get home, but not ready to be done (although Tucker was!). I packed up camp efficiently but not rushing while keeping an eye on the dysfunctional dynamics from the family camped across from me.

The drive through Fossil and Condon was warm, dry, rolling hills occasionally interrupted by wind farms. T and I stopped to enjoy the view from a summit before descending down to Biggs and I-84--the first freeway sighting since leaving home a week earlier. Tucker reluctantly got out for a potty break, but hopped right back in the car. He was clearly in "get me the f*** home" mode. I think he was tired of camping.

We officially left eastern Oregon when we hit The Dalles and re-entered the Columbia River Gorge. The Gorge scenery was green and stunning; I saw it as if through new eyes and appreciated as I haven't for a long time.

The closer we got to Portland, the thicker the overcast. It seems as though Portland always says "welcome home" with a rain shower and this was no exception.

Eastern Oregon Road Trip: Day 6

North Fork John Day River

John Day Fossil Beds

Picture Gorge

Tuckered Out

T and I crawled out at 5:30 a.m. to pee, then went back to bed for some more zees. I had to call T away from eating something to get back in the tent. An hour later, I awoke to the loud "ack, ack" sound that often precedes barfing. Unzipping the tent in panic mode, I tried my hardest to push Tucker out the door, but I was too late. Barf pooled on his Thermarest (that would be my Thermarest). I shoved him and theThermarest unceremoniously out the door, pulled my sleeping bag over my head and went back to sleep.

I opted for an easy morning, reading while sipping my coffee while the sun dried the tent, then started a late breakfast of bacon and eggs with smoked gouda and leftover black beans, red onion, and zucchini. Folded into a warm tortilla with salsa and sour cream, it was perhaps the most gourmet meal of the week. Well fed and dishes washed, I packed up as much as I could while leaving some clothes to dry and lunch accessible.

Valerie and Pat were setting out to hike at the same time, but we soon passed them on the relatively flat trail. The trail closely followed the technical Class II-III river through lodgepole pines (many dying). Open areas featured rock outcroppings and and better views of the river. The area was heavily mined in the first half of the 20th century and signs of old mining claims abound. We saw a couple of abandoned shacks and signs nailed to trees. Our pre-determined turn-around point was the “Bigfoot Hilton,” a cabin from the Blue Heaven mining company that now serves as an emergency shelter and camp comfort station. Well stocked with stove and propane, built in bunk beds and canned goods, a plaque inside serves as tribute to the guy who built it(Guy Shafer from La Grande) and the many years he and his family enjoyed the place.

Today's drive featured the Lodgepole pine forest of the Blue Mountains, including an apparently burned area that is thickly reseeded with young Lodgepoles. Then the Ponderosa and green meadows as we proceeded northwest toward Ukiah, a small, quaint town in the middle of the Camas prairie. I loved the drive south toward John Day, hugging the banks of a wide creek for several miles before climbing out of the valley. A side trip down Ritter Road showed off the Middle Fork John Day River and was well worth the extra 20 miles even though the hot springs were closed.

More epic scenery past a closed fire lookout tower, descending into Dayville, and following the main John Day on a hot afternoon through Picture Gorge to John Day Fossil Beds. I had to run the air conditioning periodically to keep T cool. We made a brief stop at visitor center and a short hike through the fossil beds. Still following the John Day River, we drive north to beautiful Kimberly then west to Spray for gas and water. Despite the leisurely pace, we still made camp by 5, and luckily so since the few walk-in campsites at Service Creek filled up within a couple hours.

Just one group was there ahead of us--an older gentleman with a dog and a small boy of about three, both confined in the cab of a pickup truck. He appeared to be overwhelmed by the tasks of babysitting and making multiple carries of gear from the unloading area to the campsite. He said he had just spent several days on the river with his family. An hour later, his grill was fired up and he struggled to set up an oversize tent before realizing he lacked the poles. Shortly, a younger couple and pre-teen girl arrived, poles in hand. After some arguing, grandpa cried out, "what was I supposed to do? He's impossible! Then the mother conceded "we left you too long with him." I was laughing my ass off.

I marveled that I started my trip in a snowstorm and ended it in a dry desert heat. I spent some time perusing my pictures and reflecting on the week, enjoying a crisp Ninkasi ale on my last night of camping. I was looking forward to getting home, yet not wanting the trip to be over. Tucker just wanted to go to bed. As soon as I set the tent up, he wanted inside.