"Normally this kind of food would have killed us on the spot"
Caramel Pig
Peddling the Dirt across North America
Contents
Heaven
Stage 2.1
Eugene, Oregon – John Day, Oregon
256.62 Miles – 412.98 Kilometres
Total distance ridden 523.26 Miles – 842.10 Kilometres
After our Amtrak experience, I was a little sensitive about transporting our bicycles. In short, Amtrak had managed to bend my derailleur. Probably at one stage they had either laid our bikes flat on top of each other or rammed something into the side of them. The result was that this specialised part could no longer change my gears and indeed was driving itself into my spokes.
At the time I was thankful of two things. One, that my Lithuanian bicycle shop had made me bring spare derailleur brackets and secondly, for the wonderful, friendly and professional service at Cycle Portland.
Mike's job this morning was to transport our bikes back to the eastern side of Eugene. One slack move on Mike's behalf would have had me stressing and ordering from Europe new derailleurs. After all, without our bikes we had no trip. Mike put our steeds on the back of his pickup and tied them on old-school: he used ropes. In fact, he used so many ropes that our bikes looked like they were caught in a spiderweb. The result was a snug and safe trip to Springfield.
As we were leaving town we had a quick chat with another tour cyclist called Richard. It was always good to chat with and glean road information from other tourers. I also noticed that my front gear cable was about to snap. After a quick online search, I discovered that Hutch's Bicycle Shop was just a few miles en route up the road. It only took the young mechanic a few minutes to change our cable and we were off again. Whilst he was changing it, I nipped across the road to the Green Cross marijuana shop and took a photo. The shop has bicycle parking out the front. I assume that Oregon's cycling hippy community also partakes in the consumption of its legal dope. Perhaps this explains why none of the cycle paths in Eugene managed a straight line.
The day's riding was stunningly beautiful. We had our second breakfast right on the beautiful McKenzie River at Hendricks Bridge County Park. This was the first time we had seen the McKenzie and it was to be our companion for the next two and a half days.
It started raining in the middle of our feed and pretty much stayed wet for the next few days. We cycled through the dampness determined to enjoy ourselves. Things were quite pleasant until we passed through Leaburg and quite unexpectedly, a squall blew up. At first I thought 'so what' and carried on cycling, but the squall got stronger and with a large crack just to our right, a branch broke off a tree and plummeted to the earth beside us. We had just gone past a fire station, so with a healthy amount of fear we fought the wind and dashed back to the station. The unfazed firemen welcomed us in, quickly stored our bikes and gave us a feed of hot dogs and coffee. The downpour lasted about an hour, I spent most of this watching X-Men on the tele. It was hard to relax, I was keen to ride, so as soon as the rain stopped, we hit the bitumen. Five minutes later, we were stopping to put our rain gear on again.
We continued riding and climbing. At first it was gentle. The McKenzie Highway wasn't too busy, however it was busy enough to turn off and follow a track along a weir for a while.
I didn't want to get our tent wet before we summited the Cascade Range, so was beginning to look for a good camping spot. Now as a Christian, I believe every church is my property, so naturally was quite delighted when we stumbled upon the McKenzie Bible Fellowship. We hung a left and rolled on in with that distinct feeling that we were home. Problem was, nobody was home, so like good kids we sat on the doorstep and waited. Nobody came, so we boiled our billy, made a cuppa tea and I, without shame or fear, munched on some dried sausage and continued to wait.
Eventually a woman pulled up in a car and secretly hoping for an inside bed, we asked if we could camp somewhere. The lady told us the pastors were away and gave us their phone number. So I called and was greeted by a friendly and guarded lady. I tried explaining how we were a couple of pastors who had been working in an orphanage in Lithuania and were now trying to ride our bicycles home. I told her it was raining and we didn't really want to get wet before our big climb and asked whether there was a dry bed somewhere in God's house/our house. She put me on to her husband, who explained that they'd had trouble with homeless people camping on their property. Eventually after they had sussed us out, they told us how to get the key to the gym and said we could camp in there and they would see us later that night when they arrived home. It was my first experience doing such a thing and the outcome worked out quite well. We didn't have access to a toilet, but other than that, this was good. We cooked a late lunch in the rain and pitched our tent inside on the gym floor. In the morning, we left without actually meeting the people. First stop was the Eugene Water & Electric Board boat ramp or more specifically, its public toilets.
Next stop was Vida. In our minds, Vida was named after a member of the Lithuanian Secret Service who on gardening Saturdays fed me vodka for breakfast. So in her honour we had planned on stopping at her namesake for breakfast.
