Up, Up and Away

McDonald Forest has become heaven for fat-tire enthusiasts looking for close, challenging and isolated getaways

By Allen Throop
Special to Mid-Valley Sunday

Four of us, in a tight group, pedaled around the corner and faced the hill. Bruce and Rod hit the hill as if it was not there.

Owen slowed slightly but still climbed steadily away from me.

I took a deep breath, shifted down a few gears, and began grinding my way up alone.

Good routes, good exercise and good company.

I knew that my companions would wait at the top of the hill, ready to shoot friendly barbs at me for being over-the-hill rather than on top of it. I also knew that if I could hear more than my heart pounding at warp speed, I would have enough energy to detect the booming of a blue grouse, locate the last of this year's larkspurs or look for zeolite crystals in the road's crushed gravel as I climbed.

A few weeks earlier, Nathan, after recovering from his white-knuckle descent of a challenging hill, asked why I had been so slow following him.

I responded that while on my more leisurely descent, I caught the red flash of a pileated woodpecker and had stopped to watch that striking bird explore the base of a stately but decaying fir snag. After my explanation, Nathan faced a dilemma of mountain bikers: exhilaration or observation.

To me, each has its place.

Ten years ago, I had little use for mountain bikes. My trips to nearby wild areas were explorations with a growing family or, when I needed solitude, long walk with Schaeffer, my four-footed Australian shepherd therapist.

But children grow older and dogs die.

With no passengers, I lost my justification for driving a car to drive to the trailhead. The economist approach of balancing the cost of a $500 bike against the gas used to drive to the hills was sterile and unsatisfying; so I went with my feelings.

After seven years and thousands miles of hindsight, the purchase ranks as brilliant.

When I reached the top of the hill, I got no respect and no rest. The others were already rested and headed off the gravel road onto a single-track, a new trail to me.

I thought about mutiny.

If I cut loose from the group, I could have a leisurely ride back to town and enjoy a scone and coffee at the Circle Beanery. But because I had asked Rod to show us this route, I couldn't drop out now.

I hopped into he saddle and headed after the pack

I took on the challenge of the roots, dips and curves at a pace comfortable for me. The first clearing I reached was an abandoned logging road.

As I hit the opening I saw Owen's rear tire vanish around a curve. The pace quickened on the more open downhill run. Bright light, deep shadow, fallen branches, loose gravel. Intensity ruled as the rider and the bike worked as one. My feet were securely clipped onto the pedals so I didn't worry about a foot flying off when desperately needed to add power. My firmly tensioned hands were locked to the handlebar grips but well disciplined and ready to shift or brake. My mind furiously processed the sights, sounds, smells, and feelings while continuously issuing commands to the responsive crew of arms, hands, legs, feet. Even a rapid weight shift of my butt might be the appropriate movement at a critical time, to keep me upright. My entire system was poised, ready for detection of hikers or a downed log that demanded a full stop.

On one straight section, we met riders heading uphill. Their expressions as they looked over our gear reminded me that a pecking order exists among bikers. Sometimes I am the pecker; sometimes the peckee. That passing group of macho dudes sported skin-tight Lycra and clearly wanted to show off their latest model bikes with front and rear suspension, carbon fiber frames, huge knobby tires and, most likely, two cup holders nestled under the handlebars.

I gave myself superiority points when I determined that they transported their bikes to the top of Lewisburg Saddle on an SUV, so big that only a loan officer or Saudi sheik could love it, while I insisted on cranking my way up from home with no with no added octane. I have also met purists from the other end of the spectrum. Since ten gears and steel rims were good enough twenty five years ago, when their bikes were new; they let me know that the fossil fuel used making bikes since then, especially mine, is the primary reason for global warming.

Choosing mountain bike routes around Corvallis is a practice in elimination. Chip Ross Park, OSU's MacDonald and Dunn Forests, Starker Forests property, Bald Hill, Fitton Green and Cardwell Hill Road all offer challenges and contemplations. Corvallis to Lewisburg Saddle to Dimple Hill to Oak Creek and then back home is a favorite shorter ride of mine. If the day is warm, a siesta on a sunny hillside is acceptable. One day after a sleep of unknown duration I awoke with from a longer nap than intended. The sky was a brilliant blue. The wind was dancing through nearby trees. The aroma of ripe blackberries haunted me. But I had no idea where I was. I decided not to move until I could reconnect myself with the earth. The fescue near my nose was no help - the grass's range is too wide. Finally I glanced up, above the top of my glasses. Although the image was blurred, the shape was obviously that of a tall, stately Douglas fir. The world fell into place as I visualized the rest of the tree, the bench, the path to my right, the OSU sheep barns to the south and the Cascades on the eastern horizon. All was well at Dimple Hill and with the rest of the world. I could continue my ride.

Eventually all trips must come to an end. After forty or fifty miles of hard riding, even Rod was agreeable to a return to Corvallis. Upon reaching home, I was exhausted but at the same time refreshed and recharged. Ready to take on what now seemed like the mundane challenges that other humans put into my life.

Footnote: OSU's MacDonald Research Forest is generally open to recreational users. Maps are usually available at bulletin boards near the parking lots at the trailheads. Check the bulletin boards for trail closures and other safety notices or call the forest hotline at 737-4434. Starker Forests also generally welcomes recreational users. They ask that you register with them at their office at 7240 SW Philomath Blvd. or call them at 929-2477.

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