about 300 shots from doug.
93 shots from CorrieSteve's Account of our trip:
RE: Owyhee Mountain Tour
"Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away. "
Jen liked this unattributed bit she saw on the restroom wall at Idaho Pizza near Payette. She rightly noted, direct application to our Owhyee Mountain Bike Adventure. By any standard we found ourselves breathless. Climb one or two 11 or 12 per cent grades in soft gravel fully loaded and you’ll understand. Or, having climbed, gaze out across an expanse of high sage desert punctuated with snow capped peaks in the distance and you’ll understand, or rise out of the saddle, unclip one foot for emergency landing, roll slowly through a rubble of rock and rut, using your brake to prevent or coax a bit more speed to carry you down what Scott called a road, and you’ll understand. Our Owyhee Adventure can safely be described as breathless.
“You have any nice wash-boardy gravel roads up ahead for me?” I asked pushing my 29er to a stop half-way up what Scott was calling a road—the Silver City short cut. It would save us 12 miles of gravel road. 12 miles didn’t seem so far at that moment. Not compared with the rocks and ruts that were keeping me dismounted. Even where I might have ridden, I often must walk since remounting is impossible.
Leaving Jordan Valley Oregon on a nice wash-boardy gravel road.
“I don’t belong here,” I’d told Scott when we crossed Antelope Ridge the day before. Then I’d meant both my skills and my Burley Nomad trailer on the double track that kept tipping the Burley. Today, we’d left the gear and only had the bikes. Shaken by the previous experience, I didn’t feel I belonged here either. “No way, I’m coming back down this,” I said.
Read “It Rained”
Really, you’ve got 4 or 5 miles of pretty easy riding back across the top, Scott explained in his most reasonable tone. We were returning from Silver City. He meant that stretch with extremely soft sandy soil punctuated by the large rounded flat rocks. He was right, I’d ridden all of that on the way up.
Read Let's Hurry
The plan had been a day ride to Silver City. That meant leaving our tents pitched and our packs behind. It was, according to our usually accurate mapsmen, Scott and Doug, only 16 miles. Well, yes, we’d be climbing to 6,000 feet and would probably see snow, but 32 miles round trip? We didn’t even take a water filter with us.
Read "Bathing Optional"
We had left our panniers and the Burley behind at Flint Creek Camp. We were riding on a wash-boardy gravel road and when we missed the “short cut” to Silver city, we turned back only to find wagon ruts running straight up the hill. A grader had pushed up a berm separating this “road” from the main gravel road. The standards for a road around here are pretty low. I had flashbacks of Antelope Ridge the day before. I wanted to tell them I’d wait for them back at Flint Creek. Bad enough I had to climb this beast, but the plan was to return the same way.
Once again I found myself off the bike pushing up double track the others rode. Looking out 20 feet or so in front of me didn’t help. Somehow the line I picked always seemed to resolve itself into a rock or rut I thought I couldn’t handle. The Burley’s tipping had stolen my confidence and though the Burley was safely back at Flint Creek, I was having trouble seeing my way up this steep climb. Even when I could have ridden, I often was off the bike and couldn’t get back on. I guess I must have had it good though. The others kept complaining about heart rate and being out of breath.
Read Frosty the Camper
Antelope Ridge the previous day hadn’t boasted any antelope, but it did represent our first foray off the beaten track. The cowboy had rolled his eyes at the mention of Antelope ridge. I think the best thing about it was the actual road sign identifying it. At least no berm had tried to end its existence. But if anything, it conformed less to civilized standards of road construction than did this Silver City short cut I currently struggled to descend.
Read Antelope Ridge
On Antelope Ridge I could no longer keep up. Scott had offered to pull the Burley. I’m not sure how he thought he’d manage that. Riding his bike, even if it would fit, didn’t look inviting with big panniers front and back and top heavy racks to boot. Maybe he thought he could carry his load and mine as well. I didn’t want that and didn’t think it would make me much faster either.
Read Break Downs
Silver City was our goal on Sunday, but we’d expected it to be a short jaunt of 16 miles. Our maps had misled us. Like the mythical Eldorado, we never seemed to get any closer. Sixteen became 25 and the afternoon progressed. We usually averaged 7.5 miles an hour but the short cut took a toll on that. On top we came out onto a wash-board and gravel main road. This one was a boulevard by local standards, wide and mostly gently winding through high desert sage and open vistas. Ahead we could see the top of one mountain had been flattened by mining operation. Silver City lay somewhere near. It was hot on the high desert floor.
Read "Road to Silver City
We didn’t linger in Silver City. We wanted to be back to Flint Creek camp early. It was hot and water was an issue. Run off made the descent from Silver City muddier than the ascent had been. My handlebar bag bounced off its mount twice. And we still had both that long hot climb to make and the return on the cut off.
I began to have second thoughts about my resolve not to tackle the cut off. 12 miles began to seem pretty far in the heat at 7.5 mph.
And we had lost Steve. Customarily riding at his one tourist speed, Steve would bring up the rear but he was overdue as we waited at the cut off. We headed back toward Silver City. We met him a couple of miles out. He’d had a flat, the only one of the trip. He figured it was only courteous that he prevent shoulder that burden.
We were all low on water and now time was not in our favor. Steve was willing to add the extra miles with me, but I knew he’d prefer the cut off. I knew that I’d likely miss a turn and get lost if I tried go it alone. Turns out I’d have ended up closer to Jordan Valley than Flint Creek and I’d have been without water. It didn’t take much persuading to get me to follow them out onto the soft sand and smooth round rocks leading to the cutoff I dreaded.
Read about Scenery
On the road to Silver City
Steve stopped in front of me. We had stopped here too on the ascent. The real descending was about to begin. I didn’t like having anyone behind me. They might be passing just when I might need to switch across the lanes. Nor did I fancy being close to anyone. You have to pick you own line. Following someone can help but what looks good to Scott or Doug might be unmanageable by me. I wanted to be able to see ahead. In addition, on short steep sections I’d find my spinning taking me up faster than someone in front forcing me to lose momentum and fall or have to dismount and then be pushing.
Read about Panniers or Trailer?
Descending the Silver City short cut, I found myself mostly coasting, riding the brakes, right foot unclipped for emergencies and for fending off banks and boulders. This is a dangerous technique and not recommended but it did make me feel like I had an option. Mostly I kept the pace down to three to four miles an hour. My right foot was unclipped but riding on the pedal. I picked a line through rocks and ruts only occasionally pedaling at all. It wasn’t glamorous like those YouTube videos you see. I was tense, silent, and focused.
Read about "Flint Creek Camp"
Scott and Doug hung back far enough not to make me nervous. When they did pass, I’d find them later, cameras at the ready. I knew what they were doing. Yes, the scenery was camera-worthy, but neither wanted to have to ride back up to find me should I prove overdue. Besides, to Scott an adventure is an adventure only when someone suffers. Scott was clearly enjoying my trip beyond comfort. In his own words, “I enjoyed the heck out of it.”
Read about "Professionalism"
“All right. You made it.” The congratulations were honest as I maneuvered across the berm that put me back on the road to Flint Creek. It was hot. I had used up the last of my water as had the others. Four miles seemed endless on the soft gravel. I was glad I hadn’t tried to do twelve more miles. At 7.5 mph, I’d have gotten back, if I got back, another two hours later. Steve and I slumped down in the grass under a hawthorne, dehydrated and useless. We filled and drained our bottles twice over and ate salty jerky trying to recover.
Breathless.