The cafe was said to be historic and basically looked like a cross between a small classroom and a shipping container. As is the custom in a tipping culture, the staff were really friendly and keen to serve. I ordered chicken biscuits and gravy. It was huge, gluggy and yummy. My plate was stacked at least five centimetres high, the gravy was horrifically thick and flanked with sliced orange. We had a side salad of black coffee. Normally this kind of food would have killed us on the spot, but having just cycled about 550 km, our arteries were in good nick.
Our bikes seemed considerably heavier as we set off and it took us some time to get back into our stride. The rain and mist shrouded the river, the water grew rapids, the air became fresher and the leaves became greener. The McKenzie River was fairytale stunning and one of the most beautiful parts of our trip.
We climbed Route 126 until we hit the tiny village of Rainbow. This town was clearly a holding post for people who were pursuing adventures in the nearby mountains and of course this is exactly what we were doing.
After some searching that included pestering a lovely lady in a quilt shop, we ended up at the Harbick's Country Inn. As part of the process of agreeing on a price, I asked for a cyclist discount and to my delight they dropped the price by 10 per cent, provided us with a large old sheet to keep the carpet clean and allowed us to push our wet and muddy bikes right into the room. Two minutes later, I returned to the office and asked for an electric kettle - how do Americans ever make their tea when they are not provided with electric jugs?
Just up the road was the Blue Sky Market and it was in this petrol station that I discovered that Rainbow was a border town. I seem to have a fetish for shoes and learn a lot about people and places by their feet coverings. Here I noticed the usual Oregon hippy sandals and sport shoes, but to my surprise there were also numerous pairs of cowboy boots clomping their way through the beef-jerky and souvenir tee-shirts. The place was like a dress up party with its bandanas and beads and cowboy hats and belt-buckles. This was clearly the border between Hippy Oregon and Cowboy Oregon, from tofu to burger and from articulate to monosyllabic conversations. Rainbow felt like a real genuine frontier town and was the perfect place to wear clip-on shoes, tights and a high-vis jacket.
We knew that the next day was going to be long, so returned to our motel room early, threw our sausages in the electric kettle and pushed boil, checked our bikes for loose bolts and flopped into our individual queen-sized beds.
It turned out that there were at least six cyclists who had hunkered over in Rainbow, all of them waiting for a break in the weather before climbing the Cascades. The village felt a little like an Everest base camp. Richard who we'd met at Springfield was one of them.
Tour cyclists seem to like to travel at their own pace. We all set off around the same time; some riders simply disappeared into the distance and as the day ebbed, others we passed and others passed us.
We started with a damp, gentle, rich green tree-laden climb. We hung a right on to the 242, which according to Google Maps is called the 'MacKenzie Hwy (closed Nov – July)'. I had had some difficulty researching this section of our trip. We had two options: the busy gentle road or the steep closed road. Mike and Darla in Cottage Grove had convinced us to take the steep closed road. You may be asking 'why was the road closed?' The answer being because of possible avalanches and miscellaneous rockfall. It is simply deemed too dangerous for cars, however because cyclists wear helmets that can protect them from flying boulders, we were allowed to use the road.
It started raining almost as soon as we travelled around the 'road closed' barriers and only let up when dropping hail or sliding sleet at us. The weather was simply perfect for this possibly-the-hardest-climb I have ever done. There were endless switchbacks that twisted their way through the misty fir forest. When we were tired, we stopped, put our bikes on their stands and sat right there in the middle of the wet ginger needle-strewn road. We had to be aware of the handful of cyclists on naked bikes whizzing down the hill. Even our revolting Peanut Butter English Muffins tasted other-worldly.
The higher we climbed, the thinner the air and the thicker the smell of moss became. Snow started piling up on the road side; it started toe deep and at one stage was higher than our heads. The cycling highlight of my whole trip happened as we plateaued. Even though it was freezing, even though hail was being blown into my face, I could feel the warm eastern winds penetrating my wind-proof gilet, whilst at my back I could still feel the freezing Pacific coastal climate. On each side of us were frozen, stunted mountain pines that gave way to snow speckled lava rocks. These few miles between reaching the plateau and summiting the McKenzie Pass have been deeply etched in my mind.
Somewhere around here, we met up with Richard and another heavy laden tour-cyclist called Alan. We stopped, had our photos taken in the snow, cycled past a thigh-high boulder that had recently landed in the middle of our path and generally screamed in euphoria until we reached the summit.
The Dee Wright Observatory that sat on the mountaintop was totally shrouded in mist. It was freezing up there, we were covered in sweat and it felt like the weather was coming in. In fear of hypothermia, one at a time we dashed into the single public toilet and threw on all of our warm clothes. At this stage I was still in shorts. Richard and Alan climbed the monument to get a better look at the mist whilst Sharon and I waited, tolerating another English muffin. I was so mystified over how many rolls of toilet-paper were in the loo that I was forced to take a photo. The climb had taken us about six hours, we had risen 4324 ft.
