Weasel Creek 2014

Weasel Creek is one of those trails the elicit strong emotions. Some recoil in disgust, creating every more fanciful excuses to avoid getting anywhere close, "I heard they closed Skalkaho so we probably can't get up Rye Creek",  " I need to mount my new Kodiak in my office so that  it rears up over my desk," "My ferret chewed up my brake cables so she could drink the brake fluid." Some others when the first wiffs of a Weasel ride waft through the ether bounce off the walls like a wrecking ball after a visit by Miley Cyrus's tongue.

Initially I was firmly in the first camp, considering the time a starving, half frozen pine marten took a nip at my dangling  dongles while I was seated in an outhouse for my morning pre-ski tour weight shaving routine to be preferable to floundering through the hidden rocks, roots and water crossing in the creek bottom, or trying to walk my bike through  loose cobbles and washed out switch backs.  With the ride usually ending with me floundering around more off the bike than on and hoping I get out before the night creatures make a meal of me. Over time my feelings have evolved like Hannah Montana from Disney naiveté to bring it on punk rebellion.

To what can I attribute my conversion, could I be rebelling against a stereotype? If so, what stereotype might that be. Possible the washed up wannabe with more money that ability, who goes out and buys the fancy bike and can't ride like crap, kind of like a dentist and his Serotta, or the guys on Kleins I used to pass on my low end Trek back in my younger days.

Hmmm, seems to sort of fit, except I wouldn't considered so much rebellion as evolving into a rider almost deserving of the bike. A little different geometry, a dropper post, more suspension can do wonders for the confidence of even for the most inept klutzes of the world. So now, while I may not have the honey badger don't give a shot attitude of Travis or Jeff, I can usually manage to let the bike roll and release my death grip on the brakes.  Not that he was ever close to being in the same category of bumbling menace that yours truly flails about in, but I have noticed that Ventana Jeff has stepped up his downhill game once he changed his name to Knolly Jeff II.

Not that I don't have a few quibbles to make about the ride.  I continue to detest the road we add to the beginning and ending of the ride to make it long enough to be worthy of a Wednesday night.  As usual I attempted to be intentionally late by making chores to do before I could leave: pick up kids, feed kids, feed dog, move pipes; then forget a critical piece of clothing; this time shoes. It almost worked.  Jeff and Dean tried the same scam, but Dean was early enough to catch the group just a little bit down the road, and forced us to turn around and park with everyone else

Given how many trees had fallen, the upper trailhead might have been a reasonable option, and let us ride down the gulley of the beast with a bit more light.  Thankfully Jeff had cleared the downhill the previous weekend and rerouted some of the water back into the creek.

Considereing that we had the biggest turn out of the year, one might think that there are more Weasel lovers than haters.  At least of the riders had been uninitiated so I guess time will tell, and while Joel was there, that was only because he couldn't make up an excuse that lived up to his reputation.

A quick post ride check at Red Barn the next day reported four bikes in for repairs.

Well everyone is in luck, I was planning on a long exposition of the importance of the post ride grill session, but I'm out of time for this post.

Buttercup

Honestly I don't have much to stay this week, and not many pictures. More important things were on my mind; the threat to the world wide sriracha supply has been resolved without military intervention, Kanye and Kim made honest people of each other (or not), and I still haven't found an unsuspecting teenager wanting to drag aluminum tubes around wet grass at dawn and dusk.. Plus, the lighting was terrible, and I didn't see a point in taking crappy pictures just for the sake of taking pictures. Although towards the end of the ride, the sun curtsied to give us some great light, but by then I was more interested in the downhill than I was in jumping off mu bike, finding a good spot in the sage and watching everyone else ride by.  In my defense, I planned to get some shots on the switchbacks, but by then the moment was gone.  Those switchbacks, they have always given my the willies, but every year the horses knock more off the edge and uphill side slowly slides down with the remaining dental floss of a trail hanging over visions of broken bones after a long painful tumble.

Matt was generous enough to let us know a bunch of trees were down so that we should bring saws, but not generous enough to bring one himself on his memorial day ride.

Driving over to the parking area, aka  the Little Sleeping Child Trash Can Collective, I drove by Chad  and Rob. I offered them a ride and in return I was appropriately castigated for being the total wuss I am for not riding from my house.  I felt a little better when I noticed they were on rigid climbing machines, assuming that an El Gordo sans the gordo tires can be considered a climbing machine, and I was on my overbuilt uphill averse Ibis with flat pedals. Not that I would have ridden anyways.  Getting back to a post ride beer seemed preferable to a twilight road coast down Sleeping Child.

