Sticks, Stones and Daylight Savings

The hardest morning of the year to wake. I was prepped to ride the Eddieville 6 hour team event. The rest of the squad had conflicts. One man down from the plague. Two others had no interest. Iron man was the only other option. The thought of 6 hours of blasting through high speed desert chop made the skin on my hands cringe where blisters were destined to form. So I decided to pass.

Decision 2008 Diamond Mill. A ride that started as a last ditch backup plan. Our trio headed out of the parking area (Darwinism’s playground) to explore trails that had recently shed inches and feet of snow. Our reward for losing an hour of sleep was clear skies
and single track with decent grip. Conditions were so nice that I stopped to remove my jacket on a downhill that looked like a waterfall of loose rock and baseball bat size branches. One moment after resuming my decent I heard/felt a knock on my frame. A stick spun off my right foot. The next moment I could taste sweet sizzling steam boiling off my headpipe. Precious Prestone poured the color of Predator blood. My hopes of having a great ride vanished with the contents of my right radiator.

After verbally venting my frustration I coasted the rest of the wayback to the main road and was towed behind Aaron’s orange thumper. Riding pal Shawn “The Entertainer” privided human amusment with twospills, including one visor cracking Pete Rose slide over the bars and onto a rock patch.

On the road and in cell service range my first call was to the dealer to price a new radiator. $317 and at least five days out. Steep considering I have every bolt on protector for that area. The radiator was torn at the downtube where the hose connects from the water pump. I called a radiator repair shop that next Monday. Less than a mile away from home and repaired for less than $50 I was a happy rider. Three hard rides later and it still retains water like a pregnant woman’s feet.

3/27/08

Ben Baucum

Premature Spring

February 17, 2008

Several warm and dry consectutive days triggered thoughts in all
northwestern off road riders. The weekend’s forecast was something it
hadn’t been in months. High temps in the 60s and zero chance of the
wet stuff. E-mails were passed around by fellow riders about where
we’d be taking our trip. Goldendale was our intended destination, but
those plans were trashed because the track’s soil was ice at night and
melted into a mush the consistancy of wet concrete. Out of nowhere an
e-mail arrived at my inbox with a recent photo of two sport bikes
perched next to the Jordan Creek Trail sign. In the backgound of the
shot, perfect dirt. We were saved.

The group of seven met up for some quality dining at the Log Cabin
Restaurant on a bright and cold Saturday morning. After a fine meal
and intellectually stimulating conversation we rolled over the pass of
highway 6. From that elevation it was evident that we’d encounter one
of winter’s wicked weapons. The white mess that came from the sky was
at least two feet deep and taking cover from the suns rays under
evergreen arms.

Three of the seven were road racing guys who all strattled 250F
enduros. KTM had a strong presence as well with two 450 enduros and
one 300 with a push starter (lady button). All were ready for the
trail with the exception of one poor fellow on a WR 250F that wouldn’t
start. After attempting a bump start tow of over a mile he decided to
let the rest of us go and catch up with him on our return loop.

Finally riding. Ugh, it was tough. We hadn’t been in the woods for
the majority of the winter. I had been riding, but only indoor tracks
and leaving the comfort of 2nd gear and groomed soil made my front end
squeemish. It took a while to get things under control. I wasn’t
alone. I witnessed the crossover skills of road racers handling
gnarly water crossings. Not pretty. Diehard spirit with no loss of
temper even with when water flows over boots. Very impressive.

Like all trails in the Oregon coastal range we ended up climbing.
With the increase in altitude, a proportionate amount of snow covered
up the beautiful dirt. We rode until the drifts were too deep to
enjoy. Third gear, throttle wide open, feet paddling through the
frozen precip and moving forward slower than a drift boat in the
middle of Sand Lake. Disgusted, we headed back to the staging area.

We decided to cross the highway and hit the trails on the Diamond Mill
side with low expectations. Our group dropped in size from six to
five. The WR we had left behind got started and its energetic piolot
replaced the two road racers that called it a day. Just like we
feared, Diamond Mill had snow covering much of the trail system. We
hunted around for decent dirt like a broke smoker searching through
the sands of a public ash tray. I knew we had hit rock bottom when I
found myself using the lines left by a snowmobile and occasionally
lost my front fender under the crusty surface of white.