The descent was freezing, every windproof item I had could not keep out the misty mountain chill. Our V-brakes started off quite squishy and scary, but as rims and roads started drying, stopping became more of a reality. Most of the 15 mile downhill was through pine forest. We glided into a rather dry and warm Sisters just before 6pm.
One of the first things we saw was a Bible study sign in front of the New Hope Christian Center. We had missed church this Sunday, so decided to drag our hungry bodies in to see what spiritual food we could gather. Naturally we were a bit of a novelty, however the people were patient with us and eventually offered us the church floor for the night. This was perfect. The parishioners had gathered around food and I had been quite controlled on how much I ate. They gave us the leftovers, so as soon as they left, Sharon and I started pigging out, we were famished. The church didn't have showers, so next was a trip to the bathrooms to wash our pits-and-bits. Therm-a-Rests were thrown on the floor and in minutes we were asleep. I should also mention that these lovely people gave us little toiletry care-packages. I used some of the soap and shampoo right up to the end of my trip. We had a warm, peaceful night's sleep and used their kitchen for breakfast and coffee before setting off into the morning sun.
Sisters was a sweet wee touristy town, it would have been nice to spend more time there, but a long day on the road beckoned.
I had been slowly getting miffed with American individualism. This is a culture that values the person who can pull themselves up by their boot straps and make something of life. It seemed like everyone was out for themselves and keen to guard their patch. One of the fruits of this was the 'no trespassing' signs, which were everywhere. Signs containing phrases such as 'turn in my driveway and I will shoot you', 'trespassers shot on sight', 'if you are in my sights I will shoot you' and many more. Cycling rural USA is one of the most unwelcoming things I have ever done. This day was no exception. We couldn't find a place to have our second breakfast. Every place we thought of stopping at was punishable by death. Eventually we found a sign that read '½ mile to Faith Hope and Charity Vineyard'. Eight hundred metres was not too far to ride. We turned into a head wind and started peddling. After about half a mile, we found another sign that read '½ mile to Faith Hope and Charity Vineyard'- it appears they had got a two for the price of one deal on their signs. We looked at the road. It went straight down hill on chunky gravel; getting down wasn't going to be a problem, but getting back up was. We stopped right there, sat down and started our second breakfast. Within minutes, the friendly farm owner had spotted us, jumped in his truck and driven up the hill to see what we were doing.
Lunch was exactly the same. We were cycling the slightly boring O'Neil Highway from Redmond to Prineville. Being a minor road, there were no rest areas, no pretty villages and no parks. Every time we saw a slight opening or a farm gate with a piece of grass, there was an ugly, unwelcoming sign which again basically read, 'if you don't die from our hatred, we'll kill you anyhow'. Halfway through dying of hunger, we found an unsigned pull-in. It was clearly a ranch utility area and clearly private property, but because it didn't have an 'I will kill you sign', we chanced it.
Within minutes of getting off our bikes, a car had pulled up to tell us it was private property and shortly after they had left, the landowner herself turned up to warn us of the same thing. She questioned us, so I told her that we couldn't see a sign that said she was going to kill us, we were desperate to stop for lunch and we would be gone as soon as possible.
The rancher and her son were nice, friendly even, they told us we were free to eat there, but never suggested we take our time and relax. These ugly, unwelcoming signs were right across the country, with a concentration in rural eastern Oregon, Idaho and Montana. I am of the opinion that America's intelligent, populist President made easy fodder of these selfish landowners and that this 'it's-mine-not-yours' mindset is part of what swept him into power and part of what made these three states some of the most unwelcoming places I have ever been to.
And then we rolled into Prineville. Grrr, I was getting grumpy. One of the fun parts of being a tour cyclist is exploring and finding new places. We have maps, but cannot really remember the names of the rural towns we have visited or are about to visit. And on top of that, this dyslexic dude doesn't have a chance of pronouncing non-English place names.
We stopped at what was possibly Prineville's only supermarket. Sharon went in, I waited outside. A lady come up to me and asked these five standard questions:
I was a little stumped on number 3. I answered, 'over the O-cho-co pass'. Rather snarkily she replied, 'it's not O-cho-co, it is Och-oco'. I know I was grumpy, I know I was worn-out by unwelcoming locals, but this just peed me right off. I would have written this town off in the annuals of sucky America if it hadn't been for the lovely guy in the Good Bike Co. Even though the shop was closed, he took a look at my wobbly bike seat and allowed us to use his pump to fill our tyres. I told this shop owner that I would give him a shout-out, so here it is. The bike shop is right on the TransAmerica bicycle trail and is friendly to tour cyclists. So please stop, get a service or just stop and say hello, these people are an oasis in a motorcar desert.
