Lolo Peak

Last week, after fasting and in consultation with the high council, the wizened and revered Grand Wopwop decreed that the second Wednesday of July for the year 2001 would occur on July 12 rather than July 13, and therefore anyone journeying to great rendezvous will not be sacrilegious by imbibing the sacramental fermented barley on a day other than the sabbath.

Freed from accusations of heresy, several of us ventured forth on a pilgrimage to Lolo Mountain and the annual Great Rendezvous where we would share in the celebration of the secret rites and sacred rituals shared by the brothers of the wheel.

The Tea Society of Missoula has succumbed to the vices of the big city and have developed a more decadent free ride mentality.  Only one of us, the newly shorn Eric with the smooth skin of an acolyte, followed the path of purity and chose the penitence of a nine mile climb to the end of Mormon Peak Road. While the rest of us succumbed to the temptations of hedonism, and allowed ourselves to be shuttled to the start of Lolo Peak trail in the backs of the jacked up jalopies of the tea baggers.

Eventually 23 of us formed a congregation at the trailhead.  Seven from the heart of the Bitterroot and sixteen from the glittering city to the north. The rigors of the trail soon separated us into smaller clusters as we ascended 2.5 miles and 1800 vertical feet until the  righteous displeasure of the gods at our vain apostacy. For breaking the great commandment,  Thou shalt earn you vertical," our path to the top of Carlton Ridge was repulsed by great drifts of snow in July about 600'  and an unknown number of switchbacks below the ridge top. A plague of mosquitoes was sent to torment our exposed skin.

Despite their wrath, we could not be denied the pleasures of the descent. For those us raised on the rocks and roots of the Bitterroot, the trail came as a revelation. Fast and flowing singletrack with long sight lines and nary a rock or obstacle to slow us down,  the first 1.5 miles and 1200' of well buffed trail quickly disappeared beneath our wheels until we returned to the easy to miss fork with the Mill Creek trail.

A warning to those of the faith, the Lolo Peak trail is popular with the great unwashed masses being the main route to Carlton Lake and beyond to the tops of Lolo Peak. Riding this trail and hoping for a fast unencumbered descent might find their path to enlightenment blocked during those popular times known colloquially as "the Weekend."

At the fork I was reminded of the poem "The Road Not Take" by Frost. He had to choose which road to take, luckily we took both and turning down Mill Creek Trail we were on the road less travelled, and were rewarded with another 3000' of vertical. Whereas Lolo Peak trail feels like a highway. The trail less travelled was narrow and reminded my of the trails closer to home especially the rock gardens and tight switchback lower down.

After regrouping most of wayward sheep at the junction with the Lantern Ridge Trail we opted to keep descending, and the trail became ever more faint as it crossed, followed and then dropped off a series of old logging roads, with at least one flat and one superman accompanying the final stretch of trail.

While the lords of nature had been benificent in allowing our glorious descent of over 4000', their fury had not ebbed and one more trial was in store.  While some were still reverently completing the trail, and the rest were attempting offerings of lum and hops, the skies opened up in retribution pelting our undeserving flesh with hail and lightening up the sky with bolts of fire, and reducing to our deserved status as cowering mutts.

Despite the pools of water around the picnic tables, grills were fired up and sacramental fermented barley was consumed, except for those imbibing PBR in which case it was fermented rice and wheat.  Courtesy of the state we found refuge in the cozy surroundings of the covered porch of a small cottage.

Once our revelry passed the allotted closing time of Fort Fizzle and our male entourage I was concerned we might get a visit from the state patrol concerned about the propriety of our activities. In due course the revelry abated with the return of the shuttled trucks and the imminent arrival of another tempest.

My helmet cam travails persist and no footage was present on the card when I returned home. In lieu, I have drawn a quick animation that reflects as closely as possible my recollection of the sublime trail that the Tea Baggers had the magnanimity to reveal to our undeserving collection of Bitterroot ruffians.

We returned home singing hosannas for the 11 miles of riding and over 4000' of divine trail we had the good fortune to descend.

Be prepared for penitence next week, as the ride will be to Camas Lake.

Calf Creek

Some of you might recall this photo of my hand from a previous ride report and a discussion on the prenatal effects of testosterone on finger length.

