Advocate Cycles

The Access Project - A travel experiment on the Oregon Timber Trail

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Words and Photos by Daniel Stranahan

In recent years, I’ve been most inspired by what Seattle climber and cyclist Matt Alford has called “front door adventures.” I would loosely define this as fulfilling an objective via human power, public transportation, and rides that come up along the way, when needed. Many have been doing this for years (see Kyle Dempster, Steve Fassbinder, and Lael Wilcox riding to the start of the Continental Divide). However, these trips have received far less visibility in outdoor media than the glamours of heli-access riding, international flights and road trips to 5-star trail networks.

My objective was to ride the Oregon Timber Trail, and make it a front door adventure. I wanted to navigate the nuances of various forms of public/non-motorized transportation myself, as a personal experiment and attempt to make this style more visible/accessible. Below is the story of my experience.

I. Sail

A 33ft. wooden boat, 4 crew, and a course from Port Townsend, WA to the Bay area was how it started. Boats are small, and the need for spares and tools are high. So I anxiously prepared my bike to be shipped to the Bay Area, nearly cleaning out the packing material at the local bikeshop. Kissing my bike goodbye, I cautiously stepped aboard the deck with no open ocean sailing experience. We left the dock around 2:30am, when the tides were best; half asleep, I stood on deck squinting, looking for submerged crab pots as moonlight danced in the wake of the boat.

We get to Southern Oregon, the wind has been howling for the last 500 miles. Everything is damp. My father and I cling to the tiller as the occasional wave breaks over the rear of the boat, and we keep her pointed down the waves. It is around 2am.

Alice, our other crew member my age (but with much more experience) comes out from below deck and suggests we heave-to, (this is a means of stopping the boat, minimizing drift, going below and hoping for the best). We agree on the idea. Sitting below, we take turns every 20 minutes between cat naps to look at the gps monitor and track our drift, making sure there are no container ships in our path as we drift among the shipping lanes. Fortunately, there are none.

We arrive in San Francisco tired and ready to step onshore. It is around 1 in the afternoon, I hear the consistent blare of fog horns as we round the rocky coast under the golden gate. The fog lifts slowly around the bridge, and a whale surfaces. I notice warm, inland air brushing my cheeks. It feels worth it.

II. Train

I finish assembling the Hayduke, and packing my things in a friends Marin County garage. Finally. I learn that it is difficult, yet possible to prepare for a long bikepacking trip in an unfamiliar place.

I take the BART from San Francisco to Oakland, and happen to arrive at the beginning of a city wide event. There are thousands riding from place to place, in a critical mass-like party rolling throughout the East Bay. Before I can blink I find my friends in the stream of bells and wheels, and pedal my loaded bike through bob trailers with speaker systems stacked aboard, and the occasional dance party. This feels like a once in a lifetime send-off. I check the Amtrak app on my phone. My train is delayed, arriving at 1am. More dancing.

An hour later I look again: Delayed and arriving at Jack London Square at 3am. We get tacos, I feel lucky that my train is late, that I get to catch up with old friends over carnitas and lime. Around 1am we say our goodbyes, and I start my beer and salsa fueled pedal toward the station. It arrives—the time is 3:20am. I slowly drift off as the Amtrak winds north toward Klamath Falls, OR.

III. The Oregon Timber Trail

A sea of saltwater is now a sea of cows. Reluctantly they part, bewildered by my presence. I feel excited, and nervous about embarking on one of the most remote sections alone. When the cows heed my yell, I feel a small wave of confidence in the little power I hold.

I roll into Paisley, the first town on the route and see the owner of the tracks I’ve been chasing. Henry is tall, wearing dusty cotton and bent in a slight slouch, hinting at the thousands of road miles in his wake. Canvas Rivendell bags hang from an old 29er, sagging yet well supported by a matrix of bungee cords. The setup mimics his million-mile hunch.

We ride the next section together, Winter Rim, and Henry tells me of a life on bikes-riding the Paris-Brest-Paris self supported, riding across Australia. Between stories the trail grows more primitive and technical, and despite it Henry pushed his way through as we continue to get acquainted.

200 miles go by, we arrive in the highway town of Chemult, OR. An old college friend, Sam meets us in our cheap, ground level motel room. A yard sale of food and dirty gear explodes within the room and the next day we leave, all 3 of us keen to climb high into the alpine lakes flanking the cascades. This is Sam’s first bikepacking trip, and he does it with style. Days before leaving, Sam stitched up his own frame and handlebar bags, piling everything into his 90’s Volvo station wagon and hitting the road north. He’s got a little weight on his back, but it works just fine. We finish climbing a steep 1,200 feet, and Sam is happy dusting the soft singletrack linking the alpine lakes around Oakridge, OR.

I’m grateful for the company, despite having planned on doing the route solo if needed. We camp at Summit Lake, content to be on singletrack and in the mountains after miles of gravel. The next day, the middle fork trail proves to be my favorite section of single track on the route. It’s 30 miles long, and drops nearly 5,000 vertical feet falling off the edge of the upper lake basins. Steep at first I pull my weight back, feeling the loaded bike blow through duff and rooted drops as tires and forks compress and rebound, trying desperately to keep up with the steepening terrain. I feel the music of bikepacking.

We fiddle with our junk at the bikeshop in Oakridge, and they send us off with greasy fingers and warm wishes. It is too warm—and there are fires. Dropping into Bend we meet a couple via Warmshowers, Alex and John. Avid bikepackers, the time passes quickly as we listen to stories from their experience riding the divide and living in Bend. I look out from their top floor apartment, into a haze of smoke and telephone wires.

The smoke thickens as we ride north. Eventually we hit the Cascade Lakes, Mt. Jefferson’s jagged edge peeks above the clouds and we fill our lungs with clean air, relieved. It doesn’t last long. We drop off the ridge on Crescent Mountain, and get to Tule Lake, ready to lie down. We are surprised when a cloud of dust moves up the road. A diesel pickup appears, slowly coming to a halt near the lake. An older man in a wax canvas jacket climbs from the cab.

“Is this the Oregon Timber Trail work party?” he asks. “I guess I’m the first one, we were supposed to meet at Tule Lake.”

We later learned that Jim is often early. That evening, Jim shares stories of horse packing through northern Canada, cutting timber in his youth, and the countless hours he has logged building trail in the Oregon Cascades. We all sit quietly, I feel glad to have met Jim and admire his love and dedication for trail work. On the other end of his crosscut saw the next morning, Jim asks if I could hear it sing. A whine resonated across the steel band, and Jim grins.

That morning we did the dishes for hungry volunteers, packed up and rode north. We go up and down until we are circling Mt. Hood. The trees clear and we see the mountain and a Huey flying low through the valley, a misty cradle of water dangling below. We get to Parkdale; the next day, Hood River.

We have arrived. Tiny brown waves lap at the shore of a small beach as kids wade knee deep in the Columbia River. Sam targets me with a squirt gun found in the sand. I don’t care to move. Right now, water is the surest sign of success.

Idaho Sweats

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Galena Pass-1

Idaho Sweats

Stories from the Idaho Hot Springs Mountain Bike Route

By Bruce Saxman

 

Where is the fire?

As we pulled into Idaho City a wisp of smoke curled up from a distant ridgeline. I considered us lucky that the widespread wildfires common to Idaho had not ignited yet—apparently that was changing. The next morning as we were loading our bags, small teams of Forest Service vehicles and fire trucks were trickling into town. “Don’t worry, those boys will have it out by the end of the week,” the owner of the gas station told us. Reassured, we set out and began the 14-mile climb up Thorn Creek Butte.

Hours later, after a lunch in the lupines and enjoyable ridge riding, another wisp of smoke appeared from a nearby ridge and quickly grew into a plume. We began descending toward Arrowrock Reservoir with a little more urgency. The plume towered into a cloud on the ridge that was now directly above us. As we reached the turn toward the Middle Fork of the Boise River, a Forest service ranger assured us the fire was going to be contained. Still, it felt good to be close to the water.

 

“You don’t mind if an old mountain man drip dries, do ya?”

Grateful to be moving away from what would be called the Mile 16 Fire, we pedaled up the Middle Fork of the Boise River and camped at our prettiest campsite at Sheep Creek Bridge Hot Springs. The next day’s ride was pleasant up-river double track, but our progress was limited by the number of available hot springs and access to the river. We stopping for a hot soak every half hour in the morning and to swim in the cool river water in the afternoon. We could have traveled six miles a day at this point, but were tempted by beer and burgers in Atlanta.

