Another Tuesday

When there is plenty of water and more rain on the way, it becomes all to easy to not ride after work and instead sit down with a cold beer. Some days it is easy enough to convince oneself that riding in a downpour is going to be entertaining or even refreshing. However, on this particular Tuesday the persistent mugginess of the air, armpit sweat, red eyed radar, and thoughts of getting outside weren't enough to make a convincing argument to go ride.

The Little Juniata River is something I had vowed not to paddle at least until November. We had over done it and taken to many groups of paddlers down it in recent time to make it overly entertaining. But paddling from Tyrone to Huntingdon at night sounded like a good time. The mileage isn't anything astounding at just over 24 miles, but doing it at night with a 1/2 mile portage sounded a whole lot better than going for another soaking wet ride.

Brett, another hairy outdoor enthusiast, whom seemed equally as tired of riding in the rain as myself, decided he was very much into the spirit of the trip. It was only two in the afternoon when we really got an idea of what we where in for but decided we would hitch a ride to Tyrone and be on the water by 7pm. Generally darkness falls around 9pm but the fog came much earlier unpredictable.

Departing the launch with little more than two light sources, two paddles, a lighter, and small amount of hard cheese we each felt confident in our ability to navigate the 18 miles of the Little Juniata down to the confluence with the Frankstown Branch, paddle a long flat water section, locate the take out, portage the dam and paddle the remaining five miles of river back to Huntingdon.

The fog setting in above a set of rapids along the Little Juniata. 

No sooner had we departed the launch than we realized it was going to get dark quickly. Originally the plan was to get to the flatwater section by dark, as to get the tricky sections of the Little Juniata out of the way while we could still see. However, as the saying goes making plans is absolutely imperative but planning is utterly useless. 

Paddling through the old dam on the Little Juniata below Spruce Creek.

Things got dark. Jake sitting in the Green Boat.

The darkness came and so did the heavy fog. We made it to the natural area just below Spruce Creek when things finally became dark enough where listening to the river was more effective than looking at it.  You could begin to here trees in the water, pockets behind rocks, and long wave trains. As we continued this blindness only increased, and reliance on sound became the primary tool of navigation.

Fog so thick you could cut it with a knife.

The fog became so heavy that using a light proved useless. Being able to see the bow of the boat became nearly impossible. At times it was I couldn't even see Jake just a few feet away, in his bright green boat. As disorienting as this became we paddled on, wondering if we where going upstream, downstream, or in circles. Listening periodically for the rumbling of a dam in the distance proved more frustrating yet, as the passing trains made it difficult to discern any sounds at all.

Approaching the dam we paddled within feet of the bank for what seemed like miles, hoping that we would be able to see the overgrown underused take-out, marked only by a ragged blue tarp strapped high in the trees. Around midnight the tattered blue tarp came into view and so did the overgrown landing. Covered in bull frogs and high grass we began to trudge through the marsh and across a small peninsula. Finding the old portage trail proved relatively easy, portaging was the more difficult endeavor. Wading through stagnate mosquito larvae filled pools of algae for nearly a half mile was made much easier without being able to see the the actual larvae or pools. However, the feeling of rotting algae and other naturally decomposing organics oozing into my wetshoes was enough to keep me moving.

Wading through mud, bullfrogs, grass and other fun things in the dark.

Returning to the river smelling of decomposing swamp, we paddle with renewed excitement. We had finished the first two objectives. 

1. Make it down the little J in the dark 

2. Find the portage. 

The third was now simply make it back to Huntingdon. Which in little over an hour we made it from the breast of the dam back to the bright lights of the Fourth Street Bridge in Huntingdon. It was 1am on Wednesday morning and it had just been another Tuesday. 

Jake pulling the boat up the bank in Huntingdon.

mental pants

I didn't know what mental pants were until late Monday morning while at breakfast. A small group of diversified folk came up with a way to mask nervousness whilst wearing a skirt in cold weather and readying to hop on the metro, an even colder endevaour than breakfast.

                          mental pants: a way to mask nervousness ahead of a certain uncomfortableness.

It all started so simply.
I was invited to attend and speak with those at the National Bicycle Summit in DC. As a locally acclaimed inept driver the decision to ride to the big city was an obvious one. Really the only way I would attend any convention would be to have some excuse to ride there.

Salsa 2012 Fargo, Brooks Leather Tape, Revelate Designs Bags, Profile Mini Aero, Conti Touring Plus 700x32c

It was 3:30am on a Sunday morning the bike and gear readied snow began to fall. The trip from Huntingdon, Pa to Washington DC is around 200 miles if you take the most convenient route, the one I had intended for. With temperatures in the teens snow flurries already falling it was to be an exceptionally cold morning, however the forecast had made no mention of all out a full out snowstorm.

Departing in complete darkness into a headwind was not exactly inviting so after two hours on the bike my eyes grew tired of sorting snowflakes from asphalt and it was time to pull over. Dilapidated barns along roadsides are almost as common as roadkill in south central Pennsylvannia, so to it was only natural to pull over and indulge in the mostly dry cavern created by the rickety wooden structure. Nearly fifteen valuable riding minutes went by until I had myself convinced to get back on the f*in bike and keep rollin'.

No sooner did I leave the confines of my comfortable cave, when a dog began to bark relentlessly. After hearing a door spring open and paws clambering across loose gravel I began to sprint. The door slammed shut.

Things sorta became blurry as two gunshots interrupted the sound of the dogs clambering paws.

In my haste to leave the scene I pedaled fast enough to leave both dog and barn far behind, as well as my next turn. Riding a little over an hour in the dark, I realized my mistake. Just far enough away not to go back and just close enough to feel foolish about it hours later.