On our way back we gambled on a snow covered trail that seemed to head
south. To our disbelief it was incredible. It had a bit of
everything. Speed sections, tight woods, a hill climb, lots of log
crossing and a gigantic g out. On the verge of being lost and on
reserve we motored back to our trucks in good spirits. A great day to
be in the dirt.

2/17/08

Ben Baucum

Ode to Spode

August 25, 2004

11,000 feet of rock.
a goats trail leads to the top.
Expectations of extreme heat
Instead, days with wet feet.
Rain that fell just like at home,
Sawtooth policy, “no bolder left alone.”
Mountain lakes cool and clear,
Waist high rocks sharp like spear.
Motors sputtered and tires chunking,
Twos a smoking and fours a thumping.
Switchbacks, side-hills, boulders to snare,
At mountains peak we gasp for air.
Views of range so clear and gagged,
Control hands left blistered and ragged.
Miles logged on tacky soil,
To the single track, you must remain loyal.
For if you stray at all,
OTE, and a pesky fall.
Some of us fell victim,
Losing to a rock face playing chicken.
Long days followed by soak in hot spring,
8% urine… I’m sure that it’s clean.
Round the campfire under cloud of stars,
Swapping tales of time behind bars.
In a circle Brazil nuts are passed
Liquored coconut instead of a glass.
At night we fall to sleep at ease
The bear doesn’t want us, just our cheese.

Brown’s Camp: The Notorious

June 3, 2003

Browns Camp is the most well known riding area in northwestern Oregon. It seemed like whenever I explained to someone that I had gone riding over the weekend, they assumed it was at this location. In my years of living and riding I had only driven past it en route to somewhere else.

Often I overheard bikers speak of it. “Yeah, I broke this at Browns Camp,” I’d hear at a bike shop while standing in line to pick up a replacement part. Then while gassing up at Chevron before a ride, I’d be asked, “Going to Browns Camp?” For fear of starting a lame conversation that would take time away from my ride, I’d simply nod and go about filling up my bike. Always Browns Camp this, Browns Camp that.

All this hype worked its way into the various stages of my conscious mind. I would think to myself, “I need to ride Browns Camp.” The order kept repeating in my head like the voices heard by Iowa farmer, Ray Kinsella in Field of Dreams. It was time to obey my own voices.

Some reliable sources told me that the trail was more notorious than famous. I’d heard it described as: rutted, muddy, slick, thrashed and crowded. I wanted to experience it myself.

A trio of us headed west after work on a Tuesday. It was exceptionally warm for early June and had not rained in weeks. My companions, both veterans of the loops we were about to venture through, didn’t promise me anything spectacular, only that because of its close proximity we’d have the most daylight. From Portland, Browns Camp is the closest place to ride. Off work at 5:00 and riding by 6:00 ― I was happy, but not all grins.

Browns Camp’s popularity gave it some unpleasant characteristics. Ruts! Ruts everywhere (my sources were correct). The ruts were so deep I expected to see a row of traffic cones and guys wearing orange reflective vest, directing me to the best line. The trails are as wide as a two-lane highway and had 20 different trenches to choose from. Fortunately it was dry and our tires didn’t encounter the Swamp Thing that lies at the bottom of these vast grooves during the wet seasons.

The match, us versus the ruts, started out even. But things got worse when the ruts’ sidekicks, roots and rock, joined in the competition. The three-in-the-ring combination kept our speed down. Picking a good line through the many ruts kept our eyes busy. One wrong choice and I’d have to hope that my bike would be wide enough to stick into the sides of the huge crevice, keeping my tires from touching down in China. Like with most riding conditions we eventually grew accustom, and started to dice with each other a bit. But then another enemy decided to attack – dust.

The thickly wooded area held out the wind and prevented the dust from leaving the trail. Many times we found ourselves braking on a straight section, blind to what lie six feet beneath our faces. The dust, ruts, root and rock made a formidable combination.

