Finally got around to doing that ride that I've been talking about for ever, good heavens. Vancouver but Oly OG Dave invite me and Josh on a little taste of the Oregon inland, and how could I refuse? We started in Estacada, OR parking our truck at some ranger station on the edge of town and taking the roads into the wilderness. Their was a slight rising grade all the way to the finish line at Bagby, make the way there much harder than the way back.
As soon as we left Estacada, we hit our first hill. Unfortunately, it was a 2 mile long fucker with a 7% grade. I didn't have any problems on my lightly packed Schwinny dunno-what-the-hell-I-am-for bike, but Dave's full-loaded Cross Check with an 8 speed nexus hub and Avid BB-7 [mechanical disc brake] struggled trying to deal with both front and rear Surly racks with plenty o' luggage. Though probably way more than necessary for a S24O [Sub 24 hour Overnighter], one purpose of the trip was to test out this bike's capabilities full-loaded, all day riding, on pavement and trails.
Having finally reached the summit, we had a nice decent of a similar grade as the hill we just ascended. As some point, Dave's rear Vittoria 4Omm Randonneur tire blew off the rear Salsa Delgado rim... Excessive weight + way too high tire pressure + heat from long descent are some theories. The nexus is pain in the fuck bucket to remove having both the gear cable and the drum brake needing to be detached. Dave was a trooper though and replaced the tube--super lucky it didn't happen during our hill bombing.
We eventually keep rollin' till we hit the Big Eddy. It served as a good break spot being next to the water while the sun is on full blast.
The Big Eddy.
Woohoo waterproof camera!
Dave was a fool and jumped off a perfectly good rock. As you can see, the fate was deserving.
Josh made a similar mistake. How tragic.
Heading back to the road.
Big Eddy was a big moral booster after one offensively long hill and an ill-opportune blow out. I felt pretty prepared for the rest of the 4O or so miles for that day, and got back into the pedal stroke.
I wuuuv bridges. There are a lot out here.
I would often rush ahead of Josh and Dave, and while I waited for them to catch up I'd jump on a side trail to get more dirt action or take a loser bike-nerd shot like this one. I have way more on my camera that I don't ever remember taking or where they particular are...
Josh, with the haggard appearance of an ill-washed wookie. Someone soap this baffoon, quick.
The further in we got, the more trails appeared. Mega nar.
Action shot. Me and Dave decided that our respective obsessive narcissism would be beneficial to one another, hence this mutual photo taking op shows.
Much of the evening was well-spent as such.
We ran parallel to a river for the duration of the ride. It was inglorious.
This bridge was barely wide enough for bikeage.
Upon arriving at Bagby Hot Springs, us ye olde tenacious fucks set camp and ate some god damn food like a pack of starved mongrels. Josh, recognizing his dire need for a good scrubbin', led us towards the bath house... which really was more of a house of utter debauchery--as the heat from the water apparently seeped into many of tenants brains--resulting in a few tubs festooned with a squabble of horny inebriated monkey-like people. Yes, Bagby was a place covered in a haze unprotected sex, questionable narcotics, and bad consent practice [as the former two combined often amount to.] It was as if some horrid disease had over-come these poor souls, resulting in their foul behavior and even fouler smell. I was offended, greatly. Their howls and grunts still haunt this brave adventures mind, like a bad rash that refuses to go away. I went to sleep clinching my sleeping bag, as if these crazed barbarians would drag me away to their caves and eat my flesh. Or something to the effect--I was there for like 5 minutes, tops. I just remember it was kinda wet and dark, Josh and Dave gave me a reportback the next morning with all the raunchy details.
Packing up in the morning, trying to forget the night's mishaps.
The sign for the bath house, something better left forgotten...
A bullet hole laden sign; surely some person mistook their shot gun for binoculars, of course.
And 8O miles later, the summit again.
Victory! I smelled of petunias and cinnamon rolls, though I can't say as much for my Sasquatch-esque companions. I've never seen a pair so badly in need of a good shaving, heavens. Me of course, was quite the opposite, oh yes. [trust me.]