Portland Bridge Pedal

Got moving earlier than usual made it to the start line of the Bridge Pedal event in downtown Portland. Vast stretches of roadway are closed to autos so us pedalers can enjoy a relatively car-free tour of bridges.

Happy crowd, fairly well organized, lots of doughnuts cookies and bananas. Perfect weather. We opted for the 20 mile Main Ride. Easily got us and the bikes back and forth from Hillsboro on the MAX train.

Stub Stewart S24O

A bicycle trip to Stub Stewart State Park

Ess-two-four-Oh. Sub 24 hour Overnighter. This guy Grant Petersen, https://www.adventurecycling.org/blog/s24os/, made it sound like a reasonable approach to spending nights outside though his capacity for WIND & RAIN is much deeper than mine but I digress. Basically it’s the idea that a short adventure is worth the effort but doesn’t require a lot of it and if you forget something or take too much, oh well. So I took some inspiration, true to form packed too much, and pedaled to our nearby state park for a sleepover.

Got all hepped up for this last summer and it fizzled. Not sure why, how. Maybe from prior camping trauma. This time it worked out. No reservations. Semi sort-of spontaneous. Told myself even though the bike was packed I could still bail out and slug my way through the weekend if necessary.
Sunday mid morning after a couple cups of coffee I thought What The Hell and hit the road encouraging myself I would have the run of the place being Sunday and not a holiday weekend. And the weather was in a goldilocks pattern so why not.

Left the house at the crack of 11.
Out Grant Street, Garibaldi, Padgett Road, beyond city limits across the McKay Creek dip and up onto the mostly level plains of the Tualatin Valley. Settled into the rest of the 15 mile meander amidst the U-Picks, commercial nurseries and grass ranches to Roy and then Banks where I picked up the Banks-Vernonia Rail Trail for the final 10 miles up to the park.

Picking up the Banks Vernonia Rail Trail at the trailhead in Banks.
Crossing the Plains of Pollen before hitting the grade up to the park.
Buxton Trestle. Four? Five? miles to the park entrance.

Stub Stewart is the newest gem in the Oregon State Park system. Lots of camping, hike & horse trails, mountain bike trails, disc golf. Surrounded by private property in rural Oregon so there is the occasional gunshot, chainsaw, blood curdling scream, but never incessantly annoying. This place and the mountain bike trails specifically have come in real handy these last few years.

Settled into #10 at the Brooke Creek hiker/biker campground. Half mile from the main visitor center, down then up a gravel two track. No vehicles allowed.
Figured out the tent, read a book, fiddled with the device, gathered thoughts, went for a walk, cooked food, made tea, communed with nature, made fire, etc etc. Packed a disc but the climb to the golf course did not appeal so it stayed in the bag.

They got these real nice gravel pads to park yer tent. Gravel’s thin but noticeable, might want to double up the sleep mat and definitely put a tarp down first. Tent stakes pierced the thin gravel top layer easy and sank into the terra firma and did not feel like they would let go easy if that unanticipated tornado passed by. Which reminds me, natural hammers are hard to come by here and I was lucky to find a loose piece of fire ring.

Primo No. 10
Camper. Almost pulled off a smile there…

Two other camps occupied when I arrived and someone else showed up after me which made for a lightly populated neighborhood. Everyone kept to themselves and were very well behaved. No barking, crying, shouting, undue exuberance or other forms of nuisance. Think I heard a breakfast pot gonk in the morning. Other than that not a peep except from the army of robins and that owl hooting deep in the night who never got an answer.

Had a nice night of semi-sleep. I have never slept well on an air mattress, outside, in a tent, on the ground. Up and at ’em well past dawn for a leisurely morning and finally got the melange shuffled together and going around ten. Took a trail out the back of the campground to meet up with the paved rail trail and coasted on down to the trailhead in Banks.

Couple guys wearing safety vests carrying long handle pruners walking the trail near the trailhead clipping back berry vines asked if I was on a cross country ride which made me think I could probably could have done this with fewer panniers. But I like having capacity and not trying to cram stuff away. Might change my mind about this method but for now, it stands. Next trip, when the stars align, I might try no bags and use the trailer. Then I can bring the kitchen sink.

Taking the shortcut out the back of the campground. Joined back up with the rail trail eventually.

Holcomb Creek Trestle

Found this the other night on the evening ramble. Some stats from the Bridge Hunter: https://bridgehunter.com/or/washington/bh44802/ Says it’s the longest wooden bridge still in use. 1168 feet long and about 90 feet tall. Part of a retired logging rail line that ran from near the coast to Portland. The United Railways. The segment between Banks and Vernonia is now known as the Banks To Vernonia Rail Trail. And the portion from this trestle over to Portland gets interrupted at the Plumper Pumpkin Patch and Tree Farm near Rock Creek Road but picks back up again after Cornelius Pass Road. Here’s a video of eastbound action not too long ago maybe 2010 or so: https://youtu.be/WBLBa3QBZLk?t=70

Carnitas – Giver of Life

Bike ride yesterday. Clear skies, open road, Monday and not many people cluttering the byways in this neck of the woods.

Lunchtime. Mile marker 20. King Torta taco shop, a past favorite and the real deal in North Plains, is far too busy. Hunger bites and gnaws at the guts like a pack of wolverines tangling with a den of pit vipers as I continue on westward down Pacific Street in a taco-less angst ridden melancholy. Spirits decline and dark thoughts enter my mind: will I make it home? should I request an extraction?

