Piquett

Sunday afternoon I was supposed to have a date, a little chance get to know each other over coffee. Then, surprise. Later last week when I got ahold of her to confirm, she asked if we could postpone it to some later time, a time yet to be determined. I guess she had a better offer, presumably with someone who wouldn't be blogging about it. Not that I would. I do have a tiny morsel of class, a tiny crumb, barely enough to be an appetizer for a mouse, and I don't believe in kissing and blogging.

Not that meeting for afternoon coffee didn't already have epic fail written all over it.  The thing is I'm not much of a coffee person. I tend to prefer roasted mate with soy milk, although the occasional espresso from the baristas/bike mechanics at the Red Barn are helping me acquire a taste.

In general I would prefer to meet someone over a pint of ale or even a lager where hopefully beer googles and the anxiolytic effects of the alcohol could potentially work in my favor. Going into Missoula's preferred coffee house of the week, I could only imagine doing something idiotic like ordering a triple shot skinny Iced Cinnamon Dolce latte with extra whipped cream and sprinkles, instead of a more manly americano, and once the caffeine kicked in end up talking like Simon from Alvin and the Chipmunks.

Like most events that initially seem negative, there was the option to make lemonade from the silver lining. Sunday turned out to be another gorgeous day, perfect for mountain biking, and a new trail to explore.  I had heard about Piquett Ridge and Creek for quite awhile, and had heard horror stories of heinous downfall, fires through the area since the last ride 3 or 4 years ago and an 11 mile hike out after mechanical failure. Along with the fact the no one had gone back there to ride in the last three or four years I had come to believe that this ride must a particularly nasty example of a Bitterroot adventure. I wasn't reassured by Jeff's enthusiasm to repeat the ride.  Jeff, as most of us know, is notorious for enjoying rides that , how I do say this politely, have a high probability of becoming interesting, and usually I'm there when things become interesting, which seems to include handsaws and carrying bikes on our shoulders.

Of course, as I just mentioned, it wasn't like I had anything better to do.  It's kind of interesting. Since I rejoined the dating scene six months ago, I have now had interactions with three women.  The firtst one lasted two dates; the second one, one date; and the last one didn't even last that long. No doubt the pessimists out there are thinking that the more I try this online dating thing the worse I'm getting.  Personally, I'm more of the glass is half full type, so what I see is that I'm getting more efficient at weeding causes of future misery. Since if there was one thing I learned with my divorce is that there are worse things out there than being single.

Did I mention that fall is my favorite time of the year for mountain biking.  One of the reasons my hunting success is so mediocre.  The morning might be colder, so leggings, tights and extra clothes need to be packed, but once the climbing starts all those extra layers come right back off,  the afternoons warm up to the mid 50s for perfect riding weather, and in theory we should be in peak shape after a spring and summer of pedaling.

Given my reservations about the ride, the start was not auspicious. Somewhere between riding Como on Wednesday and unloading my bike on Sunday, my rear brakes pads went on a sabbatical, that's right both pads, the clip, and locking pin made a break for it together. The ironic thing was I had just had the brake pads replaced the week before and had my old pads in a bag back on my workbench at home.  Why would I need to carry extra pads when I had brand new ones on. Like usual I found myself woefully underprepared for emergencies.

  Luckily, Rob just happened to have packed a brand new set of pads, since his rear pads were wearing thin, and he just happened to have Formula brakes just like mine.  We were still a locking pin short and no one had small enough zip ties.  After scrounging around our packs and Jeff's Honda we discovered a small  clipped zip tie that still had a few teeth unused. We were able to clip it and reuse it , and amazingly enough it lasted to entire ride.  For a long time I had believed that duct tape was the critical tool for emergency repairs, more and more I'm starting to believe that zip ties are even more essential.

Once on the trail, one more brief moment of panic when it appeared that Bret's freewheel was frozen.  Luckily that resolved with removing the wheel and putting it back on. After that I spent the rest of the day getting spanked from Jeff, Jerome, Bret, and Rob. No not a 50 Shades paddling, more of a metaphorically ass whooping.

Not that I'm opposed to an actual spanking, the opportunity has just never presented itself.  I imagine a good spanking is enjoyable in the same way the pain from steep climb becomes a pleasure when it is embraced.  I read that in New York, one adult sex shop had to replace their leather paddles with rubber because all the worked up wives and girlfriends were getting a little too enthusiastic paddling their husbands asses.  I suppose it goes without saying to avoid any spanking the day before a big ride.

