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.

Six Days and Nights – Stagecoach 400

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Words and Photos by Cedar Kyes

The stagecoach is a roughly 400-mile collection of desert road, double and singletrack and enough pavement to keep you honest. It was co-created and organized by Brendan Collier of the Hub Cyclery in Idyllwild, California where the event begins and ends. The route was created with the idea of a multi-day adventure ride in mind and it takes riders through a diverse collection of southern California surroundings from vast desert, high mountains, coastal regions and a bit of urban. To ride the Stagecoach 400 is to experience all of the raw beauty that southern California has to offer.

Embarking on this ride was the beginning of something way bigger than I had ever imagined and luckily, the start of the Stagecoach 400 was as informal as I had hoped it would be. While most people do treat this event as a race or ITT (Individual Time Trial), I was treating it more like a long bike ride with one of my good buddies, Brendan.

SC400 Start

I was content to watch the crowd gather and cheer them on as they departed in a kind of bikepacking critical mass that rolled out of town and down the highway towards the first long climb of the route. That climb would ultimately put a huge amount of distance between myself and the rest of the pack. Having embarked on this journey with literally zero training—and couch legs that had barely seen any physical activities all winter long—I was in no hurry to get the suffering started. I instinctively knew that I needed to ease into this ride if I wanted to have any chance of finishing.

After the initial warm-up and shakedown of my bike and my body, I was starting to find my pace and trust these wagon wheels. Having just built this fresh Advocate Cycles Hayduke with 29” wheels for the long journey ahead and having never ridden a 29’er before, there was a slight learning curve for me. After the first long descent, I was feeling comfortable enough to let it rip. The decision to build the bike as a 29’er would definitely pay off over the course of the ride for me—I don’t think I had the fitness to push a fully loaded plus-sized bike the entire distance of this route.

Since I had fallen way off the back of the pack on the second long climb of the day, I took this opportunity to take a look back at where I had come from earlier that morning—this was the last time I would see the snowy peaks of the Idyllwild area for quite awhile.

Eventually, after a long morning out back, I met up with my crew again. Brendan had a mechanical malfunction right at the start of the ride, which set him back a little bit. That delay gave me the head start I needed to get my legs and lungs working well enough to try and keep up with him for a few days.

Brendan and a few others caught up to me just in time to pull me along towards Sunshine Market with the promise of cold beer and sandwiches. I was happy to see them and even happier to crack that beer, which would be the fuel I needed to keep on the wheels of this steady paced crew for the rest of the day and into the night. We would ultimately end up pushing on into the late night hours and pitching camp in a cow pasture somewhere deep in the SoCal Countryside.

Morning came far too quickly and we needed to get back in the saddle in order to reach our destination for the day. Part way through the morning, we stopped at an old abandoned country store to soak up the morning vibes and ease into our day. While the others enjoyed their lightweight snacks, the genius of my morning coffee ritual became clear to the crew. I brewed a few cups and distributed with egalitarian generosity. I got the impression that most of the Stagecoachers don’t bother with a stove or coffee on this route. I’m not sure what would possess anyone to embark upon such a journey without and it sure did make this morning more enjoyable for us all.

Dropping into Black Canyon after our stop, the super green countryside funneled into the canyon and sent us spiraling down into a lush gorge filled with wildflowers and water flowing through huge boulders in the creek beside us. With all of the rain that California received throughout the winter, there were tons of crossings and streams where people had rarely seen water flowing before. Unfortunately, the fun would come to a screeching halt for me. After making a ridiculous navigation error and succumbing to a serious lapse of reason, I was left hopelessly chasing the crew for the rest of the day.

After losing a couple hours to some sort of physical breakdown, I finally came back to the world of the living and crawled out from under the bushes where I had lost consciousness trying to rehydrate myself in the shade. I’m pretty sure my body shut itself down in some sort of physiological self-preservation fit of revolt. I’m not really sure how long I was out for but I eventually came to the realization that it was a bit cooler and there was more shade to be found now. I pulled myself together and pushed on. Later I would find texts from Brendan that kept me motivated to catch up to the crew again. “You’re not that far back” and “We’re at Pizza Port in Ocean Beach” were the words that kept me going. Thoughts of cold beer and warm pizza were coursing through my numbed mind. So, onwards I charged towards the ocean.

