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.