Regrouping at the top of the first gravel climb, Rob was fiddling with his tire when he whipped out his tool explaining that he had heard that ejaculate is a good emergency replacement for tire slime  when we were all treated to a temporary full monty.  Maybe not Game of Thrones full frontal, but enough for most of us to quickly remount and resume climbing.

At this point someone asked how much more a climb we had, and either Warwick  (It may have not been Warwick, but he was in earshot, and if even if it wasn't Warwick it makes a better story if it was him, and anyways all ride reports are based on actual events) replied without irony that it was only a couple of miles more, and everyone knows what that means. Pain, maybe not the six fingered man degree of pain, but pain nonetheless: false summits,  premature last turns,  and forgotten anoxic grunts.

Towards the end of the ride, Chad was spotted wearing a glove on one had and a dirty inside out sock on the other.  Theories were  that Chad was channeling his inner Michael Jackson, or that Chad was practicing his lamb chop sock puppet theater. Alternatively, on one ride last year Chad almost froze due to lack of extra layers, and on another ride Chad became hypothermic after forgetting to pack rain gear.  Possibly this year, misled by a forecast of a sunny 70° ride, he was once again caught without the necessary gear.  Maybe this time Chad forgot gloves, and potentially his hands were slowly turning White Walker zombie white, aka Raynaud phenomenon.   Chad may be a year older, but Chad may not be a year wiser. Chad asked that I not include his face on this photo.  Here you go Chad. No one will know who the socked hand belongs to.

 Oh what the hell.

Shannon Ridge

Oodles and gobs of boys and more boys continue to show up every Wednesday for bike fun, but after Jeff's Excellent Adventure it will be interesting to see if interest continues.  Not that anything was unusual for a Bitterroot ride: a little snow,  bushwhacking, a setting sun. Still, a newcomer probably would have questioned our collective sanity.

Running late again, this time due to tending to my hay fields and teaching my new workers the intricacies of irrigation.  At least those I learned since turning on the pump Monday. Fearing I would be left behind I cheated and drove up the road above Como, found the gang and the route on which to chase them. While I am in general a firm believer in plush rides and long travel suspensions, I was reminded again of the pleasures of light weight, big wheels, and a rigid frame.

As expected, the El Mariachi made dirt roads, if not enjoyable, at least tolerable.  Riding with pack was  once again a pleasant change from the condition of watching everyone reach warp speed, get all blurry and disappear into a point while I  slog along on impulse power in the delta quadrant.    More surprising was the way it plowed through snow like a ATAT Walker, and jumped like it had a cylon FTL drive.

After first ticks clambered onto our legs around Tin Cup Overlook we reached tickquilibrium as ticks hopping on were balanced by the those knocked off by the bitch slapping lodge-poles reclaiming the trail.

This ride had been conceived as an exploratory mission to finding possible loops for future trails. Jeff had done his Google Earth and GPS homework and despite dropping off one sub-ridge too early for a choose your own adventure straight-line, we clearly found terrain begging for new dirt ribbons. All we need now are some shovels, lopers, and oh yeah, FS approval.

Thinking back I don't think I managed a Shannon Ridge ride last year. I forgot how fun it is. Even better with a setting sun.

Lick Creek

Last night after the ride I was in laying in bed and I'm not sure if I was dreaming, or in that half asleep altered state. Either way I remember thinking a naked in bed snuggling up with someone warm, or am I still chasing Beau down the canal road, and if I am still on my bike, why am I not wearing any clothes?  Interpret that as you will. All I know is that I can't blame in on octo-bobs.

Kid duty forced me to leave before the cooking began, but Kevin brought fresh Utah/Chinese (?) marinated baby octopi, and cooked them over a campfire since no one brought a grill. Mine is fixed, but I figured since Jeff just bought a new one at Home Depot he would be as excited as a Dermacentor andersoni along the Como Trail.   I know I would be.  Jeff was, however, rebuffed by the assembly required warning on the box.

