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.

Somewhere in the Bitterroot

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Skalkaho Creek Trail (503)

I had a frightening experience last night. I was pushing my bike through another of the countless rocky sections, and I thought to myself, "This is kind of fun trail. It reminds me of Blodgett, or (wait for it) Sleeping Child.  I wonder why we don't ride it more often." My next thought was, "Did I just think that?" With that, a terrifying realization washed over me. I'd gone native. I was hiking my bike not riding it, and as an example of a fun trail I was comparing to Sleeping Child.  This was confirmed a few minutes later when I came to fallen log and wished I had my saw so I could clear the trail.

I need to get out of the valley, maybe to the Rattlesnake to remind myself that bikes are for riding, not pushing, and that trails can come without rocks. Otherwise I'll be hanging out with Shreky saying things like, "If  that goddamn mother fucking spawn of the rancid vaginal secretions of a toothless syphilitic whore could only have shit for brains it would be an improvement." Shrek, I need some advice. Vaginal secretions sounds a little clinical. Would  "putrid pussy juices" be more Darbarian?

On a happier note. I didn't need to do the ride alone. I have realized that when I ride I bring along somewhere around 100,000,000,000,000 little microbial buddies.  While we do communicate, mostly by chemical messaging at the cellular level, I can't say they are very good conversationalists, so it is good thing that Eric came along.

For those who have never ridden the 503 trail, which is probably most everybody.  Go up Rye Creek road from Skalkaho. Go past fucking Railroad Creek. Go past that dick breaking Weasel Creek. Stop at the next damn trailhead.  Someone, bless his hairy crack, had cleared the whole thing. (Feel like shooting some wolves, and mountain lions, and baiting beers.)  We saw mountain bike, horse, and dirt bike tracks, so I'm not sure who did the clearing.  Just nice for once to have had someone else do the job,  although I'm guessing it was people getting their hunting camps set up.  More like a lap dance at Shotgun Willies. A little over 5 miles up, the trail meets up with 313, where a right turn will take you to Jerry Lake at the base of Fox Peak. Not that we made it that far.  Diminishing light and a late start forced us to turn back a little short of 313. As far as the trail, the first mile sucks you in on what appears to be an old road grade. Then there is a creek crossing and things get nasty, though not as nasty as a logging camp hooker.  On the way up there was always just a little too much dust (insert old prostitute simile here), one too many rocks like a siliconed up stripper, and a wee too much incline to stay on the bike kind of like trying to keep to love pistol on the bullseye while swinging on the trapeze.  Going down is a different story, every obstacle on the way up became a toy.  Reminded me of that AR-15 vs wolf pack, or was that a pack of gummit agenda 21 agents, fantasy.

While most of us hung around the valley huddled inside try to avoid the pall in the air, Chad and Gager went riding down in Park City. They look like they were having too much fun for having just climbed somewhere around 14,000 feet of vertical on single track.  Great job representing us at the Park City Point to Point against all those skinny-armed leg-shaving manscaped cross-country racing San Francisco loving pretty boys. All of whom, can kick my ass

That's it for now. I think it is time for 6 pack of Olympia.  Shit, did I just write that, don't quite feel like myself. I meant some IPA, or a single hop, Oktoberfest, Ranier.  Nooooooooooooooo.

Bear Creek Overlook - 2012

Cough, cough, hack, cough.  Sorry, I'll get to the post here in a second.  Hacked up a big smoke encrusted phlegm ball. That's better.

When I first announced the ride I managed to piss off half the population when I referred to the Wednesday night riders as "ladies."  As I was promptly informed, several leal life authentic local ladies had just finished the Fitz-Barn ride, while their supposedly hard core spouses stayed home constantly hitting refresh on their computers to follow their ride: 5 days, 400 miles, self supported. Just a reminder that ladies are not the delicate fainting flowers that victorian men thought they were, and just because their gonads don't hang down in a saggy bag they are truly tough, strong badasses. Kudos again the Cassie and Tracy.

More coughing and hacking.