We arrived by mid-afternoon and found a forest service campsite after the burgers and Rainier tallboys. We also found some of the better hot springs on the route. After scoping out the options we hiked down to Chattanooga Hot Spring where 102-degree water cascades 20 feet off the cliffs above into the pool. “You don’t mind if an old mountain man drip dries, do ya?” was the greeting we received by the large, local, very naked caretaker. We proceeded to be educated on using soap in the hot spring (this is our shower), the evils of PokemonGo, and the lack of mining and logging jobs in the area. While the conversation was cordial, we got the feeling we were being tolerated if for no other reason than we were wearing bathing suits.

 

Slap the bag

All of the advice we heard was to not ride the single-track on the route so out of Atlanta we skipped the Willow Creek Trail and headed up FR 126 over James Creek Summit and rejoined the official route in the gold mining ghost town of Rocky Bar. After a few days in the sticks punctuated by hot springs and redneck bars, arriving in Ketchum was a jarring experience.

Trees, rivers, and dusty trail were replaced by pavement and cars of vacationers. We sucked it up for a re-ration and brewery lunch. Stressed by the bustle, we headed north to get out of town, weaving through traffic, strollers and unyielding bikers. Our bikes were heavy, it was hot, and our legs were sluggish—a few miles out the bike path turned to loose pea gravel.

After burgers and beers, crowded grocery stores, and a hot blazing sunny ride the pea gravel was a morale crusher. We had lost Alex in town, but as Jenn and I rested under one of the few shade trees he rolled up with a bag of wine on his handlebar bag. Morale improved and we plowed through the gravel toward Galena Pass and Stanley.

Bonneville Hot Spring-1

 

Where is Alex?

We were packing up in Stanley and the map was nowhere to be found. Alex rode out of town a few miles the night before while Jenn and I stayed at a motel. We figured either he had it or someone left it at the bar the night before. Apparently no one in Stanley sells the map. After a few stops and a couple hours wasted we bought a forest service map and pieced the route together. A maze of dirt roads, a single-track push over Galena Summit, and a long downhill cruise put us in the high desert heading toward Banner Summit and the headwaters of the Middle Fork of the Salmon.

With little shade and water we slogged past the closed single-track of Boulder-White Clouds wilderness toward the Lowman cutoff and the promised hot springs at Bonneville Campground. We had expected to catch Alex somewhere near Galena Pass but saw no sign of him. After a screaming downhill on the pavement of Banner Summit we arrived at Bonneville Campground—still no Alex.

The hot spring at Bonneville became one of my favorites—a clean tub in an old shack provided the perfect solitary relaxing experience after a long, dirty day. After soaks in the tub and the pools by the river we returned to camp in the encroaching dusk. As we finished dinner, Alex finally rode up, wine bag nearly extinguished, body nearly exhausted. Also without the map, he had made a series of wrong turns in the maze of dirt roads north of Stanley putting in quite a few extra credit miles. We were relieved to have him back, and he was relieved for the tub.

 

Can we get through?

As we circled back toward Idaho City on the Lowman Cutoff the pungent smell of fire was becoming stronger. The wisp of smoke we witnessed as we pulled into Idaho City days earlier had whipped into the Pioneer Fire, and would become the largest fire in Idaho that season. The South Fork of the Payette River provided a natural barrier for us, but we would have to cross it to get back to our starting point.

Two thirds of the way through the tour, we were unsure if we would be able to finish. Due to the fast moving fire, information was scarce and unreliable. We chatted with a couple who were sure they were going to close the road and were turning back toward Ketchum. A Forest Service employee at the Lowman Ranger Station seemed offended that we were trying to save our vacation while the locals were trying to save their property. We brainstormed alternative plans in the steaming waterfalls of Kirkham Hot Springs.

The route back to Idaho City formed the boundary closure, but no one seemed sure it would remain open. While eating fried taquitos and chicken fingers at a Garden Valley gas station we were able to get fire and weather reports off of an internet connection. The fire was moving east and we were going west. The weather forecast was hot but with calmer winds than days past. We were going to get up early and ride the boundary through Placerville and New Centerville.

 

Riding the Border

Cool morning air and fire anxiety gave us wings on the 1600-foot climb out of Garden Valley. Nervous urgency powered us on dirt roads through mining towns, lawn sprinklers running non-stop. Cruising downhill into town we discovered sleepy Idaho City had turned into a bustling camp. Our vehicles, which previously sat solitary in a gravel parking lot were surrounded by the utility vehicles of the Forest Service and regional wildland fire outfits. We ate ice cream while helicopters shuttled gear and supplies to the fire line feeling grateful for their efforts, and that we were able to finish.

 

The Idaho Hot Springs Mountain Bike Route is a roughly 750-mile route developed by the Adventure Cycling Association that guides riders throughout the breathtaking landscape of central Idaho, from blue ribbon trout streams to sub-alpine terrain and cozy mountain towns. Riders will pass through some of the most spectacular country the West has to offer, with the opportunity to indulge in the highest concentration of soakable hot springs in North America. Visit the route website for more information, ride resources and helpful logistics.

Creating the Baja Divide

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The Baja Divide is a rugged 1,700 mile off-pavement bikepacking route down the length of the Baja California peninsula, from San Diego, CA, USA to San Jose del Cabo, BCS, MX, researched and developed by Nicholas Carman and Lael Wilcox in the winter and spring of 2015-16.

This route connects the Pacific Ocean and the Sea of Cortez, historic Spanish mission sites rich with shade and water, remote ranchos and fishing villages, bustling highway towns, and every major mountain range in Baja California on miles and miles of beautiful backcountry desert tracks.

January 2, 2017 marks the Baja Divide group start in San Diego, CA. Prior to this event, we caught up with Nicholas Carman to talk about the process and motivation behind the creation of the route.

The Baja Divide route that you and Lael have created is an incredible resource. What gave you the idea to develop this route?

The idea to publish a route occurred to us while riding in Baja last winter. We crossed the border in early December 2015 hoping to enjoy some fun backcountry tracks and long night of sleep in the desert. Lael and I had ridden in Baja in 2011, on more conventional touring bikes, and with the few off-pavement rides we enjoyed on that trip we knew we needed to come back with more capable bikes. I was already riding 29×2.5” tires, and Lael started the trip on a brand new Advocate Cycles Hayduke with 27.5×3.0” tires. We weren’t sure about the 27.5+ concept at the time. After some years riding fatbikes, Lael was averse to pedaling unnecessarily large tires outside of their useful range, but the 3.0” wide tires on wide rims—tubeless—proved to be the perfect bike for most of the terrain we encountered.

Within about two weeks, after some fortuitous routing connections, it seemed obvious that there was something we needed to create, and to share. I was well aware of the potential that Baja offered—including the riding, the culture, and the climate—and I was also sure that there was far too little information available about backcountry cycling in Baja. There are lots of forums and GPX tracks dedicated to moto routing, but that doesn’t always translate directly to good bike routing. So, over the next three months, with help from a few friends, Lael and I rode all over the place to connect a massive off-pavement resource.

We’re really proud of the final product. The route uses about 93-95% off-pavement routing, and almost all of the pavement is on smaller secondary roads in Baja, which feature very little traffic. The riding is engaging, challenging, but almost entirely rideable. Resupply is found along the route frequently enough to make the route accessible, and the information we provide lowers the stress of guessing where to find food and water. I think the basic guides we have provided will help people get on the route and into the backcountry, although there are still many discoveries to be made on route.

Was it always your intention to create this free resource for everyone?

The resource was always meant to be free, and digital publishing makes the most sense. Most of all we wanted to encourage as many people as possible to discover international backcountry bicycle travel—that’s where the world really comes alive! I often say that our goal is to “put more butts on bikes”, and in this case we’ve succeeded. By making the resource freely available we’re limiting the number of barriers for others to do what we do. I’ve heard all the excuses over the years. So we went down to Mexico with our own money and time and made a route for others to use, and the resource is one less excuse.

Once the route project was underway, we looked around for some help to cover a few basic expenses. We didn’t have to look far, as Advocate Cycles and Revelate Designs each committed some money to cover airfare for three riders from last season, and a few other expenses associated with the women’s scholarship and the group start. As such, it isn’t a business because none of us are making money, but the support of these companies is what helps us offer the resource for free. I’ve often thought that the companies asking for our money should support the things that we love, and the things that make this sport possible. Advocate explicitly does that by supporting ACA, IMBA, People for Bikes, and the Baja Divide. Revelate has been a grassroots supporter of a lot of adventurers and racers over the years, and we’ve known Eric since we bought our first framebags from him out of his garage in early 2012 in Anchorage, AK.

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What gave you the idea to organize the group start on the route? Do you think that this group start/group ride structure could take the place of races for this niche within the cycling community?

The group start on January 2, 2017 was conceived last winter when we first published the route concept to our freshly minted www.bajadivide.com website from a hostel in La Paz.