As the sun dropped below the coastal range of mountains to the west, our ride came to a close. We had a decent experience and got home in time for the last part of 2 Wheel Tuesday. In my mouth I could still taste the grit of the rock-hard clay surface that kicked up in to my teeth. In my nose, every hair was coated with the same dirt that blinded my vision from the many hidden obstacles.

Dust-caked sinuses aside, I now understand why Browns Camp is so popular ― it’s close and easy to ride over. From just about anywhere in the Portland area you can leave your house and be riding in an hour. You don’t have to be an expert to stay on the trail. The trails are wide enough to accommodate a triple trailer sideways and the only threatening obstacles are man-made. It is perhaps, the perfect place for the parking lot rider who is looking for more of a challenge, or the family who wants to ride together and doesn’t want to encounter anything too steep. But for the serious rider, Browns Camp offers little more than a “how to” guide for riding ruts.

Father’s Day, a Day of Bonding

June 15, 2003

Not so early on a pleasant Sunday. A trio of bikes pulled by a Volkswagon van slithered through the winding path to the west side of the Tillamook forest. The trio of riders, myself, Thor and his father Pete, are on a mission of national significance. To celebrate the relationship between a father and son by way of a pleasant rip through the woods. I fit in as an observing assistant (urr, yeah).

We unloaded our bikes directly east of Barney Reservor. Their two KTM’s had been sandwiching my Yamaha on the drive like some freakish colored Oreo, orange and blue do don’t go well together (sorry Gators).

The trails closest to the van were chewed stretches of dirt that wrapped around shallow hills and young evergreens. I felt like a one bean morracca falling down an uneven stairway, bouncing off anything organic to try to maintain some kind of rhythm. Like a good little trail it smoothed itself out to where we could pick up the pace and the two corners of our mouths. Unfortunately, like all good things, some logging company decided to wipe out the top of our trail. Rather than make our way back, we chose to trip our way through the piles of downed trees. Ever wonder why bike riding over a burn pile isn’t an Olympic sport? Answer: Because it sucks! It was most like log rolling, only with no water and uphill.

After we caught our breath and extracted all of the sticks from our spokes we pressed on to more great trails. The southeastern side of the Tillamook forest is more rolling than jagged. The trails are easier to ride but the soil is clayish. It had rained a fair amount Wensday and so their were some wet patches, but for the most part things were dry. There was a particularly rutted section that lay in high valley. I was trying to pick different lines than Pete who was closest in front of me. He went right into a deep rut. I went left into a shallow canyon. At the bottom was six inches of mud. It was too narrow deep and narrow to allow my bikes frame to slip through. I was stuck. I stood back took off my helmet to evaluate my situation. My rear seat is level with the ground, my tires are buried to the axle in a pasty mess of mud and even if I wanted to ride it out I can’t get to my kick starter. I had no choice but to pull it out. I attempted a number of holds and strategies, but finally I discovered the correct technique for extracting approximately 300 pounds of mud and bike. Squatting low and facing the rear fender I first pulled the rear end up and out to the flattest side, One hundred times easier than any other method. Second, I slipped in front of the bike in the rut and pulled like hell on the front rim. The second half of this technique requires less skill and more time at the gym.

I flung mud for miles after the canyon incident over an impressive mix of tight and speedy trails. We were blessed with a clear warm day and great views of the northern Willamette Valley. Our tires bit and slipped over the varying terrain keeping us focused on the everchanging conditions that were presented.

Like any good trip, we got a little lost. Oh, I meant we went exploring. We didn’t have any trouble finding our way back and we found some more trails. Of these virgins was a good sized hill that you needed a good run on a dry day to get apex.

The day ended for us at 4:00. Fifty some miles of good riding meant plenty of talk about what had happened while no one was looking, and explaining what was really going on if someone else had seen. Then somehow, as it frequently does, we digressed into memories of school-time skirmishes and the lessons learned from them. Dirt bike riding and story telling, the best Fathers Day yet. Ooh, I need to call my dad.