Advocate Cycles

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.

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.

image2

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.

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.

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.

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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.

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All photos courtesy Nicholas Carman