"Uh, I guess you guys must have biked up here...I wondered why I couldn't see any cars. Well, I just want to let you know you camped out on private logging property last night. I don't really care that much but, uh, there are other people who do so it would be great if you guys, uh, moved along soon, OK?"
We heard the message from the Good Cop loud and clear and didn't want to be around when the Bad Cop made his rounds. We felt like we were on stage as we ate our oatmeal being surrounded by quasi-legal workers wrapped up in headscarves earning their daily bread through repetitive backbreaking labor. It could have been something from Indiana Jones if it weren't for the abundance of Lycra and Clif Bars.
*****
"Christ Almighty! Next time I do this crap I'm taking a folding saw with me. It's like what my dad's friend Jerry the carpet layer says: 'you gotta fight for every inch of 'er'".
"Quit your bitching and take your seat post off so it'll fit under the tree...it'll be easier than trying to throw it over the top. I'm telling you mountain biking is nothing like this".
Mountain biking it may not have been, but our leisurely stroll around a 14,000' mountain had become the cyclocross course from Hell. The steep sand had all but ended, but in its place was an endless obstacle course of downed trees and slippery snowdrifts, sometimes both at the same time. To make matters worse, we experienced some "geographical difficulties".
"See, the road goes hard left and then gently turns right, just like the map shows. We gotta be at this intersection".
"I know what you are saying but I hadn't seen any other of these roads here and here, which we would have crossed before coming to this intersection. Do you think we were so focused on crawling around trees that we didn't notice them?"
"I doubt it. Who knows how old this map is...they could've let the unused roads be overtaken by the forest. We should have brought a topo map".
"Doesn't do us any good now. That way looks clear of trees, at least for a little while. Lets go scout it out on foot".
Our progress was laughably slow: maybe a mile an hour at best. After 4 hours on the road, we had spent perhaps 10 minutes on the saddle and the rest grunting, pushing, and swearing. Our bikes were nothing more than very awkward rolling luggage carts. I managed to cover myself in sap, and, eventually, as sorts of forest detritus. A second night in the woods was looking more and more likely.
"How can that Ranger be so ignorant about his own Forest? Those guys are usually really anal about safety and crap...surely he wouldn't send us out on these roads if he knew what we were in for. Man, I hate it when guys get a rise out of playing "expert" to clueless saps when in reality they don't know what the Hell they are talking about. In fact, the guys who wrote how great this loop was on the Internet have probably never even been out here. 'One long day' my ass! Hey, there's a sign up there...road 31? Well, we are on the right track, but about 5 miles further back than we thought we were".
************************
We both had momentary breakdowns, little tantrums to express our frustrations with our fate. It was more than a bike ride gone bad: it was a whole wellspring of anger and disappointment, a primitive commentary on a world that had rejected us like a bad liver transplant. All we asked for were ordinary jobs and ordinary lives, but economic and social forces spit us back out into the wilderness. The line between choosing this perpetual dirtbag lifestyle and it choosing us had blurred beyond all recognition. All we asked for was a little freedom, and now we were drowning in it.
**************************
After what seemed like a week of frustrated progress the trees and snow gave way to pavement...and butterflies. Like a Biblical plague we were surrounded by thousands of Monarch-looking insects, literally choking us with their presence.
"What the Hell is this all about?" "I've seen these before on mountaintops in Oregon. They are pretty strange...consider it a sign of good luck. I wouldn't be surprised if they were the reincarnated souls of the fleeing residents of Atlantis, guiding us to the wisdom of the mountain".
For all his perceived faults, Richard hit one nail right on the head: by completing a clockwise route the last several miles was a screaming descent on paved roads back into the middle of town. You could not pick a better way to end such a slog...cruising through town like we owned it restored our previously shattered dignity. As we paused to cross railroad tracks, we saw a crew of summer laborers clearing away trees from the road.
ML: "I really want to go over to them and tell them that they missed a few back there, but I'm not that much of an ass. Let's go find some chocolate milk".
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