We had talked about the idea for a couple of weeks and were already planning to publish a route, but nobody knew about it yet. And then, with a spare day, I pieced together a basic WordPress.com site and announced the route project. In support of the route project, we suggested a group start from San Diego on the morning of Jan 2, 2017 as a way to encourage people onto the route in the first season, and to provide a unique social opportunity for the bikepacking community. The route concept and the group start were an immediate success. People stated their interest immediately and eight months before the first riders were even on the route, the concept had a strong following. Through the spring and summer of 2016, it was our job to deliver on our promise and we finally published the route the week before Interbike while taking a couple of rest days from the Colorado Trail in Salida, CO.

For many years I’d read in the pages of Bicycle Quarterly about the springtime Pâque-en-Provence meetings that Vélocio and the cycletouring clubs in France would organize. The Bikecentennial of 1976 is also a hugely influential event in American cycletouring, and Lael and I consider it proof of what a small group of people are capable of accomplishing. We were fortunate to meet Greg and June Siple and Dan Burden this summer at the Montana Bicycle Celebration, who are largely responsible for the modern cycletouring movement in the USA.

At the moment there are few bicycle travel gatherings in this country—excepting bikepacking races, organized for-profit tours, and group rides like RAGBRAI or TOSRV—so we went forward with the concept and organized a social group start. In retrospect, I’m not sure we needed the group ride to bring attention to the route, as the response to the Baja Divide has greatly exceeded our expectations. The group start has required a lot of extra work, but it is a novel project and I’m excited to experience this “experiment in living”. I also hope that the group will make a clear statement to communities on the route that our presence has the potential for a positive economic impact. We welcome new businesses and services along the route that provide the kinds of support that cyclists need.

Last spring, I would have been excited to think that a couple dozen people would ride the route this first season. Now, I expect the there will be over 200 people on route this season.

I see a lot of participation in bikepacking races that could easily be redirected to non-competitive events. Also, the success of other group rides concepts including local group events, charity rides, and long-distance group rides are proof that people like riding together. Still, the core of bike travel will always be individual adventures. Most cycletourists and bikepackers are traveling alone or in pairs.

The Baja Divide group start is meant to be a one-time event. It has been a lot of work. The things we want to inspire most are individual adventures. These may be solo or with a partner or some friends, but we would love to see people conceive and design to their own rides based upon the resources we’ve provided.

What aspect of this resource was the most difficult to create? Are there parts of your resource that you wish were available on other routes you have done in the past?

On the ground route research was the most challenging. It required over three months of riding and a lot of time looking at maps and talking to locals. The riding included two rides down the peninsula and a lot of dead ends, but also a lot of successes.

The main published resources include the GPX track, a folder of GPX points representing resupply points and other resources, a simple two-page distance and resupply chart, and a condensed version of the section narratives found on the site. It’s pretty low-tech stuff, but in total it makes a powerful, portable, and low-cost resource.

However, the resources are more accessible and more complete than is available for many other routes. Most routes don’t provide the digital section narratives that we’ve included—those are either included in a printed guidebook or not at all. Digital publishing allows me to update the resource as soon as needed to reflect changes along the route.

Would you personally rather ride an unmapped route as you originally did on the Baja Divide, or follow an established route?

I enjoy both methods of route exploration, and having a mapped resource does not diminish the potential for adventure. In particular, I like established routes because they ensure that you have a connected and mostly rideable resource, although the experiences you have along the way are still very unpredictable. Plus, there’s more to it than the riding. Riding is literally the vehicle to experiencing other parts of travel, when you meet people, encounter weather, and luck upon serendipitous moments that are unique to your experience, like being invited into people’s homes.

Lael and I have enjoyed lots of mapped routes and the Baja Divide is influenced by our experience on the Holyland Challenge in Israel, the Dragon’s Spine Route in South Africa, the 1000 Miles Adventure in Czech and Slovakia, the Top Trail 3 in Montenegro, the GR5 in Holland and Belgium, the Bike Odyssey in Greece, and the Traversee du Massif Vosgien in France. Of course, the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route, the Colorado Trail, and the Arizona Trail are major influences here in the USA.

I do love making new routes while traveling, but doing that day after day takes a lot of effort, especially as part of a longer trip. For that reason, I’m expecting a lot of riders that are trekking from Alaska to Argentina with an interest in off-pavement routing will appreciate the Baja Divide. For about two months, they can take their focus away from daily route design and focus more on the place and the people, and of course the riding should keep their interest as well. There is a lot of engaging riding on the Baja Divide. There have already been three couples that have ridden the Baja Divide as part of much longer journeys.

Even when lots of resources are provided (i.e. information), none of this stuff comes easy. It still takes a lot of work to ride a route like the Baja Divide.

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You spent the majority of last winter down in Baja and will be doing that again this year. What is it about this place that you enjoy so much?

We enjoy the climate during the winter months, the vast and powerful landscapes, the cerulean Sea of Cortez, tacos and ceviche, and the people. Our experiences in Baja have always been relaxed and restful, even when paired with strenuous riding days. Big starry nights are one of the best parts of traveling in Baja.

Will the Baja Divide ever be an event like the Tour Divide or do you hope that it will stay a bit more casual?

The Baja Divide group start is not a race. There is no losing in bicycle touring, and I’m hoping that with the resources provided and with encouragement from the bikepacking community, we can achieve a relative success rate as near to 100% as possible. That means, a person sets out for an adventure, they do some riding, and they stick with it even if they have to modify their plans. They go home a changed person, happy, successful, and full of pride. You actually can’t fail at bicycle touring, unless you stay home.

Lael’s Globe of Adventure Women’s Scholarship, the first of it’s kind for women and for bikepacking is a very great idea and it’s very refreshing to see you both create this scholarship. Do you think this is something that will catch on and do you hope to continue this idea in the future?

We hope to offer the scholarship again next year.

We received two hundred amazing applicants and selected a really inspiring young woman named Lavanya Pant, who will be riding an Advocate Cycles Seldom Seen starting on February 14. Influenced in part by the women’s scholarship, I estimate that the percentage of women on route this season is higher than on any other off-pavement bike route in the world, and I expect that trend to continue on the Baja Divide.

Another year, another ride down Baja. What do you look forward to most on adventures like this?

On this particular trip, I’m looking forward to riding the route like anyone else, one pedal stroke after another. I love the linear perspective of long routes likes this, and the feeling of knowing where I am going is calming. Ride, camp, resupply, repeat.

View the Baja Divide route resource online at BajaDivide.com.

This Isn’t Annapurna

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THIS ISN’T ANNAPURNA

Words and photos by Mariah LaQua

“There is in fact a sort of harmony discoverable between the capabilities of the landscape within a circle of ten miles’ radius, or the limits of an afternoon walk, and the three-score-years and ten of human life. It will never become quite familiar to you.” -Thoreau’s Walking

I.

The night before I leave Seaside, Oregon, the power goes out. I can hear the wind thrashing the town and Bob Dylan’s “Shelter from the Storm” gets stuck in my head. I turn on my flashlight and keep packing.

I leave Seaside on a bus. On the way to the stop, it rains and hails on me. The winds blast. It gets eerily calm. Someone at the Chevron station tells an employee that they saw a funnel cloud. Fifteen miles South, a tornado touches down in Manzanita. People tell me these are the first tornadoes in the area in over 20 years.

The bus ride to Portland bounces south down the coast, then climbs east over the mossy forested hills of the coastal range. After a couple of hours through hills, wind and rain, I arrive in the Portland Greyhound Station and remember that anxious feeling of cities. My blood pressure rises and it feels as if I am tuned to every sound, the sounds you learn to ignore when you’re living in it. I find it overwhelming. I pedal to the home of my bike shop sometimes-coworker, Dan, where I’ll be staying with his roommate, Amy—Dan’s out of town.

In Portland I wait. It’s exasperating, going from moving and exploring and seeing everyday, to sitting still. I tell myself to take advantage of the opportunity to rest, so I walk everywhere. Most days it’s 5 miles in the wind and rain, but once the storms pass three days in, I walk to Forest Park, hike on the Wild Cherry Trail, and then turn around and come back.

After waiting a week, my bike arrives at the shop Velo Cult in Portland. I ride there and convince the employees to let me build up the bike, an Advocate Seldom Seen, and box my Krampus, which I’ve sold to someone in Minnesota. I explain that I’m behind schedule, I thought I’d get the bike couple weeks ago, and I’m eager to get back on the move.

The next morning I help Amy move some furniture, and roll out of Portland around noon.

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II.