We spent a cold and windy night in the very pleasant Ochoco Lake County Campgrounds and according to my log book, we had a peaceful sleep and woke to the sound of Canadian Geese and bouncing crows.
The Ochoco Pass in comparison to the McKenzie doesn't really warrant a mention, but what does demand a mention is the town of Mitchell and our lodging. Pretty much every cyclist heading west had stopped to tell us that we must sleep in the cyclist hostel in Mitchell.
I didn't have any more information than that, so just rode along the road, not holding out much hope, but hoping to spot the place. On the roadside, I spied an orange chilly bin with a sign that said 'free ice water'. We instantly stopped, the next thing I saw was a sign that read something like 'Push your bike in, you are welcome, please take off your cleats'. It was very odd to see a home-made sign which was not threatening my demise. It was somewhere around here that I realised we were at the biker hostel otherwise known as Spoke'n Hostel. This place was the antithesis of everything the last few days had taught us. The people were friendly and encouraged us to do things, it was so refreshing and a much needed oasis in a roadside of 'don'ts'. I took off my cleated shoes and barged my bike through the door.
The first thing I noticed was that the place was clean, with a beautiful floor and bunks. We leant our bikes against a bed and took a moment to breath in the peace. Peace is the correct word, we could feel it instantly. Unbeknown to us, we had stumbled into an Assemblies of God church. It seems that over the years, the town with its congregation had shrunk. The local ministers had obviously noticed the large amount of cyclists traversing the continent on the TransAmerica cycle route and decided to make some changes. They moved the pews from the church to the basement. Fitted the place out with sleeping quarters, toilets, showers, dining room and kitchen. The church still met on Sundays. Their seating was downstairs in the basement with the dining room and kitchen. During the early evening, we rested in the pews eating gifted ice-cream. It was an inspirational fantastic experience. It was a little expensive, but well worth the price.
However, the rest of the rather rustic town was a little weird and unfriendly. In short, the locals walked around with that stunned look of rural Americans who had been banned from posting their 'keep out or we will kill you' signs.
Well done Spoke'n Hostel and thank you Mitchell for tolerating us.
The morning greeted us with a steep climb, about three-quarters of the way up Richard caught us and sat on our tails. He sandbagged us for the rest of the day. At first I didn't know what he was doing and wondered why he wasn't passing. Later I realised he was riding with us for the company and to offer encouragement. We were hoping to ride about 70 miles this day, so Richard's intelligent conversation sitting behind Sharon was very welcome. Richard also took the only photos of Sharon and I riding together. Shortly after lunching at the excellent Dayville cafe, we stumbled across Custom Sawing and Coffins. Outside in their yard by the road, two signs were attached to a log. The smaller read 'This is a UN Free Zone' and the larger read 'Remember Benghazi Hillary for Prison'. This was not an isolated incident, many times during this trip, I was shocked by the evilness that came through people's eyes when they spoke about the Clintons. The animosity that this couple seem to have generated is well beyond my understanding. I have never witnessed such unbridled hatred as I did in Oregon, Idaho and Montana. In hindsight, I am so thankful that wonderful, gentle and rational Richard was cycling with us balancing the hardness of these predominantly rural Republican people.
Late afternoon, we stumbled into Mt Vernon. We stopped and said goodbye to Richard, then called into a gas station for a quick snack before setting off again. Just on the outskirts of town, my GPS batteries went flat, so I pulled into the Clyde Holiday State Recreation Site. Halfway through changing my batteries, a humble man driving a small white Ute walked over for a chat. He asked me about the foam grips on my handlebars. I started telling him about how great they were and how the foam softened the shock from the road. He replied 'I know, I invented them. I started a company called Grip On Tools, I sold it and it went global'. Maybe this guy was winding me up, but I don't think so. This is one of the things I love about the USA, these little conversations can drop out of nowhere. I wish I had had time to talk longer, but we had a deadline we had to meet. We were due at a Warmshowers in John Day and had to push on.
We spent a tired, cranky day in John Day, bizarrely enough it felt as if our host didn't really want us there. Other than kindly providing us with a bed and shower, I felt largely in the way. We spent most of our day off blogging, banking, shopping and in a cafe. The highlight of our time there was visiting Kam Wah Chung Museum. This was a museum about the region's Chinese history and focused majorly on one family which ran a chemist through the gold rush years. Well worth the visit, even if you are just passing through.
This stop also signified the end of Leg 2.1 or the end of our second week on the bike. We were tired and we were having fun.