At another water crossing, I came across a woman on horseback with her dog roaming nearby. The horse was taking a drink from the stream—I waited patiently for them to clear the crossing. I must’ve looked like I had just died and been reborn because this woman was genuinely concerned about my well-being. She asked where I was going. “To the beach” is all I could muster. She asked if I lived there or had a car waiting there. “No, neither of those” is what made it out of my mouth. She proceeded to question me about what I was doing there. I was able to articulate the basics about riding from Idyllwild to San Diego and back to Idyllwild and that I was trying to catch up to my friends who were already in San Diego. She offered me a ride to meet back up with them and said she would drop me off a few blocks away so nobody would ever know. I was tempted but I told her that I had to do this on my own. She then offered to say a prayer for me—I gladly accepted. It was a very nice prayer—warm and genuine—and I felt that she fully believed in its power. I thanked her and jokingly said, “I hope that helps me climb up this steep hill ahead.” She knew that it would. Thank you stranger! I thought of how nice that gesture was when I got my first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean.

Just as the sun was setting on the second day of my Stagecoach 400 ride I made it to Torrey Pines State Park. Even though I was in a bit of a hurry to catch up with my crew, I stopped for a moment to soak it all in. This was in itself a huge accomplishment for me. I had just ridden from way up in the Mountains of Idyllwild all the way to the Pacific Ocean—in two days. I met up with the crew in San Diego and we spent the night at a friend’s house in the city.

Exiting San Diego and heading back into the mountains, Day 3 would prove to be the most challenging of the entire ride. I struggled to keep up with the pack for the entire day and fell off the back on every climb. After the last re-group at a gas station in Alpine, I, decided that I needed to fall back and ride at my own pace if I wanted to finish. It was not a pretty moment for me—not until I finally got out of my head, listened to my body, and looked up at the beauty all around.

I was literally one click or call away from the wambulance when I realized that there was no rush and I could just soak it all in and finish the ride on my own pace. I also realized that I was just past the point of no return and it would be harder to bail out than it would be to continue forward. So, I sat there for a while and got my head straight. I watched the sun set and felt it cool down considerably. I had great lights and lots of battery power left and decided that I needed to ride more in the evening hours when it was cooler. This was a critical epiphany for me and I continued the relentless climb into the darkening night.

I coached myself through the next few miles of the route and, reading through the cue cards, learned that there was a restaurant and country store on the other side of this climb—giving me inspiration to push on. I made it up and over that mountain and on to the restaurant but it had just closed. Luckily, the store was still open so I grabbed a cold beer and a bag of chips. I found a nice little spot in the middle of a grassy field and I sat there under the stars, sipping my beer and savoring each and every salty chip.

I was uncertain about the next move. The cue cards alluded to the notion that there was another store at the campgrounds a few miles further along the route. “She makes great burritos for the Stagecoach riders” it said, which was the motivation I needed to push on into the late night hours. It was a sluggish uphill push on muddy trail but it was very peaceful.

When I rolled into the campgrounds I found a spot to throw down my sleeping bag and the nearby stream serenaded me to sleep. I slept like a baby all night and well into the morning. I took my time packing up and wandered over to the store. It was closed. As it turns out, most of the stores on the rest of the route are closed on Mondays and Tuesdays. I was able to refill all of my water and headed out for day 4.

This day featured a relentless climb up and over Mt Laguna. There was little to no shade and the temperatures were rising by the minute. Thankfully, the trails were pretty awesome and the views were amazing. I took my time and listened to my body—seeking refuge in every bit of shade that I encountered and being mindful of my hydration and nutrition, I chugged along all day. I was enjoying myself again. Even though it was slow going, I was happy to be making forward progress and I knew that this mountain had a summit—somewhere up there. I did not see or hear a single soul for the entirety of the climb. It was almost surreal how much solitude this stretch provided. Finally, I had gotten out of Babylon and into the Backcountry—this is what I truly enjoy and appreciate about bikepacking.

SC400 Mt Laguna

As I reached the summit of Mt Laguna and popped out onto the highway, I was blown away by the amazing view. I could see the Salton Sea way off in the distance and the snowy Tahquitz Peak/Mt San Jacinto way back up in the mountains where I had started the ride. The experience was enhanced from ten to eleven when I dropped in on the awesome singletrack that parallels the highway for most of this stretch. I forgot all about the long day of climbing and just ripped sweet singletrack for what seemed like an eternity. In fact, it was so good that I missed my turn and continued on the trail for quite a ways before I realized that I should be pointed in the opposite direction for my descent into the desert and to make it to the next store, which was supposed to be open until 6. This would be a critical re-supply before heading off into the most serious desert section—I was determined to make it to that store.