Well some urologists in South Korea decided to see if finger lengths were associated with increased size in other body parts.  First they measured the ratio of the length index finger to the ringer finger (L[i]/L[r]).  For some reason they avoided the middle finger. Maybe flipping someone the bird means something different in Asia. Then after being anesthetized for surgery they decided to see how much they could stretch the unconscious patient's Johnson, or in Korea their Chaci. The assumption being the more the snake could they longer it would be when tumescent.  What they discover was that at least for Korean men the longer your ring finger is relative to index finger the more the wang can be stretch.  My interpretation of this study is; don't go to Gachon Hospital for surgery on your pride and joy.

If anyone is interested I'll talk to our local urologist, Dr. Munding  to see if would be interested in repeating the study for the members of Wednesday Night Ride, and I could post the results here.

On a related note I went to fourth of July fireworks extravaganza at the home of another Wednesday night rider. During this celebration of pyromania our host was the unfortunate recipient of a direct impact to his family jewels from an errant projectile resulting in an acute increase in the size of his already impressive conjones, and incapacitating him for the rest of the evening. I tried to get him to let me take a photo of the damage, but he demurred. I guess he was afraid I might post it on Facebook or blog about it.

For those of us who avoided serious bodily damage over the weekend, a ride was in order, and for the third week in a row there were six of us riding.  Riding in small groups has certain advantages, one being that we don't forget anyone, and if there is a ever a debate about who should be in front we can just roll a single die to pick whose number is up.

Starting the ride with temperatures at  90° and riding through the sand and sagebrush I had to question the sagacity of whoever suggested riding the exposed west facing slopes of Calf Creek in July, until I realized I was the sage.  Luckily I was modeling one of the new Wednesday night ride shirts, and this shirts made out of recycled coffee grounds kept me cool like I was hanging out at a cafe drinking an iced frappuccino. I don't do the Starbucks scene, so I've never had a frappuccino; I'm more of a Thai Iced Tea person, so it is possible that is how I felt,  especially if drinking one feels like an escaped scoop of whipped cream from the frappuccino melting on the sidewalk. Still the shirt felt comfy and has a loose, but not quite freeride loose, fit. There are two style one with a zipper and one more T shirt style.  The zippered coffee ground shirt will be $45 and the T shirt $30. Go and get one of each. Proceed will support IMBA and trail access.

There have been a few complaints, which I can understand, that the bicycle logo doesn't so much resemble a mountain biker as much as a triathlete.  Personally, the logo reminds me of a triathlete, known locally as the Goldenboy who promised to ride again with us.  His impressive physique like the person on the logo would make Atlas envious, not shrug.  Several months have passed since he made his promise and if he is lucky, maybe he is being distracted by having a beautiful randy randian helping him create an impressive fountain from his head. 

After reaching the top of the meadow, the trail enters the Ponderosa and follows more east and north facing slopes with a noticeable drop in temperature.  The moderate climate further back in hills created an atmosphere conducive to a pleasant rolling climb out of  Calf Creek and onto Butterfly Road, after the obligate clearing of the usual downfall.

Once on Butterfly a Warwick of FS road lead us to the ridge above the southern boundary of Calf Creek.  There is always one moment on the dirt road that is always disheartening for me.  After rounding the first sub ridge the entire length of the remaining climb, 1.5 miles and 500 vertical feet, taunts you across the intervening drainage.

Dropping back off the road the trail disappears above a grass covered hillside where we still need to do a little work to connect to the trail coming up from below.  Riding down the grass hillside with the brakes locked and trying to connect marginally controlled two wheeled skids all I could think of was trying to avoid inadvertently stretching my manhood if got stuck in the saddle as I hung my butt over the rear wheel.

Quickly dropping in altitude we ended up at the only log works in the Bitterroot outside of Warwick's backyard.  These were built several years ago by some local teens, out in the darkest, most distant portion of Calf Creek beyond the reach of State and Federal officials who tore down previous attempts.

Unfortunately, the years since have not been kind and yesterday was the first time in years that anyone had put down some rubber on their weathered surfaces. Several logs had rotted away and  the nails are losing their fight with entropy.

The remainder of the descent of was fast flowing non technical single track into the setting sun, with dust  blinding anyone following too closely behind.

Back at the vehicles we discovered Dean loitering around having given up on his attempt to chase us down. I guess we did forget someone after all, and unless he had dug up a Polyhedral die from an old Dragons and Dungeons game we wouldn't have been able to roll to see who goes first. 

 Once again we thanked Joel for his generosity in letting us use his grill and propane while he recreated up in the Great White North.

Big news for next week. First off the Wednesday night ride will be on Tuesday night.  We will meeting the Missoula Tea Baggers for High Tea on the slopes of Lolo Peak.  For those of us with jobs, it was too difficult to get up to Marshall Mountain for the Cross Country Series. The exact meeting time and spot on Hwy 12 is not yet set.