Heaven
Stage 2.1
Eugene, Oregon – John Day, Oregon
256.62 Miles – 412.98 Kilometres
Total distance ridden 523.26 Miles – 842.10 Kilometres
After our Amtrak experience, I was a little sensitive about transporting our bicycles. In short, Amtrak had managed to bend my derailleur. Probably at one stage they had either laid our bikes flat on top of each other or rammed something into the side of them. The result was that this specialised part could no longer change my gears and indeed was driving itself into my spokes.
At the time I was thankful of two things. One, that my Lithuanian bicycle shop had made me bring spare derailleur brackets and secondly, for the wonderful, friendly and professional service at Cycle Portland.
Mike's job this morning was to transport our bikes back to the eastern side of Eugene. One slack move on Mike's behalf would have had me stressing and ordering from Europe new derailleurs. After all, without our bikes we had no trip. Mike put our steeds on the back of his pickup and tied them on old-school: he used ropes. In fact, he used so many ropes that our bikes looked like they were caught in a spiderweb. The result was a snug and safe trip to Springfield.
As we were leaving town we had a quick chat with another tour cyclist called Richard. It was always good to chat with and glean road information from other tourers. I also noticed that my front gear cable was about to snap. After a quick online search, I discovered that Hutch's Bicycle Shop was just a few miles en route up the road. It only took the young mechanic a few minutes to change our cable and we were off again. Whilst he was changing it, I nipped across the road to the Green Cross marijuana shop and took a photo. The shop has bicycle parking out the front. I assume that Oregon's cycling hippy community also partakes in the consumption of its legal dope. Perhaps this explains why none of the cycle paths in Eugene managed a straight line.
The day's riding was stunningly beautiful. We had our second breakfast right on the beautiful McKenzie River at Hendricks Bridge County Park. This was the first time we had seen the McKenzie and it was to be our companion for the next two and a half days.
It started raining in the middle of our feed and pretty much stayed wet for the next few days. We cycled through the dampness determined to enjoy ourselves. Things were quite pleasant until we passed through Leaburg and quite unexpectedly, a squall blew up. At first I thought 'so what' and carried on cycling, but the squall got stronger and with a large crack just to our right, a branch broke off a tree and plummeted to the earth beside us. We had just gone past a fire station, so with a healthy amount of fear we fought the wind and dashed back to the station. The unfazed firemen welcomed us in, quickly stored our bikes and gave us a feed of hot dogs and coffee. The downpour lasted about an hour, I spent most of this watching X-Men on the tele. It was hard to relax, I was keen to ride, so as soon as the rain stopped, we hit the bitumen. Five minutes later, we were stopping to put our rain gear on again.
We continued riding and climbing. At first it was gentle. The McKenzie Highway wasn't too busy, however it was busy enough to turn off and follow a track along a weir for a while.
I didn't want to get our tent wet before we summited the Cascade Range, so was beginning to look for a good camping spot. Now as a Christian, I believe every church is my property, so naturally was quite delighted when we stumbled upon the McKenzie Bible Fellowship. We hung a left and rolled on in with that distinct feeling that we were home. Problem was, nobody was home, so like good kids we sat on the doorstep and waited. Nobody came, so we boiled our billy, made a cuppa tea and I, without shame or fear, munched on some dried sausage and continued to wait.
Eventually a woman pulled up in a car and secretly hoping for an inside bed, we asked if we could camp somewhere. The lady told us the pastors were away and gave us their phone number. So I called and was greeted by a friendly and guarded lady. I tried explaining how we were a couple of pastors who had been working in an orphanage in Lithuania and were now trying to ride our bicycles home. I told her it was raining and we didn't really want to get wet before our big climb and asked whether there was a dry bed somewhere in God's house/our house. She put me on to her husband, who explained that they'd had trouble with homeless people camping on their property. Eventually after they had sussed us out, they told us how to get the key to the gym and said we could camp in there and they would see us later that night when they arrived home. It was my first experience doing such a thing and the outcome worked out quite well. We didn't have access to a toilet, but other than that, this was good. We cooked a late lunch in the rain and pitched our tent inside on the gym floor. In the morning, we left without actually meeting the people. First stop was the Eugene Water & Electric Board boat ramp or more specifically, its public toilets.
Next stop was Vida. In our minds, Vida was named after a member of the Lithuanian Secret Service who on gardening Saturdays fed me vodka for breakfast. So in her honour we had planned on stopping at her namesake for breakfast.