I knew that it would be a serious downhill into the desert from here. Once I was certain that I was dropping in on the right track, I let it all out. I’m not sure many people have gone as fast on a fully loaded bikepacking rig. It didn’t stop. I smashed through rocks and drifted into corners and in retrospect, it was downright foolish—I was determined to make it to that store in time.

The shreddy downhill gave way to a sluggish sand trap and my roll was slowed tremendously. I somehow managed to keep afloat in the sand and rolled it all the way out to the pavement where I put the hammer down and made it to the store with minutes to spare. It was closed—spring hours.

Welcome to my desert oasis. While it was indeed true that the store was closed, I did find what I needed to continue on my journey. There was a sign on the door that said to track down Doug for after hours registration. I wandered over to Doug’s place and knocked on the door. Nothing. As I was walking back to my bike and kicking rocks, I saw a guy headed in the same general direction as me and I called out “Hey there, are you Doug?” No. It was not Doug. “Doug is off today. It really pisses me off when he closes the store.” Meet my new friend Alber—Alber is the ranch hand at Butterfield. He’s on a mission of some sort. Thankfully for me, he just happened to be right there at that exact moment. He was genuinely concerned for me and he understood that I really needed to get into that store before I could proceed into the desert. He said he would try to get the keys from Doug and open the store for me in the morning.

As I sat there in front of the closed store, I was optimistic that this would all turn out alright. Soon after, Alber came over with an apple, banana, and orange and his two young daughters running along beside him. They had each made me a sandwich and wanted to bring them to me personally—I almost cried. I could not believe the genuine kindness of this family. I went from complete deflation to complete gratitude and full nourishment of body, soul, and spirit. Those little angels shined so bright—It was truly amazing. Thank you Alber and your wonderful daughters.

He told me about the cabins and the pool and the hot shower—I was indeed in heaven. That night I had a shower and slept in a bunk bed—It was a good thing too because the wind kicked up and was howling all night long. As I was cozy inside my little cabin eating homemade sandwiches, I couldn’t help but think about the prayer that I had been granted earlier in the ride. However you want to look at it, The Universe was shining down on me.

In the morning I made coffee by the poolside and by some other stroke of luck, I ran into Alber at the store before he took off on his work day. He let me in and I got what I thought I needed to carry me through the next stretch—I was good to go.

Welcome to the desert. Massive ocotillos were like gateway guardians to the Anza-Borrego Desert and they were in full bloom as I passed through. I gave a nod of respect to each and every one of them on my passage. They seemed to return the gesture as they provided me with little bits of shade where otherwise there was none to be found. Dropping into Diablo Drop and the Wind Caves was impressive and a little bit spooky—this is definitely where the Sand People live and I did not linger long.

Back to the pavement—with minimal shade and nothing but an endless row of power lines stretching off into the horizon, it was best not to think about it too much. I put my head down and focused on cadence. It wasn’t until I got to the next store that I even looked up—it was closed. The bar across the street was open and I bellied up to the bar for a cold beer.

Here I ran into a fellow Stagecoacher who had also wandered off on a solo mission. We shared some stories and helped each other feel not-so-out-of-place in this strange desert watering hole. As I walked outside to check on my bike, I noticed that a distinct change in the weather had occurred—then came the chatter from the locals about rain coming and that we were screwed. I slammed my beer, settled up, and saddled up. There was a strong and sustained headwind for the next 20 miles or so as we struggled our way towards Borrego Springs. We rolled into town just after dark and hit up the Taco Shop before heading out of town to find a spot to hunker down for the night.

SC400 Scorpion

I had known about the sculpture gardens around Borrego Springs and I wanted to see them in the daylight so I steered us to this spot just outside of town for the night. It was one of the best nights of sleep on the whole trip. We were out of the wind and the sky was booming with stars. Knowing that I had a big day ahead, it was a very quick and unceremonious morning at the sculptures before the two of us took off.

Making it to Bailey’s Cabin was a milestone for me. I had ridden this stretch once before but we were coming down the canyon and it was all downhill that time. I remembered the “Willows” section of Coyote Canyon and I was a bit nervous about getting through there. The last time I passed through it was so overgrown that it felt like we were trudging through the jungle. Thankfully, it was cut way back and our passage through was easy. That did not help the fact that we were headed uphill through the canyon. It was so sandy that I had to walk for long stretches.