Blodgett Canyon

Yesterday was Wednesday which means that some of us must have ridden bikes. Although for a moment in the early afternoon a major gully washer put the possibility of the ride in doubt. Enough that that there was even an email blast to try and get the ride cancelled, whether from the rain or just as an excuse to avoid riding Blodgett I'm not sure.  Like they always do, the cumulonimbi rolled back out leaving blue skies by 5:30. So some of us, approximately six in number showed up to see how much damage we could to our bikes.

I have been avoiding Blodgett so far this rear; a little apprehensive to find out of if Ibis Mojo HD plastic bike was as tough as Ibis claimed. Blodgett Canyon is a geological marvel. It is marvelous that for the entire duration of the ride there are no soft spots to land. 

Blodgett is the antithesis of the current rage that trails have flow.  Speed is not the goal here. Learning balance, body english and line choices are more important. Most of us use the same granny gearing going down that we used on the climb up.

Riding up the trail trying to avoid bodily harm, I was reminded of an experience the previous day at the 

Bitterroot Aquatic Center with my kids and the lifeguards attempts to keep us safe.  Diving into the deep end. "Tweet, no diving allowed." "Tweet, no jumping in the shallow end." "Tweet, you are too big for the foam fish."  Tweet,  Get away from the ropes." "Tweet, no kids in life jackets in the deep end." "Tweet, no food by the pool."  "Tweet, no having fun."  Usually, having teenage girls in bikinis whistling at me is positive experience. Not that day.  I understand that the pool is packed with kids and the concept at swimming at a swimming pool is a novel concept during "open swim,"  and it is probably not wise to let teenagers use a little judgement, as if they had some, in enforcing rules, but jeez, mellow out a little. 

Usually the trail and rocks are enough of a challenge. This year we had the added fun of an overflowing Creek flooding the trail.

We only made it to the bridge this year.  Zeus or Thor or possibly the ionization of the air by the collision of ice crystals with graupel  let us know that another squall line was headed our way.  Turning back I was reminded of the eternal words of Thomas Hobbes, "nasty, brutish and short." 

The whole quote is a little longer. "The life of man, solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short." Poor maybe ,  especially if you like carbon fiber. Solitary, not if ride Wednesday nights. Wet definitely.

Chad may be poor, since despite our best efforts, we didn't break anything.  The plastic bike survived the trial by granite.

No helmet cam video this week. Had a camera malfunctions.  Current rumor is Calf Creek to Butterfly next week. Hopefully Jeff will be around to help find the trail back down.

Weasel Creek

Summer arrived promptly with the solstice.  Goodbye cool spring. Hello hot summer. It was surprising that with the arrival of summer, the number of riders dropped precipitously to 6, and almost 5. I was late, thanks Chad to Tray for watching the kiddos so that I could make it at all, and had to take the cheater path and park at the turnoff to Weasel Creek, rather than the official Wednesday night start at the beginning of Rye Creek Rd. Not that I minded missing the several miles of superfluous dirt road miles we tack on to pad the distance.  Although I can understand the desire to extend the ride time. A measly 2 hour ride when you have enough light for 5 hours.  I almost managed to make up my 30 tardy minutes. I saw the group pedaling up the road just I pulled in to park.  Of course the 5 ahead of me were all Speedy Gonzales types, so my chance of catching them before the requisite break at the end of the road was about as likely as the next winner of the Tour de France being clean.  So riding up the road I could help but be distracted by the snow fields on Kent and Congdon and thinking maybe ski season isn't quite over. Fourth of July corn, maybe.

I was talking to Eric the other day, and we discussing how we never reveal to anyone where our powder stashes are, and that if there is ever a ski report on this blog it will be from the "Wasatch Backcountry", and never from anywhere around here where everyone knows there is absolutely no decent skiing except for Powder Thursdays at LT.  On the other hand, we feel a need to get more people out riding the trails. I guess that is because trails need to ridden to be maintained and more people means more Forest Service support.  Powder, on the other plank,  does not improve with more riders.

One of the unique aspects of riding Weasel over the years is observing the slow recovery from the fires, with more green and less charcoal on the clothes every year.  One other slight less unique feature is, after swooping down the upper ridge singletrack, discovering when I will develop an acute testosterone deficiency and put my foot down.




