Spring Break Cyclo-tour: Let it all rain down on us!

I've been catching a few rays around town lately, here and there, whenever I've been lucky enough to. Then down pours the rain, in great sheets that splatter me before work, during runs, and on the way to the climbing gym. Never-the-less, spring is still coming, and I'm really excited about the newest development in my long-term adventure and ski, in particular, experience: I got some AT alpine downhill skis with adjustable bindings for upslope trekking in the backcountry. I had to get my dynafit screw-pivot lightweight bindings drilled this week, but soon I am so ready to get out to the mountain, especially with the return of cold, sleet, and snow, even here in the valley.
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Wait wait wait--hold up. Snow at the end of March in Portland? What?
Uh huh. Pretty strange, but Michael and I (and my decked-out with lei flowers bicycle, Bonnie Blue Bell), experienced it all first-hand from front row seats in the Columbia River Gorge last week, during Spring Break 2008.

We had originally planned to spend 5 days biking out to camp near the Deschutes River in north central Oregon at the eastern end of the Columbia River Gorge, where the weather is normally dry and the sun shows itself more often and with more intensity in the spring than further west in the Cascades. It seemed like a pretty simple plan, considering this has become something of a tradition on Spring Break for us; we rode the same trip last year and in 2006 in calm sunny wonderful (and, as we now realize, extremely lucky) conditions. We especially like to cross the Dalles bridge and climb at Horsetheif Butte, a beautiful rock formation and native spiritual place in an area boasting many native petroglyphs which were painted thousands of years ago. (Climbing is only acceptable in certain areas on the rock, away from ceremonial spots and the glyphs.)

But this year, on Wednesday when we had planned to leave, it seemed that our luck had just about run out. Sleet poured in over everything and grey-black skies threatened our departure. Unfortunately, we realized later, we left for the gorge in some of the very wettest and torrential conditions. By the time we got to Troutdale, at the beginning of the gorge and outside of Portland, we both came to the conclusion that the best thing to do would be to go back home, dry off (including down sleeping bags, clothes, and soggy egos), stop our teeth from chattering and turn up the volume in the next days in order to reach our original destination and come right back. We went back home and prepared ourselves again, this time making extra sure that everything was packed tightly into trash bags in our panier-bags on the sides of our bicycles, and set off on Thursday morning under just cloudy skies.

Riding finally completely out of Portland and into the lush green gorge was like a breath of fresh and clean, if damp and dewy, air. By the time we arrived in Cascade Locks, directly north of Mt. Hood, we were being pelted with sleet and high winds...so we picked up a bottle of whiskey at the grocer's and had some lunch, then kept on heading into the hills.

Native American wooden salmon fishing ledge

We turned a bit southward there on our route, veering away from the interstate onto secluded Herman Creek Road. This route took us into Mt. Hood National Forest land near Wyeth, (Native Americans in the area call Mt. Hood "Wy'est") and set up our backpacking tent and tarp in the trees.

It was a cold but pleasant night, and most of our supplies and ourselves were mostly still dry enough to keep warm. We slept, and slept and slept....even into the next morning, when we woke to see snow on the ground and falling from the sky. We waited a bit for a break it the snowfall, but there was none after about half an hour, so we took apart camp and headed for Hood River, a logging-turned wind-surfing adventure town toward the eastern part of the gorge before the Dalles.

The town was only about 12 miles away, and we were planning on getting there quickly and having breakfast, not least because we'd be was riding on the side of 4-lane interstate 84, probably the most intimidating section of our trip. Parts of the highway are narrow and curve around sharp bends which are perched between the steep terrain to the south and the Colombia to the north, and 18-wheel commercial truck traffic is often heavy.There are also often accidents or rock slides this time of year, as snows melt and water drains down the mountain.

Needless to say, we were both anxious to get to Hood River. As we reached a mile-long guard-rail stone wall and uphill inclined curve, I turned on "the engine," adrenaline pumping, and pushed my speed to about 21 mph to get through, hopefully without being pummeled by a drifting truck. As I got to the wider lane on the far side, though, I looked back and realized that Michael had fallen behind. I got to a safe enough spot and waited for him. By this time, nearly whiteout conditions made it difficult for me to see even his bright yellow jacket as he made his way up to me. He was moving more slowly than he should have been, it seemed. Soon, he emerged at the end with his bike and collapsed beside it. Later, I learned that he had hit a piece of tire and been thrown out into the interstate lane, where he had picked up his bike and began immediately running for his life. His derailer was beyond repair, and even though we tried everything we could think of while we froze our fingers on the side of the road, nothing worked to put enough tension on his chain to pedal on. We still had between 5 and 10 miles to Hood River, and only the interstate shoulder and continuing wind and snow. So Michael took one end of a bike cable-lock and hooked the other end to my rack with a carribiner. I towed him the rest of the way, slowly up some fairly steep sections, and carefully down, keeping the cable taught, steady all the way.

Cascade Locks old locks

Carrying our bikes over a landslide

We got to Hood River soaked, and treated ourselves to a motel and a hot meal while Michael had a new derailer installed on his bike. We started back to Portland the next day and, although we were unable to make the distance we originally planned, we still felt that it had been a trying and worthwhile journey, at its end 4 days and 130 miles through a blizzard. The weather certainly put us to the test, and I was afraid on the interstate, thinking each time as I heard the roar of another semi behind me that I might not live to see it pass. But I learned, because I had no other option, that I could push on. The rewards where unimaginably sweet.

Now I am gearing up and getting excited for warmer weather tests, new heights, and possibly even some extreme all-terrain skiing. I want the sun to come, yes, but I am done waiting. I am ready to take a bite of my slice, for it to nourish me, however bitter or sweet it turns out be.