Derrick led the way onto the inviting fir-lined singletrack as the morning sun shimmered through the trees. The remaining four of us eagerly fell in line. About 40 yards in, we encoutered our first patch of snow. Undaunted, we rolled through it. Soon, the snow patches became more frequent and bigger--steep mounds that were impossible to ride up, so we got our shoes wet hiking up them. The trail starts around 6,000 feet and mostly descends from there, so we knew the snow wouldnt last long. But we weren't fooled by the net elevation loss. We had a series of burly climbs ahead.
Interspersed between snow piles were down trees and snags to climb over. Then we hiked up a steep meadow trail that was only defined by a series of markers and entered the Warner Creek Burn area. Hot and sweaty, we sat down on a log to eat sandwiches and swat mosquitos, noting that we had covered only 6.2 miles in nearly 2.5 hours. Not exactly record-breaking pace. Derrick had estimated our arrival at the pub for 3 p.m. We briefly discussed turning around, but no one took the notion very seriously. Derrick thought we might still make the 3:00 time if the trail opened up and became more rideable. This would be the first of many reassessments of our ETA.
About 10 yards later, we were handing our bikes over a large tree with a tangle of branches that snared spokes, shorts and skin. The trees kept coming and we were walking more than riding. The trail clung to a ridge between two bowls, then descended steeply into the one on the left before climbing steeply back out the other side. Derrick pointed out that this was the last best place to turn around--basically a point of no return--and all but insisted on abandoning our mission in light of the challenges that were keeping our progress to a snail's pace. But none of us were fond of the alternative--retracing our steps back to a forest road and riding it downhill to Highway 58 where we would commence the "pedal of shame" back to Oakridge.
We all hemmed and hawed and said either way was fine, then Bridget finally spoke out. "I really want to keep going," she announced. Relieved, I chimed in, "me, too." "So do I," said Charlie. Suzanne did not object. Derrick shrugged his shoulders and said, "well at least you can't blame me," then lifted his bike over the 57th down tree. A few minutes later, I was able to coast at least 20 yards downhill before another forced dismount and I yelled "wheee!" with joy. Bridget, who was just in front of me, laughed. It had to be hilarious, otherwise it was a total suckfest.
The steep climb out of the bowl, still mostly hiking and hefting, was rewarded with 360-degree views of Mt. Jefferson, Three Sisters, Fuji, and Diamond Peak. Indian paintbrush and shooting stars were in bright bloom. Derrick nearly became the first Donner Party casualty when he boldly hefted a bottle of Coke out of his pack. We were on him like flies to horse dung. He offered to trade sips of Coke for food and we fell all over ourselves to be the lucky recipient. Derrick wisely opted for Suzanne's sandwich and Charlie whined, " but I want some Coke," when his proffered snack was not chosen. In the end, we all had sips of Coke, thus saving Derrick's life. We made radio contact with our friends on the Alpine/Winberry ride. They sounded rather smug. We laughed, confident that we were having a better time. Based on distance covered (not much) our new ETA was 4 pm.
From here the trail did become more rideable, with greater distance between fewer fallen trees. But it wasn't long before a stick broke Suzanne's derailleur. Derrick performed emergency trailside surgery and had it working again in no time. As he handed the bike back to Suzanne, her shifter fell off the handlebar. Derailleur repair be damned: she would now be riding a single speed. New ETA: 5 pm. Suzanne had a deadline for being back, so we sent her on a short bushwhack that would put her on a road back to town. One member down, we pressed on. Derrick reminded us of the climb up Hecklerooth Mountain that still loomed ahead. We laughed maniacally.
The trail descended into old growth fir forest thickly carpeted with ferns. I filled my bottle from a spring that gushed from the side of a hill on Derrick's Deadly Switchbacks. We steripenned water from another spring and snacked again. New ETA: 6 pm. Rhododendron bloomed in an old clear cut just below the summit of Heckletooth. From here, it was a ripping ride to the end of the trail and a couple road miles to the pub. We greeted Heckletooth like a long lost friend, giggling our way down the trail that had a reputation for challenging even the most skilled riders but seemed mellow and laid back compared to our earlier adventures.
If we knew in advance what the day would bring, we would not have gone, but we were satisfied and tired and giddy with our accomplishment and sported a variety of cuts, scrapes, bruises and lacerations as badges of courage. Actual time of arrival at Brewers Union Local 180: 6:16 pm. Beer never tasted so good!
Photos by Bridget Hildreth
