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A Mountain Biking Odyssey on Mt. St. Helens
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The sign of a good ride is when you get up from a bad wreck and
keep on going. The sign of a great ride is when you peel yourself off a
mud splattered stump after a 30mph endo and come up smiling. You don't
have to get hurt on a great ride, but somehow I always manage to anyway.
Sometimes a great ride happens by accident, like when I went
looking for Bigfoot. I heard he was last seen near Mt. St. Helens in
Washington just before it blew its top in 1980 so I figured that was as
good a place as any to start. 1980 was also the first year I went out looking for Bigfoot on my
mountain bike. I made it all of two miles before mechanical failure
intervened on his behalf, but I'm certain I almost saw him.
With all the
technological advances in bikes since then, I was sure to get him this time
around and Mt. St. Helens seemed likely to provide the perfect
surroundings to hide a furry, 1500 lb. brute.
The first time I searched I went with a bunch of hard core
grinders.
We pounded up a four mile climb through the deep forest, raced
across rugged canyons where much of the trail has been washed away by flash
floods, flew across the barren pumice fields, raged down over a sea of
baby-heads buried in sand, cruised to the end where a hundred
Winnebago-bound tourists seemed totally confounded by our sudden appearance
out of the wilderness onto their asphalt domain, then quickly turned around
and retraced our route at an even faster pace. We were riding too fast for
sightseeing; we could have ridden right by his nose and never noticed.
That's one of the unfortunate things about doing a truly unique and
scenic ride with a group of really strong riders: you're torn between
tearing along at a break-neck pace with your eyes glued 20 feet in
front of you until your lungs give out, or stopping to smell the flowers
every now and then, as well as look for Bigfoot.
"Five miles of twisting, turning, banked track with just
enough adrenaline to keep you interested but not enough to make you
throw up... " |
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I always do the great rides at least twice. When I went back for a
second go-round at Bigfoot a couple weeks later, I enlisted a group of
fun-hogs rather than strong-hogs with the goal being to explore the world, not
conquer it. Instead of limiting myself to two water bottles and a
Powerbar, I'd bring a full-sized camera, lots of film, and a gourmet lunch
for me and Bigfoot when we met.
The south and east sides of Mt. St. Helens were only slightly
obliterated during the 1980 eruption which "removed" several thousand feet
of elevation and several billion tons of rock. In fact, unlike the north
side where there is nothing but a giant void where the mountain used to be,
there are actually a few narrow ribs of trees which somehow escaped the
cataclysmic explosion that vaporized virtually everything else within 10
miles.
On one of these thin ridges, a narrow trail snakes its way up
through gigantic old growth stands of Douglas and Noble firs, many over
30 feet in circumference. At times, just a few yards to either side,
lay 10 square miles of total devastation, a mind numbing geographic
juxtaposition of ancient vegetation versus sterilized rock.
Down low, the perfect needle-covered single track winds slowly up
through a rich maple and alder forest, thick with sweet huckleberries and
vibrant colors in the fall. Prime Bigfoot country. So you don't forget where you are, straight in front Mt. St. Helens looms
into view every few minutes like a 5000 foot
tidal wave. Steam rises from hidden
vents near the summit. Bigfoot is watching as the mountain above snores.
The trail emerges suddenly at the top of the ridge when the ground
turns suddenly from black earth and pine needles to white pumice and dust.
It's as if you've come to the end of the first reel of Dances With Wolves
and the projectionist puts on a reel of Star Wars by mistake. Just a few
feet off the trail, a 20 foot wide vertical slot in the rock plunges several
hundred feet into the canyon below. I lean over the edge and peer down,
looking for a trace of that sneaky devil.
In the 1800s a bunch of miners saw Bigfoot right here. They
chased him down the mountain and into the gorge where he disappeared and
the miners couldn't follow. I can see why. The chasm continues down for a
mile, 100 feet deep and a few feet wide. Lucky for Bigfoot he always
seems to be in the right place at the right time. I keep my eyes peeled
for a repeat performance.
"Having died several times in the past few years, I
choose prudence over pride... " |
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Winding through the upper canyon, much of the trail has been washed
away by the fierce spring run-off from the glaciers still hanging above.
Complete concentration to riding is essential. If you stop to check out
the spectacular scenery, you're flat on your face in an instant. This time
through I walk as much as I ride; I'd hate to explain to the doctor how I
broke my shoulder looking for Bigfoot.
Again the projectionist goofs, slapping Lawrence of Arabia onto the
screen. We're up on the Plains of Abraham now, a wild, desolate section of
pumice through which the trail winds for three miles, slipping through
eroded stream beds and across a landscape so stark it makes the moon look
lush. But the air is cool with a fresh mountain breeze and I'm in my
middle chain ring as we fly across the Plains.
