Mountain Bike Ride to Hell

Go Remote

In 1980, when Mt. St. Helens in Washington state wrenched loose the fury of the earth and hurled it 30,000 feet into the air, it denuded its massive eastern shoulder of all trees. I had wanted to go mountain biking there for a couple of years, ever since my Czech friend, Navi, said, "The Plains of Abraham is best mountain bike ride I have ever done." Now, Navi and I were driving there on a paved logging road on a Thursday, my bike in the back of the Subaru wagon and Navi's on top in the bike rack. Visions of riding in wilderness and spending time with Navi, with his whacky way of looking at the world, was just the adventure I was craving.

I should have remembered the saying of being careful what you wish for.

Navi pointing at Mt. St. Helens, still an hour away by car.

"Sorry we couldn't leave earlier," I said. "I needed to pay some attention to my girlfriend. We should be able to start the ride by two, though."

"Sam, if I had a girlfriend like Nicole, I wouldn't even be going riding, so I should count myself lucky. Three days from the summer solstice—we'll have plenty of daylight. The day will be glorious, fit for kings," Navi said.

"I'm guessing we can do the ride in four hours," I said. I had read Internet posts from other riders, even watched somebody's YouTube video taken as he was riding one of the scenic stretches. Compared to the close-to-civilization rides I normally did, this ride's isolation and remoteness felt like riding on Mars. This would be the most remote ride I had everattempted.

Right before we reached the parking area, the forest parted at a wide river crossing, as if a stage curtain had opened. The mountain materialized and loomed over us, a thousand times bigger than the peak off in the distance I normally saw. The dry river bed ran straight from the mountain, as if the mountain was oozing forth millions of football-size boulders. Snowfields and glaciers draped the upper half of the mountain, dust and brown rock covered the waist, and the base merged with the dense forest of the Gifford Pinchot National Forest.

The parking area had four cars with room for only a couple more. "No bike racks," Navi said. "Must just be hikers, who can only go so far. We'll have the mountain to ourselves." I wondered whether that was a good thing.

I stuffed two Gatorade bottles into my light pack to supplement my three water bottles, lathered on sunscreen, and placed the forest parking pass on the dash of the car.

"You go first," Navi said.

The ride, beginning at the trailhead at the uphill corner of the parking area, started on smooth dirt blanketed with pine needles. My just-oiled chain purred over the chain rings. The only other sound was the wind stirring the treetops. No views penetrated the dense forest, but I knew those would come later.

Flying around the third corner, I saw four-inch-high tree roots snaking over the trail. Stop? No. I did not want to—to unclip, walk, remount, reclip, slow down Navi. My bike knew how to sail over obstacles even if I didn't. Go faster. The bike loved momentum. Thump. The front shock absorbers sucked up the impact of the roots, the bike flying true, thump from the rear wheel and shocks, and I was over, my bike working as designed, dominating over nature. I quickly downshifted and strained in first gear to continue up a steep rise.

A few moment later, the trail leveled off. "Navi, that was tricky, right from the start," I yelled. "Is the ride going to be that technical?"

"Don't worry, most of this part is smooth." Navi and I had gone on six rides together. He rode more than I did, was stronger, but our skills and endurance were close enough that he kept riding with me, although he was the one always waiting for me. Both of us enjoyed getting away from the crowds and the heavily-used trails close to the recreation-oriented town that we lived in—Hood River, Oregon.

I noticed that Ivan referred only to this part being smooth.

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