Finally reaching the road at the entrance to Coyote Canyon was a great feeling. Despite the fact that I knew I was in store for a really long climb, it was good to be standing on solid ground again. The climb was every bit as long and strenuous as I had imagined and I pushed onward with a great sense of accomplishment that I had come this far.

It was only fitting that I finished the Stagecoach 400 at night since I had ridden so much of it this way. The night was definitely my friend on this journey. Thankfully, I had the best lighting system you could ask for. My Lupine Lights system worked flawlessly for 6 days and 6 nights of riding while also keeping my phone and my camera charged the entire time.

I got back to Idyllwild just hours before this snowstorm hit—I had seen the system moving in and I cranked up the pace on the final day so that I might beat it. I pushed hard from Borrego Springs all the way into Idyllwild and made it in time to get a cold beer and some warm stew at Idyllwild Brewery.

Many thanks to them for finding me some hot food even though the kitchen was closed when I rolled in. Another huge thanks to Marlin and Dawne for the hot shower and cozy bed to crash in. It was a wonderful way to finish an incredible journey. Last but not least, thank you to Brendan for putting together such an amazing bikepacking route through some of the most remote and untouched places in Southern California. It’s definitely the best way to experience the diversity that SoCal has to offer and thanks for pulling me along as far as you did. I don’t think I would’ve made it without your support and encouragement.

I also couldn’t have done it without the support of my awesome girlfriend who was holding down the fort and taking care of Bushido while I was gone. I look forward to doing this ride again—I pushed myself beyond my comfort zone and I tested every bit of strength that I could muster. It was by far the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

A huge thanks for support from Advocate Cycles, Kali Protectives, Lupine Lights, Terrene Tires, Tifosi Optics & Zoic Clothing.

Until next time…

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.

nicholas-carman1-5696 nicholas-carman1-5694

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.

Colorado Trail - Lessons Learned

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Words and Photos by Eric Hockman

“Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out that going to the mountains is going home; that wildness is a necessity.”

-John Muir

There’s something very exciting about turning on your out of office reply that signifies the beginning of your time away from the daily grind. Whether you are jumping on an airplane to fly somewhere half-way around the globe or keeping it local with a stay-cation, it’s important to take time off and put yourself in new places to experience the out of ordinary.

It may sound crazy to most to call a physically and mentally demanding journey across multiple ranges of high altitude mountains a vacation, but to me, it’s just about the best way I can imagine to spend my time off. Luckily, my fiancé shares this feeling, and so we go as a pair. For us, the best growth we see as individuals and together is gained by taking ourselves away from our typical routine and overcoming the challenges we face on our adventures.

In the early spring months of 2016, we made the decision to thru-bike the Colorado Trail together over the course of two weeks. The challenge of it all was bigger than either of us had ever faced, but we knew it was exactly how we’d want to cash in on our time off from work. The end result was unwritten at this point and the logistical spider web grew each day as we started looking into how we wanted to take this massive challenge on.

The Route:

Consisting of a mixture of mostly single track, a fair amount of dirt forest service roads, and a small stint of paved mountain highways, the Colorado Trail stretches 539 miles between Durango and Denver, CO. While the trail remains predominantly above the 10,000 ft. elevation mark, there is over 70,000 ft of ascending and descending to really satiate your appetite for challenge and reward.

The CT is not a directional trail; however, most travellers typically start their journey in Waterton Canyon, near Denver and work their way into the most rugged terrain towards the latter half of the journey. The decision for us to ride the trail from Durango to Denver came out of wanting to ride back towards our home, rather than away from it. And so we did.

Let the journey begin.

A few things we learned on the Colorado Trail:

You don’t know until you go: Photos do not do this trail much justice when it comes down to it. Both majestically or for predicting the ability to ride certain sections that appear buttery smooth and flowy. What appears in images definitely inspires the soul, but there are many sections that must be pushed and cannot be easily flowed on two wheels. It’s best to accept that some things cannot be ridden and that time spent off the bike is great for taking in the views.