 The drop from the ridge to the creek bottom always turns me into a wuss.  Steep and technical and just when I need momentum those Formula brakes call to me, and I  can't resist their siren's call, I lightly touch the levers. The momentum is gone and I'm off the bike. Climb up try it again. Too cautious again.  I need to remember that gravity is my friend while disc brakes are friends with the trickster gods, Loki and Kokopelli.

Everyone else full of confidence bopped down the hillside without hinderance from that annoying little voice in their heads repeating, "Be careful, Don't fall".  

Weasel Creek was once again at full volume, overflowing onto the trail at spots. Luckily, that awesome band,  Quiet Kern and the Raucous Buhls, had played up here the previous weekend, and their swinging groove left the trail cleared and brushed.   Later in the season the trail can degenerate into a nightmare, especially for the cautious and momentum deprived, of raspberry obscured wheel grabbing holes, hidden rocks and roots lost in the thimbleberry shrubbery. 

Did I mention there was abundant water in the creek, with each crossing bringing it's own challenges.

Once again I know I need to return and attempt to either silence the voice of caution or in failing end up with these friendly faces.

Rumors of Blodgett Canyon to the big W sign next week, so bring you knee pads, elbows pad, chest protection, spare hangers, spare derailleurs, spare singulators, spare tubes, spare rotors and spare cojones.

Warm Springs To Fire Creek

Before I get into the ride report, I need to make some corrections for mistakes and omissions I have made in previous posts and unlike those paragons of journalism like the New York Times and the Ravalli Republic, I'm going to put the correction right at the top, not buried below the legal notices.  First there are stills runs of it's namesake anadromous fish in the Salmon River. Hermoine did not compete in the naked bareback mechanical bull championship; it was her fiance Martin.  ATVs are not the spawn of Mephistopheles, and finally Chad meant to get a crewcut; he was not competing with Shrek for best hair.

Arriving on time seems to be the theme this year.  When Warwick says 5:30 he means 5:30.  So when we showed up at 5:35 having carpooled down in the Vegomatic leaving a wake of french fry fumes, the punctual clock punchers had vanished up the trail.  Luckily we were not alone, most everybody else decided to be fashionable and we had the pleasure of being joined by some luscious ladies, Jenny and Tracy, who did their best to try and civilize us.

I haven't always been appreciative of the cool overcast spring we have been having.  Riding up Warm Springs trail, the weather seemed nearly ideal for the 5 mile, 2500' climb we had ahead of us.  Every year the same pattern seems to repeat itself. After getting warmed up on the first few switch backs I start to feel confident and start to believe that climb isn't as long as remembered until half an hour into the climb I realize I'm only a quarter of the way to the ridge.  About the time my head feels like it is going to explode there is the well timed short downhill and sidehill around the first knob just before the trail gains the lower ridge line. It was on the lower ridge where we discovered someone had built a bark skinny over a fallen log. The boys played on it for awhile until Tracy rode over it and wondered what all the fuss was.

I guess we spent too much time playing, we never managed to catch the lead group. All the usual meeting spots had been hastily abandoned on our approach. 

 While riding up ahead enjoying the fruits of the prodigious trail clearing efforts of Eric and his elite team, they seemed to have forgotton, much like they did on the ride to Two Good Cabin, that they too where capable of moving trees off the trail. While sawing through the remaining tree on the ridge before Fire Creek, those of us left behind, no rapture for us, agreed that when and if our shirts arrive only some of us will be able to adorn them with the coveted logger badge.  Primarily thanks to Eric, we are proud to annouce that Warm Spring Ridge and down Fire Creek is now cleared a rideable.

A while back, Jeremy said he was going to ride with us again. I was hoping he would show since there is something I have been thinking of trying.  That Weiner in New York does it,  Schwarzenegger did it.  There are rumors that Brad Pitt and George Clooney do it.  Even that Armstrong fellow who I share a name does it.  I have been told that it all the rage in the younger generation and that the women love it.  I'm thinking about getting my chest waxed and I figured Jeremy with his great tan and fantastic hair was the man to ask.

This fascination with having a smooth chest is a bit confusing to me. When I was younger I longed for the day that would have enough facial hair to warrant needing to shave more than once a month. Now I find it annoying enough keeping my ears and nose clean shaven. I have even been appreciating the  chance use to cool weather as an excuse not to shave off my goatee.  I always thought chest hair was part of being manly and growing up. It showed that you were virile. Burt Reynolds and Sean Connery had hair on their chests. (Although Burt is showing more hair than I want to see.)  Now 007 is hairless. After all eating or drinking something adventurous, "Puts hair on your chest."