I didn’t realize it in Seaside, but I will not pedal along the Pacific again for some time. All in all, from Vancouver, Canada to Seaside, Oregon, I rarely followed the Pacific Coast Route from Adventure Cycling. Instead I made decisions one day at a time, chose roads that piqued my interest. In Portland I lunch with a woman named Hazel who races for the team Battlekat. I’m shy at lunch but she mentions something that grabs my curiosity —from Portland, if one pedals East along the Columbia River Gorge, they will eventually pass through the Cascades and into central Oregon—the high desert.

After two weeks of rain and storms, I change plans and decide to temporarily abandon the Pacific, hoping to enter into the high desert and experience a break from the rain. I pedal along the Old Columbia River Hwy, a winding road of switchbacks, both climbing and descending, with incredible views of a gorge cut by the river and Ice Age floods millions of years ago. The road changes from two lanes of traffic to a dedicated pedestrian and bike path, and it’s here that I meet Joseph. I’m moving slowly along and see him off to the side, sitting with a loaded bike and eating yogurt. I nod and smile through headphones and he starts yelling at me.

“C’mon stop!” he says, “You might as well stop.”

I hesitate, as any time a strange man yells at me it instantly throws up a red flag, but then decide to stop. Joseph is in his late twenties, his beard reaches his sternum, complimented by long sandy-brown hair tied in a ponytail, and chipped front teeth. He’s wearing white Adidas Sambas with no socks. We chat for a minute and Joseph explains that he lives in Hood River and is biking back from spending the night in Portland.

He has had to stop, he explains, because his foot is infected from stepping on a nail, and his father is picking him up in his truck from Cascade Locks—a town that is home to the Bonneville Dam, about five miles away. He offers me a ride to Hood River. I hesitate again. Joseph seems harmless, but simultaneously socially “off.” He’s the type of person that I think won’t hurt me, but will probably make me uncomfortable. I consider my experience working with individuals experiencing homelessness and severe mental illness an asset in assessing strangers. It’s getting late in the day, though, and Joseph, seeing my hesitation, tells me about cyclists dying where the route rejoins the highway between Cascade Locks and Hood River. I hesitate again and then agree to take the ride. Joseph asks if I know where I’m staying and I say, “Hood River, I suppose.” He says he has a communal farm in the mountains and that I’m welcome to stay. I hesitate but then agree.

Joseph and I pedal together to Cascade Locks and he talks the whole way. I realize that Joseph is knowledgeable, but not in the way that comes from curiosity or a drive to learn—it seems more driven by a desire to be right and prove others wrong, to hold power in that manner. If I offer my opinion or insight, he corrects or interrupts me. This makes me uncomfortable but I choose to laugh about it internally, and realize that I can engage Joseph comfortably if all I do is ask questions and express awe at the breadth and depth of his understanding.

As we near Cascade Locks, Joseph explains my bike to me—telling me that the Seldom Seen has an “aggressive downhill geometry.” At this my internal laughter bubbles over and I giggle a little outwardly. I contain myself, nod and smile, but an aggressive downhill bike the Seldom Seen is not. It is a fully rigid off-road touring bike, capable of handling trails, but made to comfortably carry a load on rough terrain rather than to shred downhill dirt at high speeds. Joseph explains that he is a skilled mountain biker. Of course he is.

Part of me wants to offer to take all my bags off the bike and send Joseph on a Black Diamond downhill trail with it. There’s plenty of mountain biking in the area. “Have fun!” I would call after him dropping in, but I like the bike too much already to put it in his hands. Working at a bike shop, I’m used to these microaggressions. I spot them. I smile like Clinton during the debate and work them to my advantage. In the shop, I would often defer customers like this to a male coworker, and listen on as my coworker gave them the same information they had just received from me.

We pass a search and rescue party just before Cascade Locks. Joseph says something flippant about how it’s probably “some spaced out hiker that didn’t know what they’re doing.” I think that it is probably someone that is loved by someone else. Joseph makes a joke that we should hop in front of the camera and get on the news. I shake my head. I find his behavior disturbing. Joseph asks one of the search and rescue party team members “Someone missing?”

“A girl,” responds a young search party member.

“A young girl?”

“She’s twenty-one.”

My heart jumps, “I hope you find her.”

“Thank you.”

Her name is Annie Schmidt. As of the writing of this, she has been missing for 11 days.

We meet his father, John, in Cascade Locks. John and I load up my bike into the back of his truck and I ride to Hood River. During the car ride, Joseph talks almost the whole time. I ask John a question about the mountain peaks, he names them and tells me both the names given to them by Native tribes, and the names given to them by European explorers. I like John quite a bit. We stop at his house and he carves up a turkey he had cooked the previous day and hands the meat in bags to Joseph.

While getting ready to drive up to Joseph’s, Joseph insists that we pedal there. I ask if his foot is okay, he says that it’s fine—more strangeness, given that the reason for the ride in the first place was his foot. Joseph says that the ride is all uphill and approximately seven miles. John offers that I might stay in his yard or on his large boat instead. I don’t know what to do. Joseph says that his farm is more fun and there’s an amazing view of Wy’East (also Mt. Hood). I agree to ride up to the farm.

As we climb dusk settles in and Joseph continues to talk. Three trucks pass with loud engines and lift kits, and Joseph yells, “Aggressive bros!” he pauses, and then to me, “Hyper masculine in their man trucks. They don’t know that I’m just like them.” I don’t really say anything. Though his comment was sarcastic, there’s some truth to it—Joseph seems very insecure in his masculinity.

I want to like Joseph. I know he and his father did me a favor, and I want to be grateful. But as we continue to climb, my trust deteriorates. It’s pitch black and the shim holding my front light in place has fallen out, so my light is bouncing around and reflecting back into my face off of my handlebar bag. There is only the yellow dividing line to guide me. It starts to rain.

We continue to climb—Joseph keeps talking. I’m internally deciding whether or not to turn around and book it back down the mountain. Joseph starts asking me questions, and on top of the climbing, social discomfort, trying to breathe and answer questions, my whole brain clouds. I feel confused. The rain switches to snow.

We’ve climbed nearly a thousand feet in seven miles. Joseph estimates three more miles of pedaling. I apologize for being slow. “It’s fine,” says Joseph. “I guess I’m just a beast. I do this ride every day.” This interaction keeps repeating, me apologizing, him referring to his beast-like-ness, insisting that he does the ride every day and, more subtly, suggesting that I need to toughen up. He talks about a woman cyclist he rode with and how slow and inexperienced she was, but how patient he was with her and the great personal growth he gained as a result of his patience.

The road narrows and loses its painted lines. It’s still snowing. In the blackness, I sense the steep, rocky drop off past the road on my left. A truck pulls up and Joseph says, “Hello, Tom.” and approaches it.

Tom, Joseph’s neighbor, offers us lights, Joseph refuses. He offers us a ride, I’m further from the truck and call “I’ll take a ride!”

“We’re fine,” interrupts Joseph. The truck pulls away.

Stopping for this moment in the snow, my confusion clears up and suddenly I realize that I’m ready, that I need to go back down the mountain by myself, rather than continue in this company. I realize that I’ve been ignoring my intuition since we left John’s. I feel frustrated with myself for breaking my own rules. We start to pedal upwards again and I carefully communicate.

“Hey, I’m gonna turn around,” I say. “It’s just so dark and I can’t see anything and the riding is so hard.” Half true. This isn’t Annapurna. “I’m really freaked out by all this,” true.

“I guess I’m just such a beast,” says Joseph again. It’s dark so I roll my eyes.

Joseph then says that he’ll show me where to camp and help me set up.

“No,” I say. “I’m experienced enough.”

“But I know the area,” he says.

“No.”

Joseph then asks that I give him my contact information so I offer to text him. I do, knowing this will get me off the hook. I start to turn around and make my way down when an Astro van pulls up. “It’s my friend Nichole,” Joseph calls after me

She explains that she lives on the farm as well, and I immediately feel better. She offers to give us a ride the rest of the way. I am grateful and accept. In the van, she asks how I know Joseph. I say that I don’t, not really, we just met that day and he likes showing touring cyclists hospitality.

“And you’re making her bike up the mountain when she’s been touring? Real nice,” says Nichole. “Even you hardly bike up this road.”

“That’s funny, Joseph told me he bikes up here every day,” I say innocently.

“Ah ha. The truth comes out.”

She asks Joseph where he is staying, “I think we’ll stay in Aaron’s cabin,” says Joseph. It becomes clear to me that Joseph doesn’t actually live there, it isn’t his farm. She looks over to me and says, somewhat quietly, “You can stay in the community room if you’d like.” I’m relieved.

When we arrive Nichole gives me a can of beer and points me to the community room. She makes her way to a separate cabin on the farm, explaining that it is a collection of small buildings and individuals that make the farm up, and that WWOOFers stay in the community room.