And smart, they are much smarter than the hairier sex.  If they had seen a huge cloud of smoke hanging over the trail they were planning to ride, they would have done something intelligent like gone to the brewery for a beer. Driving to pick up Dean and seeing a plume of smoke so dark it looked it was coming directly out of Mordor, with the center of the blowing over Bear Creek Canyon, I wished I chosen a different ride, but I had an obligation.  Unlike some other organizers of rides I felt an obligation to suffer along on a ride I had not only chosen, but pushed for a strong turnout.  Indeed we had the biggest turnout we have had in a month. Five others were just as clueless enough to sacrifice their future health for a ride, and a chance to get our of the house for a breath of fresh air.

Among us were two new fathers.  One new bambino on Sunday, and one two weeks earlier.  Knowing  the dads, that should mean plenty of future bikes and business for Chad.  I'm still trying to figure out if they have the most understanding wives ever, or if they have already managed to annoy their wives so much during their paternity leave that the new moms just wanted them out of the house.

If there were any advantages to experiencing what it must be like to be the Marlboro Man, I guess the smoke kept the bugs away almost as well as zebra stripes do.  Smoke was also an issue for last year's ride, no duh.  It was August last year, too. Last year though, the winds were kind and blew the smoke away.

Last year.

We all agreed that we would maintain an easy pace to try and minimize our exposures. I was quickly reminded that an easy pace for Dean, Jeff, and Eric is not what most people would consider a casual pace, which must explain why I'm still recovering from the effects of the smoke inhalation.  Everyone had the pleasure of scratchy eyes and burning throats.

One reason I choose to ride, and impair my health was the chance to hang and socialize. I had just spent a week vacation with my kids, and I needed some adult conversation and beverages.  Wrong place for adult conversation. Right place for adult beverages. While riding, I had the chance to discuss online dating with someone who has had some success.  He passed on a second hand account of a woman's experience.

When she started she sent out 10 emails to potential men. She had 10 replies and 10 dates, and at least one keeper.  Now my experience.  15 emails, 5 responses, of which 4 were NO, and one date.  This may not be a fair comparison since she is younger, a lot hotter, tall, blonde, scandinavian, and has an empty nest compared to the average schmuck that I am.  Then again calling me average might be a little generous, especially compared to the people I hang out with.  Most everyone else is taller with more hair, I tend to lag at the back on climbs, and end up somewhere in the middle on descents both on skis and bikes. I make a decent salary, but at least one member of gang so skews the curve that I still end up around the median.  For awhile I thought I might have an edge in the education department, until I remember that a bunch of the other guys in the group have their own labs at RML.  Even more depressing I found this:

"Females' sexual attraction towards males may be determined by the height of the man. Height in men is associated with status or wealth in many cultures  which is beneficial to women romantically involved with them. One study conducted of women's personal ads support the existence of this preference; the study found that in ads requesting height in a mate, 80% requested a height of 6.00 feet (1.83 m) or taller. The online dating Website eHarmony only matches women with taller men, because of complaints from women matched with shorter men."

So I guess it makes sense. Hot woman = lots of dates. A little less than average Wednesday Night Beer Drinker = nada.

In an attempt to improve my odds, I think I need to add some photos to my profile.  On problem is that nearly all of my photos have me in a helmet of some sort, and not enough in a social setting. I have also noticed that a lot of other men like to show off fish and dead animals.  I have some ideas for some additional photos and I need some advice, and no I'm not adding Chicken Crit tighty-whitey photos. Plus I'm pretty sure all those photos are of the funhawg.

Photo 1  photo 2  photo 3  photo 4  photo 5  photo 6

As far as the ride, nothing much to report other than the expected complications from smoke inhalation. The usual fast climbers were fast, and the usual fast descenders were fast.  I understand why those Knollys go down so fast. Still have figure why they go up so fast, too.  One unwitnessed wreck without complication.  No lingering at top for the view.   Found the best way to connect back to the road after doing the downhill shortcut. The new dads couldn't dawdle for beers.

Not sure about next week's ride, I guess we'll see where the smoke is worst. Cough, hack, cough, hack.