Before riding down Fire Creek I needed something to give me my hairy chest back and to let me cruise down with an adolescent's feeling of invulnerability.  So I tried the Honey Stinger Waffle that Chad had tossed in with my Ibis.  Now I know why. I ended up buying a box of them; fuckin' Chad.

Riding down Fire Creek I had an unpleasant encounter with a rock that scampered off the edge of the trail and took my front wheel, a blood offering and some elbow skin with with it. Leaving me with my chest hair and middle age caution.



On the final stretch along Crazy Creek a Chupacadena snatched Jenny's derailleur.  Ever the gentleman, Sean traded bikes and assisted by two pushers and drafting behind two others was able to coast the road back to the trucks for the usual beer and BBQ.  Someone brought a sampling of some unusual small game that is season. He said they were called vegetables. They were quite tasty.




A quick review of the Rock Shox Reverb.  I love the ability to fine tune the saddle height, and it is so smooth when it working.  It may not be quite as maintenance free as the Gravity dropper. It had been getting finicky the last few rides and finally stopped adjusting during the ride. Time for some bleeding.

Wagonhammer

A week or so I received an email from Eric informing me that he had found a web site describing some trails down by Salmon, that town on the the other side of Lost Trail named after a fish which doesn't live there any more. Although trout and steelhead are Salmonid family.  Fun fact: steelhead are rainbow trout with a sense of adventure and a longing for a life at sea.

Adventures exploring new trails always gets Jeff a little hot and bothered, so it wasn't too hard to seduce him into coming with me. Aaron, looking for an excuse to avoid doing some gardening was easy to rope in. Everyone else, having heard enough of the fun and excitement  that seems to ensue when Jeff goes exploring, discovered a variety of responsibilities and obligations that took priority this weekend.  When someone doesn't want to upset their mother in law it seems a little suspicious.

With an early morning start we headed down to North Fork and the Wagonhammer trails. The Wagonhammer creek bottom is a lush verdant green with minimal grade.  As soon as possible with the left the creek bottom oasis for the steep wildflower covered hillsides.  Climbing a loop to the south we son had glimpses of a snow covered Stein Mountain to the east.  Later in the summer, shuttle rides start at the lookout with several 5000' descents available. Once on top of the ridge we were treated to fantastic views of the Beaverhead, Lemhi, and Lost River Mountains in the distance.

The open hillsides and big sky remind of being on Warm Springs above the trees.  The first descent reminded us all of the last drop of Buttercup into Little Sleeping child with arrowleaf balsamroot and lupine replacing the cheat grass.

At least there no switchbacks to deal with.  Caution was the order of the day on the on the narrow dry off camber trail.

Looping around the ridge the shit started flying as we ran into some hamburger to be that had been fertilizing the trail. We dropped back down into Wagonhammer before starting up the Lewis and Clark trail on the north side of the creek.

The Forest Service deliberately keeps the trails here rudimentary to keep a feel of adventure similar to when Lewis and Clark travelled through here mapping their travels with GPS and twittering their encounters with the Shoshone back to Jefferson in Washington D.C.  

We managed to run into a few Pronghorn and a cow Elk poked her head over an adjacent ridge before retreating. No sheds turned up. Chad and Mike must have already been here.

Having those GPS maps was helpful on a first trip down here.  I'm sure there were plenty of unscripted adventures to be had following the myriad game trails, however we hoped to keep the novelty to a manageable level. Anyone following after us would be advised to take a guide or know how to add a track to your hand held guide. I can't remember Jeff, with his matchless tracking skills and unparalleled sense of direction asking me to check my iPhone to see which way to go.

Eventually we found ourselves in Big Silverlead Gulch which we climbed until the downfall blocked the way. Analyzing the GPS after I discovered we had made an optional turn up the Lewis and Clark trail rather than staying in the main drainage.  At the point we were no longer concerned about getting lost and had stopped checking the route on our electronic training wheels.  Turning around to descend down the trail we had a chance to launch a log ramp we had discovered on the trail.  Aaron rode in clean. As far as myself new bike or not, I won't be called Big Air anytime soon.

Riding our Silverlead I was glad of my experiences on Weasel and Sleeping Child with baby heads and grownup heads hiding in the grass and shrubs.  After a carcaass jump we found ourselves on the bottom where we discovered the last half mile of trail to be on private land. Too fried to contemplate turning back we risked the fury of a shotgun wielding local.  