Joseph and I walk to the community room and there’s a young woman in there, named Aline. She asks where we are staying and Joseph suggests again, that “we” will stay in Aaron’s cabin.

“Can I stay in here,” I immediately ask Aline.

“Totally,” she points out all the sleeping arrangement possibilities.

Joseph suddenly becomes sulky and sour, and for the rest of the evening while I settle in he directs all his conversation towards Aline. If I speak, he cuts me off with something rude. I just laugh a little, stretch and set an early alarm.

After Joseph leaves, Aline asks me how I know him.

“I don’t.” I say, I explain how we met and don’t say much else.

“He’s a funny guy,” she says. I understand.

Aline makes a phone call in Russian and I drift asleep to it.

The next morning I wake up early and the clear sky view of Wy’East is incredible. I take a few photos, pack up, and leave. I bump into Joseph outside and say good morning and thank you. He completely ignores me. I’m relieved.

III.

I ride out of Hood River very early and get to the next town, The Dalles in the early afternoon. After a stop in at the bike shop, I decide to push the 15 miles to Dufur despite the dying afternoon sun. I see a sign on the side of the road leaving The Dalles with a truck pushing up a steep hill and the caption “Next 3 miles.” It’s my first mountain pass. I’m thrilled.

I make it to Dufur, a tiny town with a population of 600, where I hang out in the Post Office charging my electronics and eating snacks before going to crash in a baseball dugout in the city park.

A woman walks in and is surprised to see me seated in the corner. We chat a bit and after learning I’m on a bike tour she says, “Well sure, but what are you doing in Dufur?”

I laugh. “I’m not sure. It’s beautiful here, though.” She seems delighted and wishes me well. I sleep happily in the park.

Mariah LaQua is currently on a solo bike tour from Vancouver, B.C. to San Jose del Cabo, Mexico. This series is a collection of excerpts from her writing during the bike tour that have been edited for space from their original version. To read the posts in their entirety, or to see more from Mariah, visit www.mariahlaqua.com.

Montana Bicycle Celebration

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It seems fitting that the Adventure Cycling Association’s (ACA) Montana Bicycle Celebration kicked off with a presentation about a new route compiled by a bike travel enthusiast couple; surrounded by a full-house, Advocate Cycles ambassadors Lael Wilcox and Nicholas Carman shared photos and hopes for the inaugural Baja Divide ride to begin in January 2017.

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The Siples (left) and the Burdens (right) cruising on their 10 speed bikes.

If you didn’t already know, the ACA was founded by two cycling passionate couples—Greg and June Siple and Dan and Lys Burden. Whilst participating in a ride from Anchorage to Tierra del Fuego, they schemed that the best way to recognize America’s bicentennial might just be from the seat of a bicycle.

As someone relatively new to the bike industry, I was surprised to see things go full circle; with the somewhat recent inception of bikepacking and the increased participation in long distance races, one would think that this phenomenon is new. It’s not. Attending this celebration cleared up any misconceptions I had that bicycle travel (and those who love it) is something my generation can claim.

Sure enough, at Friday night’s reception, surrounded by reunited ‘76ers, guests had the opportunity to enjoy the video that was made during the Bikecentennial. Cue tinny music, ragtag participants, and cobbled together bikes. And with that, it occurred to me…THESE ARE MY PEOPLE. Passionate, quirky, never say die folks—and they did it—over 4000 participants rode some part of the Trans-America route that summer.

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The human spokes in the wheel that became the Adventure Cycling Association.

Among a variety of speakers that night, it was Greg Siple’s speech that resonated best with me; he relied on a series of ‘what-if’s to make his point about how precarious the whole endeavor was, as if one failed opportunity would have put the kibosh on the entire event. In a similar vein, I could say, “What if you weren’t reading this right now? What if you didn’t understand Advocate Cycles and support our mission? What if you didn’t sign on to be a dealer?” Greg spoke of the incredulity others presented when he shared his vision of Bikecentennial; there will always be naysayers who tell you how you can’t be successful or why your plan won’t come to fruition.

It’s natural to draw parallels between the work ACA does and what Advocate Cycles aims to do. Surrounded by this crew of folks made me think of all of you—dedicated shop owners and employees who believe so strongly about cycling, its impact on society, and the possibility that by simply riding your bike you make the world a better place.

It’s with that shared vision we created and launched two custom versions of our upcoming new models focusing on bicycle travel—Seldom Seen and Sand County—that will be auctioned this fall as a fundraiser for the ACA. (Look for details about the auction on our webpage in September.)

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Custom models of Seldom Seen and Sand County in front of the ACA office in Missoula, Montana.

We’re excited to offer the stock versions of these new bikes for delivery in November. As with all our models, customers vote for which non-profit organization they hope will benefit from the purchase of their frame/bike. Through this voting process, we learned that folks vote overwhelmingly to support the Adventure Cycling Association!

Throughout the Montana Bicycle Festival, we witnessed the community building and grassroots organizing the ACA is known for—meals, bike demos, trail opening ceremonies, activities for children, and storytelling, shared with participants who pedaled many miles to partake. We are honored to be a partner of this organization and confident that the support they’ve earned from you and your customers is never taken for granted.

 

And while it is comforting to see that an idea as bold as the Adventure Cycling Association was able to last, thanks to passionate founders and an ever-growing group of like-minded enthusiasts that gathered around them, it is even more comforting to see that cycling advocacy and the community of cycling as a whole is as strong as ever, and shows no signs of slowing down.

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Jim Sayer (left), Executive Director of the ACA, with Advocate Cycles founders Tim and Odia Krueger.

America’s Tip Expedition - Tierra del Fuego

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Words and Photos by Federico Cabrera

My Adventure started at Tolhuin in Tierra del Fuego where I gathered food for 10 days and headed out onto Peninsula Mitre carrying only the essentials. It took me 17 days to reach Cabo San Diego, also known as Peninsula Mitre, and to return to Tolhuin’s Panaderia La Union.

In total, it was a 450-mile solo & self-supported adventure through deserted beaches, forests & peatlands and I was the first one to get this far by bicycle—probably because nobody else was stupid enough to try it sooner, as 90% of Tierra del Fuego’s peatlands are located at Peninsula Mitre. During the expedition, my biggest concern was being able to cross the 5 rivers separating Estancia Maria Luisa from Cabo San Diego.

On my 2nd day, a few hours after crossing Rio Irigoyen, I reached Puesto La Chaira, the last inhabited place at Peninsula Mitre, and met Hector Oyarzun who lives there the entire year and sometimes spends up to 9 months alone. I also met Agustin, who was visiting and learning the Gaucho’s life and I was able to get a lot of information about my challenge ahead. Aside from a lot of helpful information on the landscape, they gave me the tide schedule for the next 4 river crossings—a very useful piece of information for the adventure ahead.

Along Peninsula Mitre there are 4 old uninhabited refugios, which were restored by Adolfo Imbert, Centro Hipico Fin del Mundo, where travelers can get shelter from the tough environment. All of them have beds, a wood stove, & potable water. Unfortunately, many people traveling in the area, using ATV’s or other motorized forms of transportation, don’t appreciate how important these places are for trekkers like myself. One such Refugio, Puesto Rio Leticia, had been destroyed in the last couple of years—with its walls torn down to make fires and litter all around.

At each new river crossing along the way I would end up making 7 crosses across and back, as I wasn’t sure exactly where to make the cross and how deep the rivers were. The first time I would make it without any gear to check the river, the 2nd time I carried the electronics, the 3rd time I carried the camping gear & clothing, and finally the 4th time I carried the bicycle.

One such crossing, the Rio Policarpo, which is one of the largest crossings, is essential to cross at the lowest tide. I arrived there at perfect timing and by the time I was crossing my bike, the water was up to my chest and the river was at least 100 meters wide.

From the last Refugio, Bahia Thetis, I had one more river crossing and only 9 miles to Cabo San Diego’s lighthouse, the farthest point and turn around point of this trip. In the Bahia Thetis’ logbook I found information stating 6-7 hours were needed for a round walking trip to the lighthouse. Just in case I planned for a 10 hours round trip and I carried some gear—bivy sack, sleeping bag, & some dry food.

By the time I finally reached America’s extremity in the 9th day of my trip, I knew I probably wasn’t going to make it back to Bahia Thetis in time to cross the river at low tide, so instead of wasting any time, I just took a few minutes to skinny dip at Estrecho de la Maire & to make a couple images at the Lighthouse before heading back on the 9-mile journey.

The last couple of hours I found my way through the peatlands with just a small headlamp as it was a very dark and cloudy night. By the time I made it to the river crossing I was 2 hours late for the low tide so I had to spend that night with just my bivy sack & summer sleeping bag. Fortunately, it was the first night without rain the entire trip.