Leaving work and heading to grab my bike and change into my biking uniform I noticed a wall of clouds sitting over Como, and I knew despite the weather I had to get my ass down there. Since I missed the last wet ride with my excuse that I was busy at work, I had to make this one rain or not; otherwise my jibes of castration and eunuchs would ring hollow. Luckily the clouds move off to the south leaving clear skies to the dozen of riders who also braved the risk of hypothermia.  Among the gathered were: Mike, a valley newcomer out for his Bitterroot dirt experience; Sam, the next in the Kern dynasty who recently discovered that mountain biking can be fun even if his dad does it and is already kicking my sorry butt, and John who I never had a chance to introduced myself to, but I think has been on a few recent rides during my Moab adventure.

Speaking of Moab, if only because I have better pictures of there than I do from the current ride, while down there we rode maybe the best trail I have ever ridden, Captain Ahab. It accomplished something I didn't know was possible it was flowy and technical. As long as you listened to British 80's pop and understood that you "gotta have faith" the lines were always there whether you wanted to roll or huck.

Ignore the pictures, we are back to Wednesday.  While the rain may have missed us, it left a calling card of gumbo on the fire roads and the the canal return Everyone earned their stripes.  It was one of those rides that once you get home, you aren't sure whether you are covered in mud or rickettsia vectors.

 Snow is till hanging around higher up so the highest we could go was lower upper Jenny, then down upper lower Jenny, and lower lower Jenny ridge.  More so than most years, the winter has left us a bounty of downed trees.  Most of last week's ride around Como was a clearing party and we had plenty of trees to move and cut again this year. I imagine our annual clearing of Warm Springs should give everyone plenty of practice for Darby Logger Days.

I tried something different for yesterday's ride.  I grabbed my 29er hard tail, instead of my usual Ibis, to see if climbing could be enjoyable.  I'm still not sure it was smart. Sure the climbing and return along the canal could almost be described as enjoyable, but it made me cocky, and I still think lactic acidosis and residual hypoxia from chasing Beau contributed to my disturbed sleep. On the other bike, I can't even fantasize about having an climbing prowess.

I guess I'll wrap this up with a little hypocritical bloviating, since I spent lunch trying and failing to reclaim my Blodgett Camp KOM. A KOM I only had because Dean and Jeff and Chad and Cory and Beau, and most everybody riding Wednesday night, even those roadie/triathletes Quentin and Jeremy don't do Strava.    When did eating become fueling, drinking become hydrating, sleeping becomes recuperation, and sex become oxytocin management. All these scientific terms, along with being pretentious, convert the best parts into life into obsessive  neuroses. Eating and drinking should be sitting around an open fire, roasting seafood and drinking black IPA leftovers slipped out of the brewery; not replenishing electrolytes.  Mountain biking should be about climbing hills and not quite making it, sliding around on muddy roads, and finding new uses for rocks on the trail; not about keeping the heart rate in the right zone.

Coyote Coulee

"What the hell. You know the routine. Just get off you pansy asses and get down here." - Joel

There you have it. The next time our own reality TV show colleague, is up in Alaska hunting Griz with a spear that he gnawed out of a Sitka spruce, he's going to grab the sat-phone, swat down your namby pamby excuses and harangue your lazy asses reminding you how pathetic your so called life must be if you can't even exert yourself enough to get a little outdoor adventure once a week on Wednesday nights.  Honestly I don't know if he is a reality TV show.  I think he might have had a cameo once. Regardless if any one could manage to be entertaining on TV it would be him. Leaving the question of why anyone would want to live with cameras following their every move for another day and another post.

Considering the relatively chilly overcast weather, typical weather for this ride, turn out was again stellar at 10+. Finally a real Bitterroot ride: cold creek crossings, a little snow slogging, cold feet and wet socks. (We were about week too early with a fair amount of snow on the upper reaches.)  Somehow last year it seems like we avoided almost all of these inconveniences that we celebrate as badges of macho posturing to demonstrate how tough and superior we are. 

Compensating for our ordinary lives as dads and husbands working ordinary jobs and trying to believe that had we been born in a different era we would have been dog warriors defending our land or possibly Custer heading west to subdue the savages. Instead we carry saws and clear downed trees.  Coyote Coulee did not disappoint.  

Jeff, our current reincarnated Chief Joesph lead us unerringly to the mythic third loop after several misadventures in previous seasons.  At his time I have to acknowledge Doctor J who after  intermittent appearances in previous seasons has made every ride  this year and has assumed his position at point. He may not know where is going yet, but he is determined to get there first.  Also making every ride after lackluster prior seasons are my favorite photo models, Kevin and Aaron. Also  perfect for the season so far is Cory. Finally getting their asses in gear were Travis and Donny.   As I alluded to,  Joel dropped in between his other adventures for a ride, and I always hate it when he does.  When he is around I can't blame my slow climbing and wussy descents on being washed up and over the hill.  Instead, I have to accept that I'm simply a slow wuss.

