Explorers

Yesterday was amazing. With the help of Matt Hall's enthusiasm Ira and I picked our tired asses out of bed and down to the coffee shop with our pockets full of food and our mountain bikes ready to roll to the trails around Hagg Lake, then up through some logging roads where we'd then hopefully drop out near Brown's Camp to shred the gnar before returning. An estimated time of 8-10 hours assured it was going to be epic. We were a little unsure about how our bodies felt about that after the century we'd ridden the day before. Matt showed up just in time and we made our way to the MAX then snaked it to Hillsboro.

At Hagg Lake the sky was threatening, and our energy was quiet, but we persevered. The first bit of dirt was a holiday for our doomsday thoughts. Little technical details that took our minds off the giant void we were about to explore.

We hit the steep pitch of Scoggins Road after mushing through the oily goop the Hagg Lake trail had turned into. A raven's carcass warned us to turn back while we still could. And we climbed. We climbed some more on gravel roads known only to axe-men. The views from this point were awe-inspiring, and we all rode with a sense of humility for the Sasquatches in the forest around us. The trees who-whoooed and clack-clack-clacked as our tires ascended the solitary roads. We continued to check the map but ultimately what it came down to was a test of trusting our guts. Matt's gut to be exact. When we came to a section of felled trees that would require more hike a bike than riding and seemed less likely that anyone should find us Matt insisted we continue through it. We did. Mounting and dismounting over the hurdles of forest debris until we felt the (dis)organization of civilization. As if we'd stepped into a shooting range we crawled into an area littered with concrete blocks, aluminum cans, and bullet shells.
Sunshine splashed our faces as we victoriously rode into Brown's Camp. The castle at the end of stage one of our ride was the picnic table where we lunched.

Riding our usual loop was excellent. The sounds of atv's, and the familiarity of the trails kept us hooting and hollering. By the time we climbed up Storey Burns we were worked, so not heeding the roshambo results, the thickening rain nor the signs of the two ravens warning us not to ride the additional Sictor Lars trail was ambitious. This was an adventure, after all, and we had made it all that way. Ira was kind enough to sacrifice a shoulder muscle for our over-zealous mistake (Damn knowing when to hold 'em!), and so we decided it was time to make our way home. We might even make it in time for a five pm coffee. With caffeine aspirations we time trialed our way back along hwy 6, through Forest Grove, and along the bitch of highway back to the MAX. Props to Matt and Ira for those motor-like pulls.

In Hillsboro we hung our bikes on the train and fell into our seats. Muddy faced explorers with miles of stories of a New World in our legs. The man mumbling curses to himself while fidgeting with his motorized scooter must have thought we were nuts, but we just stared at the rain splashing the windows as we approached the lives waiting for us in Portland. Though we arrived too late for second coffee our heads were buzzing late into the evening with adventurous shred scenes.