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"Leaving Ward, June,
Wally, Eddie, Lumpy, Whitey and The Beav to ogle at the still smoking
crater from the safety of their Minivan... " |
Halfway across, the trail runs back out to the eastern edge
overlooking another fork of the canyon. Mt. Adams (11,300') dominates the
skyline to the east, Mt. Rainier (14,200') to the north. A few feet beyond
the trail, the ravine drops 500 feet in one sheer plunge into the mud ravaged
forest below. We continue for a couple more easy miles to the northern
edge of the Plains where once again the route turns into more hike than
bike. Sharp, sandy switchbacks end in steep, soft climbs where if you're
an inch too far forward on your saddle you bog down instantly; if
you're an inch too far back, your front wheel pops up and you're doing an
unplanned wheelie with a 200 foot drop on one side. Fun!
Our route finally ends at the top of the "Steps", a series of logs
cabled into the steep hillside by the National Park Service. You can
either ride the steps (if you bail, you die), ride the soft edge on the
right (if you bail, you still die), or shoulder your bike and hike-a-bike on
down to the road. Having died several times in the past few years, I
choose prudence over pride. Why have a light bike if you don't get to
carry it now and then?
A couple miles of dirt road and we're at the tourist vista
overlooking Spirit Lake, in reality ex-Spirit Lake since it was filled in
with mud and rocks during the eruption and is now quite different than the
serene, picturesque tarn it once was. Tourists gaggle at the still
steaming hole, taking flash pictures with their yellow Fuji box cameras.
Once again that damned projectionist has mixed up the film reels now he's
showing a lost episode of Leave It To Beaver. "Excuse me, have any of you
seen Bigfoot around?" We scramble back to the trail, leaving Ward, June,
Wally, Eddie, Lumpy, Whitey and The Beav to ogle at the still smoking
crater from the safety of their Minivan.
A couple of hikers stare as we hike-a-bike back up the stairs,
especially when we pass them with bikes held high in the air. Soon we're
around the corner and back on the Plains, raging across the now familiar
trail in big chain rings, flying across the rocky ditches and sweeping
turns as if possessed. I keep one eye on the trail and one aimed towards
the mountain: after all, Bigfoot might be watching and I don't want to miss
my chance at 15 minutes of fame. The tabloids will pay big money for
this story, you know: "Bigfoot Attacks Lunatic Bike Riders on Erupting
Volcano!"
But wait... something looks different at our lunch spot... the dry,
rocky stream bed where we sat just a couple hours ago is now filled with
water. In fact, it is flowing swift and full. We stop for a breather and
Trevor reaches into the stream for a cool splash of water. "Hey, it's
warm. Hey... it's really warm!"
Sure enough, the water is at least 80 degrees and it is pouring
over the trail into the abyss below us. I scramble to the edge and
discover a perfect natural rock pool with a rounded, perfectly smooth wall
shaped in a perfect lounge chair with the warm water cascading over the
top. "Hey! It's a hot tub!!!"
I instantly strip, climb down the rock face and into the pool.
"Unbelievable!" I scream. "Incredible!" "You guys won't be-leeeve this!"
I sit mesmerized by the soft afternoon sun as it fades to alpenglow on Mt.
Adams, Mt. Hood poking up to my right and Mt. Rainier to my left, sitting
in my glacier polished granite Lazy-Boy, with warm water gushing over my
head, down my body and legs, then flying off into space below me. I
picture Bigfoot coming here every night to relax after being chased around
all day by those pesky miners.
In fact, the old boy is probably just up the valley waiting his
turn in the bath, having just turned on the water. I can picture him
standing in the canyon up above us, with a towel around his neck, fiddling
with the faucet, and not all too pleased that we snuck in the tub right
before him.
"I'd rather be back on the mountain
sitting in that little stream watching the sunset with Bigfoot... " |
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One by one everyone gets their chance to sample paradise. The
sweat and dust of the day are washed away like the bruises of so many
endos. My mates don't believe that Bigfoot is waiting. They think that
the afternoon heat has melted the glacier hanging on the mountain far above
us, the water crept into some volcanic fissure in the ground where it was
quickly warmed and rose to the surface again to become our private bath. I
keep my eyes peeled anyway.
As we start back down the ridge, the projectionist slips Raiders of
the Lost Ark onto the screen: a wild, rollicking ride back down the needle-covered trail as it spirals back down the wooded ridge we had chugged our
way up earlier in the movie. It has to be the best single-track downhill I
have ever ridden. Five miles of twisting, turning, banked track with just
enough adrenaline to keep you interested but not enough to make you
throw up. It's over in a half hour which is an hour too soon.
Usually beers at the car taste especially good after a hard ride.
As I slowly sip a frosty Corona I knew I'd rather be back on the mountain
sitting in that little stream watching the sunset with Bigfoot. That's
the difference between a good ride and a great ride.
Eric Sanford, Mountain Zone Contributor
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