"You should talk about the apres' cocktail hour.  I need to drink before I eat after a ride. Once I eat I bloat up like a manatee and need a nap." - Joel

Sawdust Gulch

Have you heard of something called flow?  Read Bike, and all I hear is how a trail should have flow.  Check the IMBA website trail building guide; all about adding flow to a trail. Trails that aren't too steep going up or down, predictable. Trails that you could take your 29er hard tail single-speed on and still enjoy it. A trail you can have fun on whether you are young or old, fit or flab, noob or knob head.

One Sawdust Gulch virgin felt we should have a ride summary when we announce the weekly ride so that cherries would have some idea what to expect. First, if we did that how would we ever get anyone to deflower.  Second, he's been riding with us on and off for a few years now, so he should already know what to expect.  Sometime during the climb you will either ,if you are lucky, want to puke or more likely just  want to lay down and pray that this is the end.  If there is downfall to climb over, we will go off route to find some adventure, and there is a good chance that there will be blood, since this is no country for old men.

Planning next week's ride.

What was he imagining? That hidden somewhere up Sleeping Child there was a machine built trail with a pleasant middle chain ring climb followed by a fun fast downhill filled with grade reversals, sight lines and bermed turns.

So do you become an old man when you give up the Wednesday night rides, or do you stop riding when you become too old.  The list of former riders who seem to aged out of the group seems to grow longer with every season, and now that I'm one of the veterans, I occasional ponder when I'll follow Jay and Shrek, Joe and Warwick, and others who predate me into obsolescence or is that convalescence. Usually is seems to be somewhere between 50 and 60, even if a few have chosen early retirements, and there is a good chance Joel  will break the 6o barrier a few years hence.

Doing what everyone wanted to do at the top of the climb

For some of the under 40 riders out there, they can still skip a few rides or even seasons, and still be able to jump back on the train.  For some of us, at least for me, is the realization that if I don't get on at the station, I'll never be able to catch the caboose once it gets rolling.

So for those who haven't ridden Sawdust, it is our early season test piece to see how your lungs and legs survived the winter.  Roughly a 15% grade for 1.5 miles you get to redline from the start, and while your vision blurs add in the fists of death studding the road. In years past it was always an accomplishment to just get up it with dabbing or walking.  Now everyone, even those feigning a lack of fitness, ride the climb clean.  In the good old days after almost killing ourselves we would contour over to the Forbidden Ridge, but not this year.  No this years guide added not one be two more climbs.

The first another steep road to the saddle overlooking Skalkaho. The second a mad trail free scramble with mountain bikes crisscrossing each other to the top of ridge line knob, like a bunch of ants getting out of the anthill at the first sign of spring, while the whole time I was hoping someone would get off and walk, so I could do the same thing with a modicum of dignity.  Of course everyone rode the ascent clean. Just when I'm starting to look forward to my future Thailand vacation to get a few joints replaced, and having the chance to sit at home and anxiously ponder my retirement account, everyone else decided to keep pedaling all winter on trainers with heart rate monitors or on fat bikes in the snow.

Aaron ready for some unknown to him at the time unplanned dismounts.

Kevin claimed he was demonstrating his anguish.  Looks like he was practicing some blanket hornpipe.

Once at the top, Chad informed us that we had several options for going back down. We could do Forbidden rRidge. We could do the ridge barely legal ridge from last year, or we could look for a trail on some other ridge that he had never been on, then take it down to a old road bed that he had never been on, then loop around to another knob he had never been on and then finally ride that back down to Sleeping Child. So once again the herd put our lives in his greasy hands and bounced and flounced our way into the  unknown.

Final resting spot after his wife caught him taking a flyer with his Turner

Did I mention that the climb was steep? My mistake, the descent was steep. And the sidehill?  I'm not even going there.  Was there a trail? No.  Was there an old road bed? Yes. Did we use it? No. While everyone survived the climb, the bush whacking over and around the sage and down the untouched ridge claimed a few dismounts, but luckily no blood.

Flow is all in your head

How about the grilling.  Oh yeah there was none this week, actually I grilled some wonderful venison sirloin when I got home, since no one brought a portable grill this week.  Speaking of grilling, good news marinating your animal products in beer decreases the number of carcinogens created by turning animal flesh into charcoal.