A few days later I found out the person who took 6-7 hours in his round trip from Bahia Thetis to Cabo San Diego had crossed the river by boat in 5 minutes, instead of walking 4 miles to cross the river—2 miles each way like I had—through ankle deep mud, taking an extra 4-6 hours. From Bahia Thetis it took me 5 days to get back to Tolhuin with good weather.

For anyone that decides to head down and try this route, remember to carry as little weight as possible as there is plenty of pushing/walking the bike involved. It is also essential to get an updated tide chart/schedule and to carry food for at least 2 weeks—you might find some food at some shelters, but you can’t count on it.

You should also expect to find at least a couple rainy days and strong winds—in your return trip you will probably have head winds all the way to Ruta 3. Wider tires and rims will be highly appreciated to ride on the beach with low tides and to get through the endless peatlands that will be encountered.

In order to preserve this wild & remote place we need to request that the local authorities protect and regulate this area. Please make a difference and sign this petition: https://www.change.org/p/preservar-peninsula-mitre?recruiter=50229550&utm_source=share_petition&utm_medium=copylink

Ride Report - Tour of Aotearoa New Zealand

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Words and photos by Ihi Heke

New Zealanders love to bike. Even New Zealand’s prime minister, Hon. John Key, funded a cycleway that links one end of New Zealand with the other. Enter, first time Māori (Indigenous New Zealander) adventure mountain biker lining up for a “short” ride with the “tiniest of little” issues being that my first ever adventure ride happens to be the inaugural Tour of Aotearoa. Couple this with having no bike two days prior to the event, no training in the last six months and no idea what was required to set up a bike for a ride of this distance.

Running the entire length of New Zealand from north to south, the Tour Aotearoa is a 3000km bikepacking tour from the north tip of Cape Reinga all the way down south the town of Bluff. The tour is a collection of several of the greatest rides in the country all connected by the best available backcountry roads.

Luckily, the owners of Advocate Cycles are good mates of mine. On a recent trip to New Zealand, I convinced them that Māori were riding not for health, physical activity or even mountain biking but to seek the knowledge that only a mountain could pass on from several centuries of watching humans move across their pathways. In helping me out, they inadvertently helped Māori improve their connection to their lands through mountain biking.

Mountain biking is not only becoming popular with Māori communities seeking knowledge but it’s also becoming the new “rugby/netball” for Māori with too many injuries to play contact sports any longer. On top of this burgeoning interest in mountain biking, I’m convinced that adventure cycling as a form of mountain biking is the modality that will capture the imaginations of Māori due to the cultural importance of mountains within the Māori world view.

How this recent move to rediscover indigenous physical activity has come about has been a fascinating process in its own right. It was recently discovered that pre-European Māori had a highly comprehensive array of physical training techniques to improve power, agility, quickness, speed, coordination, flexibility, muscular endurance and aerobic conditioning. These strength and conditioning techniques were garnered from pre-European Māori’s most abundant resource, the environment that they lived in and shared with other living beings. That is, Māori appear to have looked to their ancestral ties with their atua (gods), kaitiaki (guiding animals) and tipua (spiritual animals e.g., taniwha) to make sense of their world and strengthen their control over their collective destiny by training as a reflection of what they saw in their local environment.

Initially, the whole idea of the Aotearoa sounded like a massive pain in the ass both literally and figuratively because I came from an era of mountain biking that used one bike for everything and each ride had to be completed within two to three hours. I was part of the era that thought that disc brakes were too heavy, carrying gear was unnecessary, and that suspension was for motorbikes and had no place on a bike—not anymore.

Two days out from the start of the Tour of Aotearoa, a smart looking, fresh, white, Hayduke turned up at my house. With the anthem of “steel is real” in the back of my mind I set about getting the bike up and running.

Twenty-four hours later, on a low tide, we set out on the start of the ride. The first section of the tour was 110km—86km of that on the aptly named, 90-mile beach. That’s right, almost 90km on sand with an incoming tide and 35 knot head wind for good measure. The first day was the filter from hell. A number of people on the start line asked how my training had been, to which I stated, “superb”—not a single issue of overtraining since I’d done none. Several comments were also passed that at a svelte 110kg I was probably “too heavy” to ride this type of event, especially with a 1×11 drivetrain, and I shouldn’t be surprised if I wasn’t successful in completing the tour. I think on both counts, I was finished with the event four days earlier than those who thought I would never get there.

I found the Hayduke to be a dream to ride on multiple, long, 12-hour days. I’ve been around mountain bikes for a long time (since the mid eighties) during which time I had been mostly interested in hill climbing only for the thrill of downhilling. Jump forward some twenty years and mountain biking has a new cousin—adventure biking. Interestingly, adventure biking allowed me to slow down and look around at all of the different locations more intimately because I didn’t feel obliged to rush.

Even more interesting was the number of people who knew about the Hayduke, especially considering it’s a brand new company. Not surprisingly, a large number of those people wanted to be part of the “next level crew” riding a Hayduke. I literally had adventure bike diehards leering over the Hayduke wanting to know every detail about how it rode.

The bike was a pleasure to ride, compliant to a fault, with effortless handling on the trail despite the gear loaded on the bike. In fact, I felt a little bit like the poor hillbilly with my borrowed panniers. Seeing all of the new techniques being used to carry gear including handle bar bags, seat bags and frame bags was out of this world and I intend to have a go at the correct adventure setup next time around.

I had expected to find the Hayduke tiring after a couple of consecutive days riding, considering I’d only ridden to the local store and back as training. However, I can say that I looked forward to getting back on it to ride each day. I think what I had underestimated was the relaxed angles of the Hayduke coupled with the steel ride making for a totally forgiving bike that could literally be ridden many long days in a row with very little rider fatigue.

In the end, the ride only took 22 days, when I had been told to expect 30, if I make it at all. I think the difference for me was the bike. It became like an old friend I’d catch up with for coffee before beginning each day. It was the absence of issues that made for such a wonderful ride. With the blessing of multiple days on the same bike, I was able to see the very direct effect that the Hayduke was allowing—a smooth ride and a great tour of my home country.

To say that I enjoyed being self sufficient and able to carry all my own food and sleeping equipment doesn’t do it justice—I loved it. Māori have had a long history of guiding non-Māori across a multitude of environments, all whilst surviving in often-difficult terrain. Adventure biking gave me a glimpse of my genealogy, of my very essence via mountain biking.

Building The Baja Divide: 12 Days Towards Christmas

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Building The Baja Divide: 12 Days Towards Christmas

Words by Lael Wilcox, Photos by Nicholas Carman

In San Diego, we photocopy a colored atlas into white and black. We cut the pages down to size and highlight probable routes in orange and possible routes in pink. There remains a lot of black and white in between—lots of unknown and lots of hope. We trace our fingers over thin lines, then dotted lines—over mountain ranges and to the sea. Maybe this road actually goes through? Could we ride there? If we can’t ride, could we push our bikes and make it anyway? Let’s go try. How else do people get there? Who lives there? What do they do? Let’s go see.

We take a ferry to Coronado. Saying goodbye to my godmother in the morning, we ride the Silver Strand to Chula Vista and to a dirt road over Otay Mountain. From the top, all alone, we can see both San Diego and Tijuana. Both America and Mexico—where we came from and where we’re going.

We descend to the pavement and drink soda in the shade at Barrett Junction. We pass a road sign to Campo, the start of the Pacific Crest Trail. We continue to Tecate, the border crossing. I sit in a customs office on the American side, while Nick goes to find pesos to pay for the tourist visa. He returns to retrieve his passport and gives me a cucumber-lime Gatorade while I wait. It’s delicious.

On December 8, a couple stamps later, we cross the border to Baja. We pedal through the gate, to Tecate and pass a tree-lined plaza. Old men play dominoes on park benches. We don’t stop because we’re on the hunt for dirt roads to other places.

On the first night, a Mexican businessman that commutes daily to San Diego invites us to camp in his yard. On the second, a shop owner in Ojos Negros invites us to camp out front. We buy a half-pint of Mezcalito. Are you sure you want that? Why not? She’s right, it’s gross.

On the third day we pass vineyards on the way to Santo Tomas and almost make it to the Pacific. We climb steep and camp on a hilltop. In the evening, trucks honk hello from below.

In the morning, motos flash thumbs up as they pass. I wave to their backs. We stop at the top of a climb to look out at the Pacific Ocean. It’s all downhill from here. Let’s ride to the beach! I crash hard on the way down riding too fast into deep sand. I hear my back pop in four places and burp my front tire. Ouch! Nick digs the sand out of the tire bead and swirls Stan’s while I pick the sand out of my teeth and finally sit up. He helps me back onto my bike and we ride slowly to Erendira.