Luckily we were to befriend the Dave the landowner as we passed his house.  He is generous about letting mountain bikers using the last bit of trail, he justs ask that we stop and say hi, if we see him outside.  So remember if you end up at the bottom of Silverlead to be respectful of his generosity.  I would suggest that anyone riding in a large group or shuttling one of other descents such as Trail Gulch or Burns Gulch that stay on public land.

We ended up riding 19 miles and roughly 4000' vertical that is mostly lower elevation below 6000' that was already toasty.  The first hot and sweaty ride of the year. If I  ride down there again this summer I'll be shuttling or waiting til the fall and cooler weather.

Black Bear

I have to say that the gods of good weather have been with on Wednesday night. Despite the overall rainy and cool spring we have been having in the Bitterroot, Wednesdays have been rather pleasant except for early April snow that froze my feet and as I have previously confessed had me whimpering like a school girl who was just kicked out of the cool girls clique. As they say April showers bring May flowers, and May showers bring June floods.

Once again cool overcast skies greeted our ride, the kind of weather I ask the weather gods for when climbing south facing FS roads for 10 miles, and as usual trying to catch up after my tardy arrival.  Not that I was alone in being late, at least we didn't drive up the road an extra few miles to catch up.

Black Bear


There was a moment on the climb when I realized that simply am not hardcore.  One of the tardy took a page from adventure racing and carried his bike up the hill to cutoff a long switchback and pass us. Although in reality, I'm not sure any of qualify as hardcore. In the spectrum from hardcore to playboy to cinemax and down through network TV to the Disney Channel, I hope to hit the HBO sweet spot of edgy with artistic merit.

Eventually the 18 of us, a record for the year, regrouped after getting strung out on the climb at what we thought was the fork to the ridge single track. It was a fork and it did go to the ridge, but it was about a mile before where we thought we were.

By this time I was personally strung out, in oxygen debt with a lactic acid overdose, so my memory of the events and discussion beyond this point may be in error or the result of hallucinations.  Joining us for the rides were some members of a rival group of Wednesday night riders who decided to see if the grass was greener with us.  Also making a showing was the woman, the  myth, the legend Henrietta,  who deigned to ride with us one last time before going rogue and disappearing into the migrant worker underground when her work visas expires, and where her experience with ground water contamination by virulent strains of E. Coli can be put to good use.  Apparently she has been on the naked mechanical bull riding circuit and just won the world championship in New Orleans last week.  I'm not sure why it is called the naked bullriding since mechanical bulls don't usually wear clothes, maybe it means riding bareback.  Whatever the clothing options, I'm glad that the training she  has received riding with us has finally paid off.

Although we may have reached the trail father down the ridge, we still ended up with our hands on the trail about mid to upper thigh. I had forgotten how fast and fun the downhills are along the ridge.  The several steep molehills on its smooth skin have tended to tarnish it's memory in the past.  Although those short steep nubbins still kicked me off my seat and forced me into bipedal walking mode , I approached them with a different attitude and considering them as pert nipple rather than hairy warts make the climbs much more enjoyable

As we regrouped on the top of one of the nipples of pleasure I overheard some conversation that through my anoxia induced aural dislexia sounded like someone was complaining about "erotic shitting" or "shitting erotica".  Now I wasn't sure if the speaker was planning a career change from part time bounty hunting to something more mainstream or if I misheard him. It was only when I saw him spinning his crank and staring at his chain that I was able to relax, when I realized he was talking about erratic shifting.

At the top of the last nipple we regrouped for a last time and waited for a few stragglers who we suppose were delayed by a hidden patch of wacky tobacky.  The final descent is a brake pad melting stretch of steep, and usually loose  single track. Yesterday, the forgiving conditions have everyone screaming down the final hill faster and more confident than I had ever witnessed before.

A few people are starting a concerning habit of skipping our before ingesting the requisite bovine and porcine servings, although this time they at least attempted some lame excuses before abandoning us. One claimed he had a chance to get laid last night, either because his wife was out of town or because she happened to be in town and it was coincidentally their anniversary. Another one claimed he had to plan for a high school graduation party.  The excuse was even weaker. He had to plan a high school graduation party. As far as I know it wasn't his graduation, and it's not like it was a surprise that his son would graduate on Saturday. Of course if he didn't show up to help it might have impaired his ability to do some of his own naked barebacking.

The rain goods held off until we started the drive back down Sleeping Child.  I could help but notice the bright light glowing at the garage by the Red Barn. I guess we know what kind of paddling goes on there after the kids are nestled in their beds.