The cafe was said to be historic and basically looked like a cross between a small classroom and a shipping container. As is the custom in a tipping culture, the staff were really friendly and keen to serve. I ordered chicken biscuits and gravy. It was huge, gluggy and yummy. My plate was stacked at least five centimetres high, the gravy was horrifically thick and flanked with sliced orange. We had a side salad of black coffee. Normally this kind of food would have killed us on the spot, but having just cycled about 550 km, our arteries were in good nick.
Our bikes seemed considerably heavier as we set off and it took us some time to get back into our stride. The rain and mist shrouded the river, the water grew rapids, the air became fresher and the leaves became greener. The McKenzie River was fairytale stunning and one of the most beautiful parts of our trip.
We climbed Route 126 until we hit the tiny village of Rainbow. This town was clearly a holding post for people who were pursuing adventures in the nearby mountains and of course this is exactly what we were doing.
After some searching that included pestering a lovely lady in a quilt shop, we ended up at the Harbick's Country Inn. As part of the process of agreeing on a price, I asked for a cyclist discount and to my delight they dropped the price by 10 per cent, provided us with a large old sheet to keep the carpet clean and allowed us to push our wet and muddy bikes right into the room. Two minutes later, I returned to the office and asked for an electric kettle - how do Americans ever make their tea when they are not provided with electric jugs?
Just up the road was the Blue Sky Market and it was in this petrol station that I discovered that Rainbow was a border town. I seem to have a fetish for shoes and learn a lot about people and places by their feet coverings. Here I noticed the usual Oregon hippy sandals and sport shoes, but to my surprise there were also numerous pairs of cowboy boots clomping their way through the beef-jerky and souvenir tee-shirts. The place was like a dress up party with its bandanas and beads and cowboy hats and belt-buckles. This was clearly the border between Hippy Oregon and Cowboy Oregon, from tofu to burger and from articulate to monosyllabic conversations. Rainbow felt like a real genuine frontier town and was the perfect place to wear clip-on shoes, tights and a high-vis jacket.
We knew that the next day was going to be long, so returned to our motel room early, threw our sausages in the electric kettle and pushed boil, checked our bikes for loose bolts and flopped into our individual queen-sized beds.
It turned out that there were at least six cyclists who had hunkered over in Rainbow, all of them waiting for a break in the weather before climbing the Cascades. The village felt a little like an Everest base camp. Richard who we'd met at Springfield was one of them.
Tour cyclists seem to like to travel at their own pace. We all set off around the same time; some riders simply disappeared into the distance and as the day ebbed, others we passed and others passed us.
We started with a damp, gentle, rich green tree-laden climb. We hung a right on to the 242, which according to Google Maps is called the 'MacKenzie Hwy (closed Nov – July)'. I had had some difficulty researching this section of our trip. We had two options: the busy gentle road or the steep closed road. Mike and Darla in Cottage Grove had convinced us to take the steep closed road. You may be asking 'why was the road closed?' The answer being because of possible avalanches and miscellaneous rockfall. It is simply deemed too dangerous for cars, however because cyclists wear helmets that can protect them from flying boulders, we were allowed to use the road.
It started raining almost as soon as we travelled around the 'road closed' barriers and only let up when dropping hail or sliding sleet at us. The weather was simply perfect for this possibly-the-hardest-climb I have ever done. There were endless switchbacks that twisted their way through the misty fir forest. When we were tired, we stopped, put our bikes on their stands and sat right there in the middle of the wet ginger needle-strewn road. We had to be aware of the handful of cyclists on naked bikes whizzing down the hill. Even our revolting Peanut Butter English Muffins tasted other-worldly.
The higher we climbed, the thinner the air and the thicker the smell of moss became. Snow started piling up on the road side; it started toe deep and at one stage was higher than our heads. The cycling highlight of my whole trip happened as we plateaued. Even though it was freezing, even though hail was being blown into my face, I could feel the warm eastern winds penetrating my wind-proof gilet, whilst at my back I could still feel the freezing Pacific coastal climate. On each side of us were frozen, stunted mountain pines that gave way to snow speckled lava rocks. These few miles between reaching the plateau and summiting the McKenzie Pass have been deeply etched in my mind.
Somewhere around here, we met up with Richard and another heavy laden tour-cyclist called Alan. We stopped, had our photos taken in the snow, cycled past a thigh-high boulder that had recently landed in the middle of our path and generally screamed in euphoria until we reached the summit.
The Dee Wright Observatory that sat on the mountaintop was totally shrouded in mist. It was freezing up there, we were covered in sweat and it felt like the weather was coming in. In fear of hypothermia, one at a time we dashed into the single public toilet and threw on all of our warm clothes. At this stage I was still in shorts. Richard and Alan climbed the monument to get a better look at the mist whilst Sharon and I waited, tolerating another English muffin. I was so mystified over how many rolls of toilet-paper were in the loo that I was forced to take a photo. The climb had taken us about six hours, we had risen 4324 ft.