On the fourth evening, brilliant purples and reds paint over dark clouds at sunset. It’s both stunning and menacing. Ripping down the coast with a strong tailwind, we watch the storm brew. We need to find camp. To Nick’s dismay, I stop and steal brussel sprouts growing on tall stalks by the sea. He points to the sky and urges me on.

Shielded on two sides by rock walls, we set the tent up. It’s sandy and the tent stakes hardly hold. Nick stakes and re-stakes. The tent walls flap loudly in the fierce breeze. We’ll be fine. If we have to, we’ll pack up, ride on and look for shelter. Under the cover of the tent, Nick steams the brussel sprouts with onions and tops them with a dry, crumbly sheep cheese. I swear it tastes like clams and drink the tasty broth. It rains in the night and after several hours the wind dies and we fall asleep.

On the fifth day, we cross the primary paved highway, the MEX1, at Colonet. We ride dirt to Ejido Benito Juarez and follow a sandy arroyo away from the village. Fresh water flows through the valley. Behind a fence, I spy fields of tomatillos, but I don’t steal any. The night is clear and we camp under the stars. A heavy wet frost covers our bikes.

The next day we climb to El Coyote and then Mike’s Sky Rancho. We drink beer with Canadian mototourists until dark. One of their Mexican guides, named Oscar, works in a fish plant in Seward in the summer. He packs salmon. You’re from Alaska? Yeah! When you go home to Anchorage, go to Thai Tom’s and tell my boss that Oscar says hi. Where are you biking tomorrow? To Coco’s Corner. You’re going to Coco’s Corner? He’s the greatest! When you see Coco, tell him Oscar from Ensenada says hi.

The Canadian motos invite us to stay for steak dinner, but they’re not cooking the steaks. Oscar and the crew are, they’re running a business. We’d rather not impose and we’re ready to find camp. We pedal away in the dark and across a stream. The sky is overcast and it looks like it’s going to rain again. We ride half an hour uphill to find a flat spot. Then I realize that I lost the tent. Dang! Where is it? Nick says that we’d better retrace our steps. With our lights on, we descend slowly to Mike’s and look hard for the tent. We don’t find it. Well, what now? We could either ask to stay here, pay to stay here or look again. If we stay here, we won’t find the tent and then we won’t have the tent for tomorrow. Let’s go look again. Nick suggests that the tent might be in the stream. I’m sure it’s not. And then, sure enough, there it is in the stream. I let out a cheer because I’m so happy that he’s right and I’m wrong. We’ve got the tent! We climb back to our flat spot and set up camp. Instead of steaks, we eat beans and tortillas and they taste great. Heavy rain pounds through the night.

The morning of day 7 is clear and bright. We roll out of camp and start climbing. The ground is still wet from the night before and it’s muddy. It’s that nasty clay mud that stops bikes dead. The mud cakes on our tires and chains and my chain drops off the ring. I put it back on, but it won’t stay. A few steps later, Nick’s tires clog in his frame. Neither of us can pedal. We start pushing our bikes slowly through the mud. It’s sunny and not a big deal, we’ll walk until we can ride again. Eventually, the sun will dry out the roads—for now the air is cool and it might take a while. We keep pushing.

And then I see them. On the side of the road are two unopened cans of beer. It’s the little things; cold treasure can make all the difference on a muddy forced hike-a-bike. We stop in the sun, on the side of the road to drink the beer. Meanwhile, a big white pick-up approaches, engine roaring and sliding all over the road. It’s Oscar from Ensenada! Want a ride? That’d be great!

We put the bikes in the bed of the truck and take a ride to the MX3. Back on the bikes, we rip pavement with a tailwind 60 miles to San Felipe, a tourist town. We stay in a hotel for three days and watch full-length movies on YouTube and eat tacos and write.

On day 9 we head for Coco’s Corner and stop short at Bahia Gonzaga. At the end of a paved road, on the other side of a military checkpoint, there is a really nice store. The owners are having a Christmas party and they invite us to join them. We all dance to loud music and drink Tecate Light and eat cake. We camp on the beach nearby and return to the store in the morning to fill up on water. A middle-aged man in a comboy hat asks if he can try reading my Bukowski novel. He does a good job sounding out the words. He wants to learn English so he can drive a truck in Canada. I see his son eyeing my bike. I ask him if he wants to try and ride it. First he shrugs no and I ask again and he agrees. He barely stands over the frame, but he pumps on the suspension fork and he knows how to ride. It’s awesome!

On day 10 we make it to Coco’s and stop early. He insists that we stay. Coco is alive and well! He’s the greatest. That night, a man arrives at Coco’s Corner. His truck has a flat tire and his family is waiting with the truck and he can’t get the lug nuts loose. Coco—it should be made clear that he has no legs—goes out to help with the truck. We make egg and bean burritos and leave one on a plate for Coco when he returns. In the morning I sign his guest book before we leave.

On day 11 we camp in a half built house just above Bahia Los Angeles. The four walls protect us from the wind. The un-paned windows give us a view of the bay, and the lack of roof—a view of the stars.

On day 12 we eat tacos with Pancho in San Rafael. Pancho lives in a trailer above the beach. He fishes when he wants to and he rolls fresh flour tortillas when he wants them. He fries everything on a propane stove top and I swear they are the most delicious fish tacos I’ve ever tasted.

It’s December 20, four days to Christmas and we’re half-way down the peninsula. We pedal across the imaginary border from Baja California Norte to Baja California Sur. It only gets better from here.

The Baja Divide is a projected 2000-mile off-pavement touring route from San Diego, CA to the southern tip of the Baja California Sur. Lael Wilcox and her partner Nicholas Carman have spent two months researching the route, and have recently returned to San Diego to start a second routefinding mission down the peninsula. A digital track will be published by summer 2016, with additional guiding resources scheduled to be published later in the year, leading up to the inaugural group start on the route on January 2, 2017. This group start—neither a group tour nor a race—is a way to encourage people to ride the route self-supported, at their own pace, by starting amidst a community of like-minded riders. Lael is riding a 27.5+ Advocate Hayduke. Learn more at www.bajadivide.com.

Rider Profile - Lael Wilcox

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If you haven’t heard of Lael Wilcox, allow us to introduce you. Lael has spent the better part of the last decade touring around the world on her bike. It all started about 8 years ago when Lael and Nicholas Carman decided to take off on a two-month paved tour in the United States—in some ways, the ride has yet to end. Since that tour, they have been splitting their years between working to save up money and traveling by bike.

They have spent time touring throughout North America, two summers chasing dirt routes across Europe and a substantial amount of time in both South Africa and the Middle East. Recently Lael has also taken to ultra-endurance racing with great success, setting the female record for the Tour Divide in the summer of 2015, although for the both of them, travel is most important and will probably always remain the focus.

Currently, Lael is down in Baja, Mexico aboard an Advocate Cycles Hayduke where she and Nick are working on mapping and planning a roughly 2,000 mile bikepacking route through the area. In the end, they hope to be able to publish the route for others to use as a springboard for their own rides. You can check out their project online at www.bajadivide.com. We caught up with Lael during her tour and asked her a few questions about what it’s like living this lifestyle.

RK: For starters, when you aren’t riding, where do you call home?

LW: I grew up in Anchorage, Alaska. That’s where my family lives so that’s where I’d call home. I don’t spend too much time in Anchorage. I don’t have a house or a car, but I’ll always go back there. When we’re not traveling we may work in different places. We’ve lived in Tacoma, Denali, Key West, Annapolis, Albuquerque, and France, but for the last eight years, we’ve spent the majority of our time riding.

RK: What do you do for work in between these long rides? Do you keep a similar schedule or does it change year to year?

LW: I usually work in restaurants as a server or a bartender. I’ve been working in restaurants since I was sixteen. The first year I cleaned a bar in the mornings and washed dishes in a cafe for the afternoons. Since, I’ve worked in at least twenty restaurants. It’s usually an easy job to find and an easy job to quit, and I enjoy the work. I’ll work hard for four to six months in a stretch, often two jobs at once. I save money so I can travel on the bike again.

I’ve done other jobs as well. I taught English in France and yoga in Anchorage and once worked the door for a bar on New Year’s. I’ll take any job I don’t dread. Although, serving is fast-paced and fast cash and I prefer it.

I don’t have a set pattern of work and bike travel. Mostly, I travel until I run out of money and pick up a job to save for the next trip and leave town when I can. It’s nice to mix it up. I’ll often live and work in different places. It’s fun and exciting to learn a new place and make new friends along the way, but I’m always ready to leave after a few months. There’s a lot to do and see.

RK: Tell us about your first extended bike tour and what effect that tour had on your cycling and the course of your life.