As far as my metaphorical spanking goes, I seemed to be the only person impaired by the smoke induced riding layoff in September, and spent the rest of the day trying to catch them and my breath.  I did discover that my apprehension about the ride had been misplaced.  While there were a few sections that required pushing the bike especially on the last pitch to the top of Rombo, they were interspersed with fantastic open meadow ridge top riding with views of Trapper and Boulder Peak.

Once we reached the intersection with the Piquett Creek trail at the saddle between Rombo and Piquett we did something totally out of character, we abandoned out bikes to go for a short hike to Piquett and Slate Lakes. Contrary to popular myth, mountain bikers have a an aesthetic sense and still can appreciate the beauty of mountain lakes, an are even willing to get off our bikes to walk to them if the trail is beyond bike friendly.

On returning from the lakes, we confirmed the popular opinion of mountain bikers as being a bunch of thrill seeking hooligans as we ripped down the trail making quick work of both the steep technical switchbacks and rock gardens of the upper section, and the fast flowing lower section.  It was on this lower fast section that the rigors of trying to keep up with everyone else caught up with me.  I was fried, and it was depressing to see the easy fast trail ahead of me, but by then too tired and sloppy to maintain the necessary focus.  I was the only thing to run out of energy. My GPS ran out of juice with 5 miles to go at which point it had recorded 3225 ft of climbing over 8.2 miles and 2,559 ft of descent over 5.0 miles. There were still about 5.0 miles of trail and around another 1200ft of down to go.

View Piquett Loop in a larger map

Lake Como Fall 2012

Amazing what crawls out of the woodwork or out their red rooms when eyes stop burning, throats some scratching and everything loses the soft focus it has had the last month. Even Donnie managed to find Lake Como after a long absence secondary to brain surgeries, house fires, and a new baby.

If there was one advantage to the lost month of September was everybody had a chance to get comfy on the couch and read their favorite BDSM novel.  Despite the best turnout since mid summer there were still a number of people missing. Presumably their wives and girlfriends have also been inspired by the 50 shades phenomenon and managed to keep their partners home with promises of spankings and nipple clamps.

For those who showed up, the one lap around Como was a laid back affair. No one needed to utter their safeword. I have been thinking of changing my safeword to something that not only would I not utter while in an intimate situation but one that could also work on Blodgett or Sleeping Child.  Previously my safeword was Warwick, but obviously that wouldn't work on the trail so I decided from now on I'll use Jeremy.  Not that I'm going to have any chances to try it out in either situation any time soon.

We managed another season without any visits to the emergency room.  No significant injuries requiring in the field suture or tourniquets, and my lidocaine is about to expire.

For future references here are a few of the safewords used by others in the posse: Ebola, whipped cream (really Dean?  That's what Adriana told me),  seaweed,  puppy, and eccentric bottom bracket. Whoever the last person is must not plan on doing any single speed riding on or off the trail.

A fire was in order after the ride in celebration of the end of the season and to ward off the newly arrived chill in the air, and not because of any interest in hot pokers.

Well I'm running out of my knowledge of bondage and S&M, or at least as much as I'm willing to admit to. With the official end of the riding season, my inner goddess and I are beginning our supplications to Ullr for snow, snow, snow and to Aphrodite for love, romance, and candlelit dinners.  If you believe that last bit, I have some leather pants and a riding crop you might want to try out.

Swan Crest

Since I missed the last time Warwick invited us up to the Flathead for some riding  (was it really four years ago?) I was online trying to dig up some beta on the trails we would be on, when I came across the website for a group called the SwanRange.org. I'm sure many of them are decent sorts, but reading some of their stuff, I just kept thinking, "what a pretentious group of gasbags."  What really annoyed me was their "Code of Responsible Recreation for America's Backcountry."

Code of Responsible Recreation for America’s Backcountry

The wild is being driven out of America’s backcountry by ultra-marathon foot races, biking, motorized vehicles, and other frontcounty sports run amok.

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We therefore offer the following code of conduct:

Responsible backcountry recreation remains rooted in quality, not quantity.

It is measured by depth of appreciation, not by fastest speed or longest distance.

It minimizes haste, hardware, competition, and intrusion.

It engages people in conservation through mindful practice of minimal impact.

It reserves the backcountry for traditional, contemplative recreation that can’t be had in the frontcountry.

Conservation of fish, wildlife and America’s backcountry requires people acting more responsibly, not more people pursuing cheap thrills and extreme sports.

—By Swan View Coalition and Others

Think just maybe they might be a little holier than thou elitists? I find the whole code to be condescending clap, but what rankles me most is this idea of "traditional contemplative recreation." I was shocked to learn that the whole time I have been outdoors, whether climbing technical routes , floating rivers, skiing, or out backpacking I've been irresponsible.  I wasn't supposed to be having fun, I wasn't supposed to be pushing it, I wasn't supposed to be challenging myself. All I can say in reply is, well there are a lot of things I could say, but I'm trying to minimized the profanity today.