The descent was freezing, every windproof item I had could not keep out the misty mountain chill. Our V-brakes started off quite squishy and scary, but as rims and roads started drying, stopping became more of a reality. Most of the 15 mile downhill was through pine forest. We glided into a rather dry and warm Sisters just before 6pm.
One of the first things we saw was a Bible study sign in front of the New Hope Christian Center. We had missed church this Sunday, so decided to drag our hungry bodies in to see what spiritual food we could gather. Naturally we were a bit of a novelty, however the people were patient with us and eventually offered us the church floor for the night. This was perfect. The parishioners had gathered around food and I had been quite controlled on how much I ate. They gave us the leftovers, so as soon as they left, Sharon and I started pigging out, we were famished. The church didn't have showers, so next was a trip to the bathrooms to wash our pits-and-bits. Therm-a-Rests were thrown on the floor and in minutes we were asleep. I should also mention that these lovely people gave us little toiletry care-packages. I used some of the soap and shampoo right up to the end of my trip. We had a warm, peaceful night's sleep and used their kitchen for breakfast and coffee before setting off into the morning sun.
Sisters was a sweet wee touristy town, it would have been nice to spend more time there, but a long day on the road beckoned.
I had been slowly getting miffed with American individualism. This is a culture that values the person who can pull themselves up by their boot straps and make something of life. It seemed like everyone was out for themselves and keen to guard their patch. One of the fruits of this was the 'no trespassing' signs, which were everywhere. Signs containing phrases such as 'turn in my driveway and I will shoot you', 'trespassers shot on sight', 'if you are in my sights I will shoot you' and many more. Cycling rural USA is one of the most unwelcoming things I have ever done. This day was no exception. We couldn't find a place to have our second breakfast. Every place we thought of stopping at was punishable by death. Eventually we found a sign that read '½ mile to Faith Hope and Charity Vineyard'. Eight hundred metres was not too far to ride. We turned into a head wind and started peddling. After about half a mile, we found another sign that read '½ mile to Faith Hope and Charity Vineyard'- it appears they had got a two for the price of one deal on their signs. We looked at the road. It went straight down hill on chunky gravel; getting down wasn't going to be a problem, but getting back up was. We stopped right there, sat down and started our second breakfast. Within minutes, the friendly farm owner had spotted us, jumped in his truck and driven up the hill to see what we were doing.
Lunch was exactly the same. We were cycling the slightly boring O'Neil Highway from Redmond to Prineville. Being a minor road, there were no rest areas, no pretty villages and no parks. Every time we saw a slight opening or a farm gate with a piece of grass, there was an ugly, unwelcoming sign which again basically read, 'if you don't die from our hatred, we'll kill you anyhow'. Halfway through dying of hunger, we found an unsigned pull-in. It was clearly a ranch utility area and clearly private property, but because it didn't have an 'I will kill you sign', we chanced it.
Within minutes of getting off our bikes, a car had pulled up to tell us it was private property and shortly after they had left, the landowner herself turned up to warn us of the same thing. She questioned us, so I told her that we couldn't see a sign that said she was going to kill us, we were desperate to stop for lunch and we would be gone as soon as possible.
The rancher and her son were nice, friendly even, they told us we were free to eat there, but never suggested we take our time and relax. These ugly, unwelcoming signs were right across the country, with a concentration in rural eastern Oregon, Idaho and Montana. I am of the opinion that America's intelligent, populist President made easy fodder of these selfish landowners and that this 'it's-mine-not-yours' mindset is part of what swept him into power and part of what made these three states some of the most unwelcoming places I have ever been to.
And then we rolled into Prineville. Grrr, I was getting grumpy. One of the fun parts of being a tour cyclist is exploring and finding new places. We have maps, but cannot really remember the names of the rural towns we have visited or are about to visit. And on top of that, this dyslexic dude doesn't have a chance of pronouncing non-English place names.
We stopped at what was possibly Prineville's only supermarket. Sharon went in, I waited outside. A lady come up to me and asked these five standard questions:
- Where have you come from?
- Where are you from?
- Where are you going?
- How far do you ride a day?
- Where do you sleep?
I was a little stumped on number 3. I answered, 'over the O-cho-co pass'. Rather snarkily she replied, 'it's not O-cho-co, it is Och-oco'. I know I was grumpy, I know I was worn-out by unwelcoming locals, but this just peed me right off. I would have written this town off in the annuals of sucky America if it hadn't been for the lovely guy in the Good Bike Co. Even though the shop was closed, he took a look at my wobbly bike seat and allowed us to use his pump to fill our tyres. I told this shop owner that I would give him a shout-out, so here it is. The bike shop is right on the TransAmerica bicycle trail and is friendly to tour cyclists. So please stop, get a service or just stop and say hello, these people are an oasis in a motorcar desert.