LW: I met Nick when I was twenty years old while in college in Tacoma, Washington. He gave me a bike so I could commute to work four miles away—otherwise I got around on foot. The bike opened up my world. I love walking, but the problem is walking takes a lot of time. The bike really speeds things up. We started biking all around town together.

At the time, one of my sisters lived in Seattle. The other sister flew in for a weekend visit. I wanted to go see them both. Normally, I would’ve taken the bus—its only $3 even with a bike. However, we didn’t have enough cash to pay the fare. So I said, hell let’s just ride there instead.

At the time, Nick and I were riding fixed gear bikes and it was definitely the longest ride of my life—45 miles. We pedaled and talked the whole way on bike paths, through industrial zones, outskirts and in town. Along the way, I turned to Nick and said, “If we can bike to Seattle, we could bike across the country!” I’d never known anyone to do it, but I could imagine the lifestyle of pedaling all day and camping somewhere different every night. We figured, I’d graduate in the spring and we’d leave from Tacoma and ride to the east coast.

I graduated, but we didn’t have any money—none. So we worked all summer, saved what we could and left in the fall. We flew into Boston to visit Nick’s sister, rode north to Montreal and south to Key West, Florida. We chased fall colors all the way to South Carolina and then rode the coast. Sometimes it was cold and hard, but we learned a lot: how to camp, eat, ride, and spend all day with each other and feel safe and free.

We ended up in Key West in November. It was the end of the road and we were out of money—it seemed like a great place to spend the winter and work. We both got jobs as pedicab drivers and I worked in a restaurant. We shared a small house on a tropical lane with a French guy who assumed the name Jack. We dove off the pier for lobsters and I spent many afternoons at the outdoor laundromat down the street because we only had two white work-shirts. Besides, Felix the coffee man made good Cuban coffee and sassed me cause I was from Alaska. He called me Palin.

We saved enough money in three months to ride out of town and we haven’t stopped since. That was eight years ago.

RK: What do you look forward to most on these adventures? Is it the riding itself, travel to new places, seeing new cultures and landscapes? Tell us what it is that makes you want to live this lifestyle.

LW: This is my life. How does anyone look forward to their life? Do they appreciate what they have? Do they daydream about what could be different? Do they daydream about other places or other people’s lives? Does traveling on the bike allow me to do all of these things? Yes.

I see and experience and feel new things everyday with my best friend in the whole world. We do this together. And then we talk about it. And then we sleep next to each other on the ground and then we wake up and do it again and pedal somewhere else. What else could I want?

It’s not always easy and sometimes it rains and sometimes we fight, but that’s life. Life is not always easy, but it can be damn good.

I look forward to mixing it up. And along the way, I look forward to sunny weather and climbing mountains and sleeping hard and smiling until the wrinkles at the ends of my eyes hurt.

What I look forward to most is going somewhere new every day.

Everywhere I’ve been, Ukraine, South Africa, Israel, I’ve been invited in and I feel like a special guest. People see us on the bikes—they’re curious about us and we’re curious about them. To be invited into someone’s home, you learn so much about how they live and what they care about. If we share a language, then we talk. If we don’t, then we do our best. It’s real and it matters.

In the end, I guess we find a home away from home. We learn new places. We ride our bikes and we’re happy.

NicholasCarman_Baja-5676

RK: Why did you decide on Baja? What was it about the area that made you want to ride and travel there?

LW: Baja is just south of California and, snowbiking aside, it’s one of the last mountainous places we could ride in North America in winter. We rode here five years ago, mostly on narrow, paved Highway 1. This time we came back with bigger tires and less luggage to ride a mostly dirt route. To do this, Nick invested a lot of time and money into printed and digital maps. We’ve decided to commit more time to this project to ultimately publish a high quality route for other riders to enjoy in the future. This means we’ll probably ride the peninsula again this spring to explore alternative routing. I’ve come to learn that the Hayduke is the perfect bike for Baja. The 27.5+ wheels eat up loose rock, sand and washboard.

The peninsula is a desert, the least populous region in Mexico, with open water on either side. On Christmas Eve, we arrived at the dead end of a dirt road. A family was slaughtering a cow and they invited us to stay for dinner and singing and breakfast.

In the month we’ve been here, we’ve ridden along both coastlines, spent a lot of time in the mountains, and encountered lots of fresh water and the camping has been awesome, with mostly clear skies.

Throughout this ride, we have been working on connecting dirt roads and rough jeep tracks as much as possible. We hope to share our route with others and encourage them to ride here too.

RK: What’s next? Any plans after your time in Baja?

LW: We plan to be here for another month or two. We’ll be riding with friends and working on the route and then we’ll see. I’ll need to work sometime in the next few months. We might go back to Alaska to ride fatbikes in the snow. I’d love to ride parts of the Iditarod Trail and in the White Mountains near Fairbanks.

RK: Thanks so much, we wish you all the best in the rest of your Baja tour and will be excited to see where you end up next.

NicholasCarman_Baja-5675

All photos courtesy Nicholas Carman

Their Only Portrait - A Bike Tour That Gives Back

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As cyclists, it is hard to quantify what we get out of riding our bikes. It is a sport and lifestyle that gives us endless enjoyment as well as countless memories and experiences in the locations we see and with the people we meet along the way.

Buenos Aires photographer Federico Cabrera and his “ Their Only Portrait” project ask the simple question, “What if we all gave back a little more along the way?”

DSCF6387At the end of October, aboard an Advocate Cycles Hayduke Ti, Federico will be taking off on a 4000-mile bike tour along the Cordillera de los Andes from La Quiaca to Ushuaia giving away 1000 printed portraits along the way. In addition he will be giving away portable solar lanterns to people who need them most.

Federico came up with the idea for this project during his previous travels. In underdeveloped areas he would often notice hundreds of tourists taking photos of the local people without showing much if any respect for the subject. Furthermore, he learned that many of these local people did not possess a single family portrait of their own. With this realization, the idea for “Their Only Portrait” was born.

During his upcoming bike tour, Federico plans to make family portraits of the local people he meets along the way while riding thousands of miles through developing communities. To do this, he will bring a small portable photography studio along, which will allow him to create and give each family a printed copy of their photo. His intention is simply to give back to local communities and hopefully inspire other people to find their own way to give back.


We caught up with Federico in the final days of preparation before taking off on his tour to find out a little bit more about his project.

RK: First off, I want to say that this is such a great idea. We all dream about long rides and adventures, but to connect with people in such a personal way is very special. I can only imagine the remarkable people you will meet along the way, but what excites you most? Is it the adventure of a long ride or the adventure of the new faces and communities that you will surely find in the process?

FC: Thank you! It’s certainly both, but if I had to choose just one it would be the people I’ll be able to meet along the road. The portraits are the most important part of my trip and so the people are central to this idea and I want to make these portraits the best I can, even when that means carrying gear that is definitively not light or “bike friendly” such as the Studio flash & printer and possibly even an umbrella for lighting.

RK: Surely there are many other ways to visit these communities and meet these people. What is it about bicycle travel that you enjoy most? Have you done other long rides like this in the past?

FC: I have, and I still remember the freedom I felt exploring Patagonia on a self-supported bicycle trip almost 20 years ago. On a ride like this it is so easy to appreciate nature and blend in with the environment. It is by far the best way to relate with local people, and to engage with life in its every form.

RK: No doubt, this is a long bike ride. How long do you think it will take you to complete this adventure?

FC: For this trip I’m also collaborating with Fundacion Ruta 40 (a local NGO contributing in the comprehensive development of rural schools) to make & print their students’ portraits. Depending on how many schools I manage to visit before the end of classes in December, it should take around 4 months to make it to Ushuaia.

RK: I see from your photos that you have done some portraits for families in preparation for this project. What kind of reactions have you received from people that you gave portraits to?

FC: Yes, I already did two trips through some of Argentina’s most remote & wild areas in an effort to put myself and my gear to the test before the main trip. Outside of the big cities, most people are very shy with strangers, especially at Argentina’s original communities, and are not used to big flashes, photometers, and the rest of the gear I’m carrying along on these trips. It usually takes them a while to understand what I’m doing and that it is a gift for them to keep, for free, even with other printed portraits as examples. Usually, as soon as someone is brave enough to pose for the camera and they see a familiar face in print, they want their family portrait taken and one of just their kids as well, because they don’t know when they might be able to get another one.

RK: Will you be updating on your progress along the way? Where would someone be able to check in on your adventure in the coming months?

FC: Yes, I’m traveling with satellite technology to keep people abreast of my progress online. You’ll be able to track my daily progress on the project website at www.theironlyportrait.com and also keep up with regular updates through social media on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter.

RK: We wish you well on your journey. Thanks so much for letting us be a part of your project.