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Oregon, August 1999. (by Ken King) The two-week bicycling tour of Oregon can be summed up in one word: blackberries! Almost every day, the cyclists had the opportunity to harvest a seemingly limitless supply of luscious, plump blackberries that tempted us along the back roads of Oregon. We waded into the ditches along the road to gorge ourselves, oblivious to the brambles. The
trip was actually two trips of one week each. On the first week we
departed from Portland and headed west along the Columbia River to
Astoria, and then headed south through Tillamook to Lincoln City,
where we turned inland and headed back to Portland. Walter Schmitt,
Susan Noblin, Peggy Leong, Jean Monfort, Dorothy Paulson, Mary Ann
Hautmann, Marshall Moriarty, and I rode about 350 miles in six days.
It was self-contained touring (referring to that fact that we had
no sag wagon, and not referring to our demeanor). One of the highlights was Astoria, where we stayed in a fancy Bed and Breakfast. The spacious Victorian house had served as a residence, a convent, a "home for wayward girls," and a mental institution over the years. From there we rode down the coast to Tillamook and Lincoln City. Another "highlight' was the dude ranch called the Flying M. Some speculation supported the notion that the M stood for mosquito. It was at the end of six miles of dirt road, not all of which was uphill. Even though this was at the end of a 70-mile day, it would have been just the right amount of challenge had it not been for the fact that new, fist-sized gravel had been laid the day before. I walked it, gaining one flat tire, one broken spoke, and one tired body. A beer, a huge barbecue dinner, and a bunk house room next to a gurgling creek cured everything but the flat tire and the spoke. This place Another "highlight' was the dude ranch called the Flying M. Some speculation supported the notion that the M stood for mosquito. It was at the end of six miles of dirt road, not all of which was uphill. Even though this was at the end of a 70-mile day, it would have been just the right amount of challenge had it not been for the fact that new, fist-sized gravel had been laid the day before. I walked it, gaining one flat tire, one broken spoke, and one tired body. A beer, a huge barbecue dinner, and a bunk house room next to a gurgling creek cured everything but the flat tire and the spoke. This place catered to a diverse group; private aircraft pilots, retirement home groups, and YMCA kids on horseback were all enjoying the place. Of course, they didn't use bicycles to get up here. Fortunately, we had a rescue-wagon! Mary Ann and Dorothy had a vehicle, and happily transported us to the start of the pavement the next day! Thanks to that gracious act, most of the riders are speaking to me again. The evening of our return to Portland, we had a farewell dinner at a nice restaurant, and congratulated ourselves on our good fortune: the weather was just about perfect, and we made it through a challenging week with nothing more than blackberry scratches on our calves. The next day, we enjoyed Portland in the morning, greeted week-two riders, and climbed on the train to Eugene in the early afternoon. Joining us were Fern Greenberg, Jeff Gianformaggio, Larry and Sandra Zinn, Deborah McGuire, and, in Eugene, Susie and Stogs Stogsdill. Susan, Marshall, Walter and I did both weeks. The train ride to Eugene was delightful; most of us spend the whole time in the observation car, watching the Willamette Valley roll by. At Eugene, we quickly assembled the bikes and rode/walked the short distance to the motel. Eugene, like Portland, is very bike-friendly. Well-marked lanes and paths abound, and the cars are considerate. I had left my clear glasses in Portland or on the train, so I impersonated a blind person (or a Hollywood star) and wore sunglasses in the evening as well as the daytime. It drew some interesting glances, and made the sunsets and night lights positively beautiful. We had a whole day to look around Eugene, and some of us rode a wine-tasting loop that visited two wineries. I dropped by the Bike Friday rally that was being held that weekend, and met other Friday enthusiasts, including the chief mechanic and designer, who, when he learned that I wanted to buy a new axle to replace the one I bent last year in England, gave me a whole new chrome-moly trailer set-up! What's more, when I broke a second spoke ten miles from the factory and limped in to get that repaired, he was there (it was a Sunday) preparing to leave for a commercial tour the next day, and quickly replaced my whole rear wheel, hub, and spokes. They get an "A" for service! The next day we rode through the rich agricultural land of the Willamette Valley to Corvallis, where Sandra's son and daughter-in-law treated us to a spaghetti feed in the back yard of their lovely home. What a treat! Corvallis, like Eugene, is a college town, and we enjoyed cycling through both campuses. We found a bicycle path just inside the city limits that took us along a river and eventually to a picturesque covered bridge and then the campus. After two days of easy riding, we then had to start three days of climbing, as we traveled east into the Cascades. Sweet Home, our next destination, was a sad little town that seemed to be slowly dying. Timber may have been its mainstay, and that industry is not healthy these days. Six of us decided to see a movie ("Bofinger," with Eddy Murphy and Steve Martin), and we were the only six people in the theater! Would they have shown the movie if we hadn't shown up? The next morning, most of us ate at a little coffee shop (the only ones there), and Kenny, the proprietor, hired Susan and Fern as waitresses. Fern was harassed by an unnamed customer, and quit, threatening to sue Kenny. Kenny gave Susan a "high school photo" of her, saying he enjoyed their teen years together. Clearly, we were in high spirits as we took off for our climb into the mountains. After riding for miles alongside of the Green Peter Reservoir, we began a slow, steady ascent, and around noon, we stopped alongside a crystal-clear stream for lunch. Susan decided it was much too enticing to ignore, and went for a swim. Many of the rest of us wish we had followed her example. After climbing forever, and running out of water (no stores, no water) we reached Detroit, a very small mountain town that serves the fishermen that fish the adjacent lake. Our host, the owner of the barely-adequate motel, was a long-haired, bearded follower of some Eastern Religious Sect who made his fortune converting warehouses to artist lofts in San Francisco. He then chose to retreat into the mountains to fight the timber industry in the courts, and owns the motel (and some others) to entertain himself, as far as I can figure. He was kind enough to offer to carry us and our luggage to the top of our climb the next day, a distance of 25 miles or so. Yes, many of us took him up on his offer to carry our stuff! The climb really wasn't as bad as we anticipated (it seldom is), and we faced some rollers but a gradual downhill for the next 45 miles! The weather was perfect, the road was good, with virtually no traffic, and spirits were high. We found a nice picnic spot near the road, and took a break around noon. An hour or so later, we came across a sign: "Road Closed." The detour sign pointed to the right, and the map confirmed that it was uphill and 24 miles longer, which would make it a 94-mile day. We asked every car (there were few) what they knew about the conditions ahead, and the only knowledge we gained was that "the bridge was out." So. . . we took a chance and continued along the Clackamas river downhill to an uncertain fate. It was nothing like Lewis and Clark, of course, but it was exciting, not knowing what to expect. I hitched a ride to see what lay ahead, in case we had to turn around. After getting to a place where autos could no longer proceed, and going around the double barrier to see what lay ahead, a large dump truck slalomed past the barricade and yelled at me to get of the &*^%$# road. That happened twice more before I got to the construction site. A front-loader was filling the trucks at the site, and the road was completely gone for a distance of fifty yards or so. BUT, there was a dirt road that dipped around to the left, and it was dry and passable. I raced back to report the good news to the rest. After some minor altercations (the supervisor hopped in his pickup and drove to where we were gathering to tell us that he would NOT let us through unless we rode single-file in a tight group), we were allowed to pass by the site. The rest of the way was (almost) all downhill along the Clackamas River into Estacada. Estacada is only 35 or 40 miles from Portland, so after studying the excellent cycling maps of the county, we concluded that we could take a paved rails-to-trails bike path for 22 miles! Most of the path was lined with blackberries, so we had one last opportunity to feast. Estacada is only 35 or 40 miles from Portland, so after studying the excellent cycling maps of the county, we concluded that we could take a paved rails-to-trails bike path for 22 miles! Most of the path was lined with blackberries, so we had one last opportunity to feast. |
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