We spent a cold and windy night in the very pleasant Ochoco Lake County Campgrounds and according to my log book, we had a peaceful sleep and woke to the sound of Canadian Geese and bouncing crows.
The Ochoco Pass in comparison to the McKenzie doesn't really warrant a mention, but what does demand a mention is the town of Mitchell and our lodging. Pretty much every cyclist heading west had stopped to tell us that we must sleep in the cyclist hostel in Mitchell.
I didn't have any more information than that, so just rode along the road, not holding out much hope, but hoping to spot the place. On the roadside, I spied an orange chilly bin with a sign that said 'free ice water'. We instantly stopped, the next thing I saw was a sign that read something like 'Push your bike in, you are welcome, please take off your cleats'. It was very odd to see a home-made sign which was not threatening my demise. It was somewhere around here that I realised we were at the biker hostel otherwise known as Spoke'n Hostel. This place was the antithesis of everything the last few days had taught us. The people were friendly and encouraged us to do things, it was so refreshing and a much needed oasis in a roadside of 'don'ts'. I took off my cleated shoes and barged my bike through the door.
The first thing I noticed was that the place was clean, with a beautiful floor and bunks. We leant our bikes against a bed and took a moment to breath in the peace. Peace is the correct word, we could feel it instantly. Unbeknown to us, we had stumbled into an Assemblies of God church. It seems that over the years, the town with its congregation had shrunk. The local ministers had obviously noticed the large amount of cyclists traversing the continent on the TransAmerica cycle route and decided to make some changes. They moved the pews from the church to the basement. Fitted the place out with sleeping quarters, toilets, showers, dining room and kitchen. The church still met on Sundays. Their seating was downstairs in the basement with the dining room and kitchen. During the early evening, we rested in the pews eating gifted ice-cream. It was an inspirational fantastic experience. It was a little expensive, but well worth the price.
However, the rest of the rather rustic town was a little weird and unfriendly. In short, the locals walked around with that stunned look of rural Americans who had been banned from posting their 'keep out or we will kill you' signs.
Well done Spoke'n Hostel and thank you Mitchell for tolerating us.
The morning greeted us with a steep climb, about three-quarters of the way up Richard caught us and sat on our tails. He sandbagged us for the rest of the day. At first I didn't know what he was doing and wondered why he wasn't passing. Later I realised he was riding with us for the company and to offer encouragement. We were hoping to ride about 70 miles this day, so Richard's intelligent conversation sitting behind Sharon was very welcome. Richard also took the only photos of Sharon and I riding together. Shortly after lunching at the excellent Dayville cafe, we stumbled across Custom Sawing and Coffins. Outside in their yard by the road, two signs were attached to a log. The smaller read 'This is a UN Free Zone' and the larger read 'Remember Benghazi Hillary for Prison'. This was not an isolated incident, many times during this trip, I was shocked by the evilness that came through people's eyes when they spoke about the Clintons. The animosity that this couple seem to have generated is well beyond my understanding. I have never witnessed such unbridled hatred as I did in Oregon, Idaho and Montana. In hindsight, I am so thankful that wonderful, gentle and rational Richard was cycling with us balancing the hardness of these predominantly rural Republican people.
Late afternoon, we stumbled into Mt Vernon. We stopped and said goodbye to Richard, then called into a gas station for a quick snack before setting off again. Just on the outskirts of town, my GPS batteries went flat, so I pulled into the Clyde Holiday State Recreation Site. Halfway through changing my batteries, a humble man driving a small white Ute walked over for a chat. He asked me about the foam grips on my handlebars. I started telling him about how great they were and how the foam softened the shock from the road. He replied 'I know, I invented them. I started a company called Grip On Tools, I sold it and it went global'. Maybe this guy was winding me up, but I don't think so. This is one of the things I love about the USA, these little conversations can drop out of nowhere. I wish I had had time to talk longer, but we had a deadline we had to meet. We were due at a Warmshowers in John Day and had to push on.
We spent a tired, cranky day in John Day, bizarrely enough it felt as if our host didn't really want us there. Other than kindly providing us with a bed and shower, I felt largely in the way. We spent most of our day off blogging, banking, shopping and in a cafe. The highlight of our time there was visiting Kam Wah Chung Museum. This was a museum about the region's Chinese history and focused majorly on one family which ran a chemist through the gold rush years. Well worth the visit, even if you are just passing through.
This stop also signified the end of Leg 2.1 or the end of our second week on the bike. We were tired and we were having fun.
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