No doubt there have been people who have wandered into the wilderness for prayer and contemplation.  Jesus had his 40 days in the desert, Native Americans have had vision quests, certain earlier Americans like John Muir and Henry David Thoreau tended towards contemplation.   Still the people who stick in my mind are people like Lewis and Clark, John Wesley Powell, that Everest climbing kiwi dude Sir Edmund Hillary and Sir Edward Shackleton. Then there were the trappers and the hunters.  Even more recently people like Edward Abbey who while thinking their deep thought were not adverse to a little excitement.

I can't help but think that when Powell floated the Green and Colorado river for the first time in wooden dories, with only one arm, that he was perhaps after some thrills, and that repeating that trip in those same boats today would be considered pretty extreme.

To claim that contemplative recreation is the sole traditional use of the backcountry doesn't seem to be supported by the evidence. They seem to me missing half, if not more of the story, and that the backcountry is for adventure. A place to challenge yourself and your skills, and hopefully that adventure will be thrilling and never cheap.

So we managed to drag six of us up to the Swans for two days of high alpine riding. Three of from the Bitterroot (Warwick, Buhl, and myself), one from Missoula (Bret) and two from Helena (Aaron and John). Although everyone had Bitterroot roots of some sort.

We had hoped that together we would be enough chum to attract the smoke out of the valley, and while some of the smoke took the bait and followed us it appears that most of the smoke decided to call the Red Barn home.

Some how plans to turn in early on Friday night were waylaid by a couple of growlers of Helena's finest.  Little did we know that our campsite had been designated a no camping zone.  Who really reads those signs at the trailhead?  Luckily for us the forest rangers don't go patrolling after five or before eight. Regardless we were up early for a good hearty cafe breakfast in Swan Lake.  If only Swan Lake had a cafe. Luckily they do have a small grocery store with hot coffee.  The sign outside claimed biscuits and gravy on the weekend. The sign was mistaken.  A few spare containers of oatmeal and some hot water saved the morning.




After connecting with our stellar shuttle driver, Stephanie who not only shuttled rigs, but dogs too. We headed off to Napa Ridge for start of what would be nearly nine hours of riding. As long as the definition of riding is generous enough to include pushing and carrying your bike. Were we after quantity or quality? Both, of course.

Through the haze we brought with us were hints of the beauty surrounding us;  distant peaks and remnants of snow fields.  The Missions were hidden, but the second day we received glimpses of the heart of Glacier.



Long stretches above near timberline.  The undergrowth glowing in its fall colors. In one regard I agree with the above mention code of misconduct, I don't think the fastest in the group had any greater appreciation that the slowest. We weren't racing, there was no haste, and our only intrusion was yelling "Hey Bear," or "Caw Caw."

John had a headbanger half way through the ride that left him tentative on the remainder of the ride and talking about this being a retirement ride. Say it ain't so.

On the final downhill past Bond and Trinkus Lakes I thanked Chad and the rest of the Wednesday night crew for all the practice I received being dragged me down Sleeping Child, Weasel and all the other nasty overgrown trails with hidden rocks and roots. I'm not sure I would have had as much fun on the previous expedition,  when my skills were a mere fraction of my now marginal skills.

After the ride a quick dip in Lake Blaine to rinse off before chowing down on the pizza, picked up by our shuttle driver, again going way beyond the call of duty. Warwick, you might have a keeper there. Although, I might not be the best judge of that.  Right now,  for me, a keeper is someone who doesn't ask for you credit card number before talking to you.

Without Shrek and Jamison's we were left to our own device to keep ourselves entertained around the fire ring which somehow devolved into a discussion on low T,  alien anal probes and sounding.  I'm relieved to report that I did not raise any of these topics and had no personal experiences to share.

After a breakfast, this time made by our shuttle driver going well beyond the duty, we headed back our for more of the same. This time just north of Jewel basin from Trail 37, back along the alpine trail down to Strawberry Lake and then the fast flowy downhill back to the truck.

If Saturday's downhill was a technical overgrown challenge, the descent from Strawberry Lake was closer to a wide buffed high speed playground.

During the course of the weekend we managed to keep to Grizzlies away,  even without Amanda singing.

We ran into dirt bikes, hikers, and horses. Everyone was pleasant and somehow we all managed to share the trails without ruining anyone's day.

For those curious my pit stop in Polson on the way home did not result in the Trifecta, rather a strikeout to mix my number three sports metaphors.

This doesn't have anything to do with the ride, but there aren't many blog posts left for the season, and the whole bike condom has to seen.