Push through town, back out onto the landscape of cultivation growth harvest, rinse repeat. Quiet two lane, getting hotter, puff of breeze, the hunger grows and saps the waning motivation, sweat dripping into eyes, starting to whimper, occasional moan, clif bar in the bag as a last resort whenā€¦a mirage! NO! a taco truck passes and pulls into the Campo Casa Blanca farmstead half mile up ahead.

Spurred on by the heady and titillating trail mix of exhaust and grilled pork I follow, picking up the pace a bit and turn into the driveway, ignoring the warning signs regaling potential offenders on the value of private property and the repercussions of trespass, whoring, spitting, smoking, cock fighting, gambling and general licentiousness.

Big clean gravel lot the kind you dream about, shade trees, the farmhouse, orderly rows of farm-worker housing. He’s parked at the edge of the lot under a heritage looking oak and has the sides up and open for business by the time I lean the bike against the bumper.

Says What can I get you boss? I am a supplicant to my saviors with the mobile grill and excitedly blurt wholeheartedly and without hesitation: Two carnitas and a jarritos por favor. You got it he says. The kid admires the bike as we wait and I try some idle chit chat but the well of speech is near dry fogged by the heat and hunger and he’s got work to do so we leave off.

These seasoned pros know their business and in no time I cradle tacos in a paper tray. My hand begins to scorch as I try to balance the tacos, soda, wallet, the mental fatigue and emotional elation confuse my ability to juggle but the pain is short lived and the tray is empty too soon wolfed down with a sprinkling of tomatillo sauce. Licking fingers clean the napkins forgotten in the excitement but that is what sleeves are for as we all know. The tacos are delicious, nearly the best, onion, cilantro, and in this moment they are nirvana, the pinnacle of my affection for the time being.

No one has questioned my daring infiltration of this agrarian commune and I decide to move along before my trespass is questioned and the spell broken by the overseer looking guy in the sombrero over by the big house who I notice is shooting glances my way over his shoulder. Chesty words and elevated hackles are no kind of digestif so I reluctantly roll out of the yard crunching gravel under wheels, past the sentry shack that I failed to check in at, back onto the public blacktop for a clean getaway.
The Groove has delivered.

The Road to Roy

Tualatin Valley Quilt Barn Cemetery Data Center Bicycle Tour

A Tualatin Valley bicycle tour including Roy, quilt blocks, nuts, grass, data, berries, and a cemetery.

Headed north out of Hillsboro on Glencoe Road and the first stop was the Coussens barn for a stretch and gander.
I’d seen this barn decor on a previous lap and learned it is part of the Tualatin Valley Quilt Barn Trail.
Travel Oregon has a Video.
They’re called quilt blocks. Spotted three more before the end of the loop.
Westside Quilter’s Guild map: The Quilt Barn Trail of Oregon’s Washington County
Glencoe Road.
45.56267912769301, -123.00148121724139

Take the lane.
Quiet rural two lane. Low traffic. No shoulder to speak of, packed gravel occasionally.
Wren Road.
45.562512558297826, -123.00923192337619

U-Pick Blueberries.
Wren Road.

The road to Roy.
Road to Ruin is a half mile further on.
NW Cornelius Schefflin Road. Busier and faster than Wren Road but with a good sized shoulder.
45.56509857255572, -123.05225540615638
Disused commercial nursery.
Looked like a good place for a camp-out or a rave, maybe a fyre festival. Or how about a Burning Something? Whatever happens should include plenty of taco trucks.
Roy Road. Quieter than Wren Road. Very low traffic. Good to very good surface.
45.57524026190394, -123.05786428290953

Put the
squeeze
on a cow
Eat
dairy
products

Roy Road.

Roy has a handful of housing and a catholic monopoly.
I continued east along NW Harrington Road sins intact smelling the roses when necessary.
45.59530030953294, -123.0799819355438

Made it through Roy unconverted. Blueberries. Harrington Road.

Looking for a rest stop. These steps along the road beckoned.
No big sign or announcement, if you blinked you missed it. But on a bike you find stuff like the Historic Harrison Cemetery.
Most of the original markers had toppled, the pieces placed on the ground next to the former bases. Others had been I assumed lost to time and replaced with aluminum plaques. Many of the inhabitants were young, children, 20’s, but there were a few older people as well, 70’s. Two were “lost in a flood 8 DEC 1857”.
Oregon State Parks Historic Cemeteries Program
NW Dersham Road.
45.602324102357564, -123.04031438297123
Airstrip for Flyaways remote control airplane club.
Adjacent to the cemetery. No action today.
Rode over for a closer look and there was this guy in a late model SUV with the windows all rolled up and I could very clearly hear Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds belting it out so I just turned around and left him to it.
45.60348862639077, -123.04252602789195
Aw nuts.
Another barn quilt block.
Grass.
Your data is safe & secure.
Hillsboro.
NE Starr Boulevard.
45.55916955175943, -122.93637810267816

20191229 Fender Season

It is fender season in the PNW. If you don’t mind the mud in yer eye or a soggy backside then move along otherwise enjoy these images of the finest fenders around. The fat fenders are home-made using found artisanal coroplast paneling mated to 9 guage galvinized fencing wire via an array of cable clamps and zip ties. The skinny tire bike is adorned with pre-fab items from Mudhugger and Muckey Nutz. Stupid names but they work great and are too easy to apply. From the UK.