Crusty Cassette

That's Lee enjoying the climb up Harpster. This was the easy hill today.

"On Monday I nearly got hyperthermia and today I'm about to have heat exhaustion," I said paying for a diet pepsi and a water.

"I can see that," the bored woman at the Stites grocery said.

More Photos

Read the Full Story

Dean’s a pretty smart guy. In fact he might have saved our lives today.

“How was your ride,” my son, Tony, asked when I walked in with my camel-back Monday afternoon.

“When it started snowing, we turned around,” I said.

When Dean asked if I’d be interested in a 96 mile mountain bike ride from Pierce over French Mountain to the North Fork of the Clearwater and back, I didn’t think he meant quite so soon.

Mountain biking had been cold and wet when we went to Elinor’s a week ago. I figured I could do the distance even if it was on a mountain bike. I figured I could climb the hills. But I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep up with Dean. ‘No problem,” he said. “I like to stop and look at the scenery.”

So Monday morning found me on the road to Cherry Lane bridge by 6:15. Dean was waiting for me there in his club-sanctioned Subaru. “Can you get my bike in on top of yours?” I asked.

“I’ve had three bikes in there,” he claimed. And sure enough without the front wheel mounted that 29er did fit along with gear bags, two camel backs, helmets and enough food for a full day’s ride. Dean promised places to refill water, but no access to food.

The sky over Pierce was grey but not threatening though the weather report had called for showers in the Palouse. The Doppler showed green gradually moving south and west toward us. We were gamling that we’d only get a little wet.

The only wet I had to worry about was sweat running in my eyes as we climbed the 9 miles to French Mountain Saddle. I managed to keep up except for the steepest sections. On top, we decided to put on our jackets for the descent. As we did, precipitation began—snow. It was wet but definitely snow.

“It’s 20 miles to the North Fork,” Dean said. That 20 miles would be downhill and there’d be no support. We had long fingered gloves but not winter weight. In the distance the trees were greyed out with the characteristic look of distant rainfuall.

Dean slowed, then stopped. “I don’t think we should go down there.”

“We’re committed,” if we do. I added.

We turned back. The rain increased and our greater speed descending back to Pierce pushed us through more rain still. Our gloves were wet. Our toes and fingers cold. Dean and I alternated holding a hand under a jacket while steering with the other. It seemed we’d never get down.

“We’ll look for someplace else to ride,” Dean said. Neither of us were satisfied with 22 miles. Back in Pierce the skies were still grey but there was no rain. But leaving Weippe, the rains began to fall lightly. We kicked around ideas for places to ride but the falling rain kept us in the Subaru until we got back to Cherry Lane . I hoped into my pickup and followed Dean over Hubbard Gulch and back home.

The rain was light and we wanted to do more riding. “We could ride up Cedar Road ,” Dean offerend. The dismay at not being able to lead me around his favorite haunts on a mountain bike was evident in Dean's face.

“How far is that?” I asked

“Eleven miles,” Dean said.

“Let’s do that,” I replied thinking that 11 miles wasn’t really very much. But I hadn’t considered that for Dean every ride includes a big hill. So after eating our food in Dean’s kitchen instead of along the trail somewhere, we took off east from Kendrick. The hills I was riding became mere rollers once we turned and started climbing 3 miles to the top.

Dean disappeared. The rain started pounding and I was doing 6 mph. I found Dean resting under a tree about a mile from the top. So what if it was raining. We were already wet and cold; at least we were going to see the top.

Tamra knows where the top is. Dean pointed out her ex’s church. I flashed on Tamra in a gingham gown with ruffled sleeves, and yellow broad-brimmed hat and maybe a big corsage sitting demurely at church meeting, the good book open in her lap.

Shaking that image out of my head, I began the descent in the rain once again. We’d already been there once today. This wasn’t so bad. Those big Curry Co. gravel trucks made that narrow mountain road rumble, but there were only three of them.

At 46 miles, we called it a day. I was glad to be heading home early enough to have an evening and as I think about how quickly we might have become hypothermic if we had gone down to the North Fork, I think that Dean’s a pretty smart guy.

For the road of it.

It's good to be useful.

More Photos

Read the Full Story