Super D

Wait wasn't this week's ride Shannon Ridge. Well yes it was, but well, so you see, I kinda, didn't quite make it there.  I went renegade with Chad and Eric to Missoula to race the super D course at Marshall mountain.  I didn't want to go (well maybe a little.) Chad made me go. ( Did I mention that the Super D is sponsored by the http://www.mtalphacycling.com/, a bunch of Missoula mountain bike hotties. Not that the presence of women in Lycra would have any influence on my decision.) He had my bike, and although he didn't say it explicitly, these kind of threats are never made explicitly, the gist was: plastic bike, cement shoes, Lake Como.  I was surprise to learn that they made SPD compatible cement shoes, but regardless I 'm sure you could understand the predicament I was in.  If I ever wanted to see my bike again, with it's new 36 middle ring and bash guard, I would have to turn my back on my loyal friends and instead drive to Missoula, replacing the grill with after ride tacos and Big Dipper Ice Cream.

I'm have no idea what pressure he applied to Eric to induce him to come along, but it must have been prodigious to get him to leave work early.  Oh wait I invited Eric to come along. It must have been Stockholm Syndrome where you start to sympathize with your captors.

I know what you wishing.  "Hey Monkey Doo, Gay Cabellero, dickhead (or whatever your personal term of endearment might be), would  you please cut the rationalization crap and just get to the stuff we care about the photos and videos." The answer is no. So just relax and keep reading and then one day, when I win the Grammy, or the Emmy, or the Oscar, or whatever the award is for literature,  you can say, "Hey, I used to read him back when was still really shitty."

For my other reader, I also know what you are thinking. "Hey, (insert personal term of endearment) you aren't following any of Vonnegut's suggestions for quality writing."  You are correct, and as I said last week, I'm no Vonnegut.

The super D course uses the downhill portion of the xc course on Marshall Mountain with an option to ride the A Line.  There is about 500' vertical and the fast riders do it in a little over 6 minutes, except for some dude named Dillon who has the only sub 6 minute lap. The trail on the day of the race was hard pan topped with a scattering of loose shale.  For comparison Shannon Ridge is 600' vertical, Upper Jenny Ridge is 900' and lower Jenny Ridge is 400'.  However, Marshall mountain is steeper with switchbacks and two uphill sections.

When we gathered at the top, it sure seemed like we brought RPGs to a knife fight, with our 6" full suspension Knolly, Turner, and Ibis toys. While everyone else was on 29er hardtails.  Soon we were to discover that just like a bazooka in  hand to hand combat, a knife is still sometimes the better weapon.
Hard to believe it, but the key to the super D were the climbs.  Two anaerobic lung burners, one a section of tight switchbacks just before the Aline and a second longish ( for a 6 mile lap) road climb. Other than the optional jump on the A-Line there was only one other technical feature, a 2 foot drop at the start that I misplaced my family jewels on the first two laps, before locating them before the my last run, and discovered that the drop was nothing. My first two runs are best tossed into trunk, wrapped in chains, dropped into the Mariana trench and forgotten. By the final run I managed to cut my time by 3 minutes when I actually started to feel comfortable,  relax and get slightly more aggressive.

Eric and Chad didn't have the same reservations.  Eric managed to get a practice ride in and was the only person hitting the A- Line that day that I know of. Dillon suggested just rolling the jump, since it was no big deal. I'm not sure what world Dillon is from, but it must be one full of Tinkers and Schultzes. Chad, unfortunately didn't get a chance to scout the line, otherwise I'm sure he would have been showing off too.  Chad and Eric finished just out of the money at 4th and 5th. No doubt with more experience on the trail they would have broken into the money.



We did have one winner, Caelen, already a sponsored athlete at age 11 showing that his sponsorship is due to more than just his dad owning a bike shop, won the junior division.

I was thinking, always a dangerous thing, that we need to do something similar in the Bitterroot, but with some changes to reflect our unique riding challenges.  First, more rocks and roots.  Yeah, the switchbacks up there were steep, tight, and technical, but we need something to make our trail bikes worthwhile.  Everyone needs to carry a saw and somewhere  along the way there will be mandatory log cutting.  If you don't have a saw, one will be provided and it will something special. Third the course needs move from trail to trail, so no one can get too dialed in.



With that in mind I was thinking, twice in one day, very dangerous, that this September when interest in riding seems to wane, and we start to run out of fresh rides,  that we should have a rogue, unsponsored, unofficial, unsanctioned Super-D down here in the Bitterroot. Start out easy with something like Jenny or Shannon Ridge, then perhaps Bear Creek Overlook and finally work up to Weasel Creek or Camas.

Hope the official Wednesday night beer and grill was equally fun and successful.