A loud freehub or bell can save you: Some may side with the opinion that a loud freehub is disruptive to other trail users or the serenity of being out in the backcountry; however, our loud free wheeling bikes managed to alert a momma moose with her two calves and alert a distant bull moose in the willows. A few follow up rings of the bell on your handlebars also alerts wildlife that you’re in their zone. Having a bell on your bike is also a great way to alert other trail users when you’re gassed and can’t muster any words to let them know you’re there.

Marmots are always looking for handouts: I sort of already knew marmots were pesky little creatures, but after meeting our friend Bruce about 3 days into the trip, we quickly realized you should never let your guard down when food is around. Bruce may have never successfully gotten close enough to our breakfast to snag a bite, but he sure did try… more than once.

Instant coffee and oatmeal can be really good tasting: Our first breakfast each day consisted of oatmeal and coffee. Adding dried fruit or broken up chocolate chip cookies to your oatmeal is a game changer and keeps things interesting. After you’ve devoured breakfast, mixing a packet of instant coffee in your camp mug both tastes great and leaves your cup or bowl nearly spotless.

You learn a lot about your travel partner: A trip of this length and challenge brings a lot of perspective to your life. There are times of struggle and times of triumph, moments of being slap-happy and hangry all at the same time. Needless to say, if you travel with a friend or significant other, you’re going to see the best and worst of them. Take it all for what it is, just don’t forget to give yourself the time you need to reflect as each day passes. Most importantly, enjoy the journey.

You meet a lot of really cool people from all over: Every interaction out on the trail is different. We spoke with hikers from all over the US and the globe, saw an older couple travelling with some llamas to carry their weight, and passed opposite directions with bikers racing the CTR from Denver to Durango. In the end, we had a lot of positive interactions and actually finished the trail having made a new friend on the side of the road near Leadville. No, it wasn’t one of the llamas.

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

Ambassador Profile - Dejay Birtch

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Best known for his accomplishments on a singlespeed, Dejay Birtch is a mountain biker and ambassador to the mountain biking community involved with the sport both on and off the bike whose illustrious career spans 20 years. He currently lives and rides in Tucson, Arizona, although his roots are found in Port Jervis, New York—a place where he says that he cultivated his creative capacity for finding new and interesting approaches to the world.

When he transplanted himself to Tucson, Arizona, he took along his outdoor experience, added a bike, and began sharing his adventurous mindset with everyone else. Among many other things, he is an urban escapist, tour guide, shop rat and world dirt sampler. Sometimes referred to as a cyclist that races, Dejay tries to deal with that pressure by being the first to the top of many hills.

He’s been an endurance national and world champion and has crisscrossed the continental United States both west to east and north to south on his bike. He has designed trail systems and created cycling events. Recently he has created and promoted fat bike events in Arizona and New York and organized the 2014 singlespeed World Championships in Anchorage, Alaska. He helped start SSUSA (Singlespeed USA) and has been a part of Singlespeed Arizona for over a decade.

For his most recent project, Dejay has followed his roots back home to New York to take on a trail building project in his hometown. Like many east coast towns, Port Jervis was brought up on industry, which has all gone away at this point, leaving the area as somewhat of an economic ghost town. But the town does have an amazing natural resource that has been virtually untouched and completely off limits for 100+ years.

This particular resource is a large, city-owned, 2,000+ acre piece of land in town that is part of the watershed and houses three reservoirs, along with many rolling ridgelines and ideal terrain for a trail system. For a while now, Dejay has seen the potential in this piece of land for outdoor recreation.

With other nearby outdoor attractions like the Delaware River that runs through town, the nearby Appalachian trail, the Poconos and Catskill Mountains within a short drive—and the possibility to ride the commuter train all the way from NYC—the area stands to be the next best playground in the region for cycling, hiking, and other sports year-round.

And so he went to work convincing the town that this would be an ideal place to build some trails and start to draw people back to the town. Finally last August, he got the go-ahead to start building and went to work putting together the beginnings of a trail system.

To say that he helped to make a miracle happen could be truth. Currently, they are in the infant stages of building singletrack with at least 30 miles laid out and about 15 miles of doubletrack already existing. On March 19, Dejay held a fatbike event on the trails as a grand opening, which turned out to be a hit, and now has plans for a MTB event to be held on October 29th.

Dejay tells us that, “all of this is to spread the love of the outdoors of course, but it holds a special place to me, to help my small home town come back from the economical ashes of what was a booming industrial town.”

If there’s a bike involved, Dejay will always be there. Just stay tight on his wheel and follow him into his next adventure.

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.