For a ride that is too steep, with no flow, and in fact no trail at all for the descent, everyone was exceptionally perky on the final cool down to the cars. Maybe there is more to a good time than flow.

Soft Rock 2014

After writing ride reports for awhile now, I have sadly come to realize that I'm running out of witty things to say. So with the new ride season upon us I'm going to introduce some guest bloggers to share the load. This weeks guest blogger will be someone, or rather something that has joined me for nearly every Wednesday ride over the three previous seasons. So here to bring you a fresh POV is my Vitamin P Ibis Mojo HD.

Not to sound ungrateful or anything, but it's about fucking time. If it wasn't for me, I don't how many times that dolt Monkey Doo would have ended up a Raggedy Andy missing his button eyes and hanging by his blue bow tie off some lodgepole limb.

When I first arrived here 3 years ago there we doubts whether my carbon fiber was up to the rocks and roots of the Bitterroot. Well despite the utter incompetence of Monkey Doo dropping me onto countless sharp bits of granite in Blodgett, Camas, and now Soft Rock, I'm still here, having survived longer than some of those supposedly sturdier aluminum frames.

It feels good to be out of the garage and back on the soft loam, no hard packed fire roads, no dust insinuating its way into my linkages, and no mud clinging to my luscious nearly neon greenish yellowish hide.   Finally, you know who, has given up his winter infatuation with that Mukluk monstrosity, and his early season love affair with that that cachectic roadie.  Just a passing thought, since I'm the one doing to ass poking, why I do always have to be the bottom?

After a prolonged visit to the spa at Red Barn, I feel rejuvenated with fresh bearings, new rear derailleur, chain ring chain, a new blue saddle to replace that duct taped embarrassment, maybe some blue flat pedal bling, and an uber cushy Cane Creek DB Air. I guess those Bitterroot trails had put some wear and tear on me.

Thinking back over the last few years, the changes I have gone through have been pretty staggering. I started out as a svelte 5" travel cross country racing machine, and over the years I have bulked up into a 7" all mountain slayer.  As much as I have enjoyed the makeover, I just wish I had a rider who could push me to my limits.




I was so jealous some of the bikes I hadn't seen much of the last few seasons like Giant and Delirium, who actually got a a chance to get decent air off the jumps and rock drops off the ridge at Soft Rock. Instead I had the indignity of micro-air and the abuse of premature  flat landings. 

There are time I think the Caballero Sin Cojones believes that if he just tricks me out just a little bit more, maybe with flat pedals or a chain guide, he can be the next Aaron Gwin or Stevie Smith. I hate to break it to him that with his diminished reflexes and reading glasses, even the sweetest bike made is not going to turn him into a downhill jedi.




Finally, those organics got over their fear of cold and dark, and nearly a month later than last year we got riding. It was probably the first time Soft Rock had ever seen a herd of 12 to 13 mountain bikes. The herd included Giant who has been missing for at least two seasons, both of the Knolly brothers, the ever elusive Ellsworth, the usual Turner and Ventana clans, and that sweet Raleigh number whose hard tail makes my dropper post hydraulics boil, if you know what I mean.  One El Ciclon is still missing, and I'm only mentioning it, because I want his rider to invite us down to New Zealand for some riding.



One thing I have noticed recently and it really dries my chain are those annoying blobs of blubber that have popped up all over the place.   Everything is great with day after day of rolling in the dirt, hopping logs, and airing over obstacles, then suddenly you are locked up in the garage hosting generation after generation of spider webs.

 The lucky ones demeaned to getting strapped to a Burley so you can tow those shrieking shit making machines to the Farmers Market. Fuck, I hate those little fuckers, and it doesn't get better.  Even now Monkey Doo ignores me every other Wednesday so he can make the even bigger parasites they turn into dinner or help them with homework.

So how was the ride?  Few things are better than rubbing against sagebrush while carving turns on soft loam single track, with outcrops of grippy granite to play on and pine needle and cone covered hillsides to grind up.  At one point a herd of elk outnumbered us and forced us to retrace our treads and find a new hill to climb.  Not a huge day, but our riders with their flabby early season legs and winter insulation managed to power out 9+ miles.

The current rumor is an out and back on Brennan's Gulch.  If I'm lucky, maybe I can swap riders so that I can get a chance to stretch my suspension and not just roll the kelly humps.

Love,
Mojo