As I'm not one to carry maps or guides I simply had my self generated cue sheets to rely on. Which at this point proved only useful to wipe my nose upon. Continuing south I knew the Potomac River crossed nearly the entire state of Maryland and to the north western side I might find the Cheaspeake and Ohio Canal Path.

Continuing south I found my way to Little Orleans. More of a street with some buildings on it than a town. Stopping at one of the buildings an lopsided older gentleman could not help himself and decided I was to be his next audience. After several minutes of intense questioning about my travels I was able to interject long enough to inquire about directions to the C and O. It was only a few hundred feet away.

Another byway on the C&O.

Riding the trail into DC seemed like a great idea. As soon as my front tire rolled onto it I knew I was terribly wrong. The oatmeal soft gravel brought my 45+ pound bike to a near stop, it was going to be a long ride into the city. The miles from Orleans to Little Pool then to Williamsport were all miles I had never intended and never should have ridden.

The trail?

At some point I got it into my head that I needed pizza, BAD. So in Williamsport I crawled into a pizza joint full of Sunday parishioners. Gravel caked under my eyes and limestone dust covering every inch of fabric I was clearly not dressed for the occasion, everyone in the shop watched unabashed as I ate two slices of some of the best pie and filled countless waterbottles at the fountain.

Cue Sheets and other pointless stuff.

Again on the trail I realized just how late I was running. Dinner was at 5pm, It was already 3pm and I still had around eighty miles to go. Pedaling in softer oatmeal gravel the speedometer dropped from over eighteen down to almost nine. I ripped the damn thing off, stuffing it into the frame bag.

There was no way making it to the dinner was going to happen.

I hate these things!

By 6:30pm the sun had come up and went down during my ride and I now had been on the bike for 14+ hours. I needed more liquid. Anything really. But I wanted a root beer. It was just after 8pm when in the distance a large blue glowing box appeared, it was a Pepsi soda machine. The canal was now all that separated me from enjoying sugary brown go-juice. After several minutes of pacing up and down the canal I found that a large log had fallen nearly all the way across the canal. Substantial enough to walk across. The bike gods were good to me.

Some of the concrete byways on the C&O. Very impressive

Fail. The glowing machine was empty. Thirsty and defeated I slumped back across the log got on the bike and did my best to forget about that blue mirage. Some twenty miles later street signs and alley ways began to pop up, as did posters informing me of some sexual assault that had just occurred along this very bike trail. After two hundred and fifty five miles of road, gravel, snow, gunshots, tears, and other fun things, I had reached Georgetown University in Washington DC. With two miles of city streets left on the trip I was left riding in a blur of light and sound.

At just after 9:30pm and some 260 miles later I arrived at Hotel Dupont on Dupont Circle. Dawning some pants and leaving the warm confines of the hotel for the warm spirits of the local mis-interpreted dive bar, I was entertained by the questioning from newly found peers about my travels.

Giving the whole bike lane thing a go on day two of the trip. 

paddling in sand

Waking up at 5:30am to the patter of rain isn't the most inspiring paddling weather, especially when it's thirty degrees out in February. So after stretching and pulling a strange combination of odd fabrics onto my frame and  consuming a cup of coffee that left me chewing grinds, it was time to roll.

Pulling the truck down to the launch for the lake it hit me that I had forgot a pole. The launch is located at the top of a long inlet that is connected to several others eventually leading to a main channel. The entire inlet was covered in ice a thick sheet of ice. So thick that several weeks prior Tony and I had rode bikes out across the ice only to find a shelf about a half mile out leading to open water, cutting the ride short.

Out on the inlet.  Somewhere around nine degrees 

Simply with the potential for some open water paddling, we decided to unrack boats and start shoving across the half mile of ice that separated us from the hopefully clear main channel. The forgotten pole would have been a great addition to the paddle and claw-like shovel kept in the truck for digging out.

Getting on the ice was a simple task, get across it was not.

Pushing across the inlet about half way. The slush had just started and was only getting thicker.
This was where it felt like you where pushing a canoe across wet sand.

The forward thrust is effective and
good practice. Open water in the distance. 

Very cool looking holes coming up through the ice. 

A thin ice sheet that spread for thousands of feet provided a bit of entertainment with trapped air bubbles beaming out from the paddle blade with ever stroke.

Some crazy storm clouds rolled right in front of the sun for about twenty minutes. So thick it turned the early morning back to night. The sun was so filtered by the clouds it appeared as a full moon. 

Returning onto the ice shelf. Jeff wasnt to stoked about this.

On the way back to to the inlet the path we had created was already turning to a channel.
Making the slide just a little bit easier. 

After two and half hours of breaking through and pushing across ice, getting rained on, and having the sun blotted out we needed to rack boats and get going work. if your not living your dying.

on frozenfat

The cold weather came for the weekend and so did 30+ idiots looking to ride and camp in single digit temps.  The weekend is as much a race as any Wednesday night group ride, with organic sprints, competitive climbs, and natural tire rubb'n occurring perhaps a bit more. 

After a solid three hours of consuming baskets of fried sweet potatoes and pitchers of beer, the group of twenty odd riders started rolling fat back to the campsite in single digit temps. Couches, Christmas trees, bushes and pallets were not spared from the frozenfat fire.

dudefest

The route for Saturday was a twenty five mile course with a couple of two mile+ snow packed climbs, cross country bushwhacks, and ultra steep technical snow covered descents. With thirty four riders and bikes tucked into a few vehicles the day began with a short shuttle into the central Pa woods. A casual roll-out started riders up a 2.3 mile snowmobile road. 

rolling thunder 

Somewhere around ten miles into the ride a legally located truck was well stocked with supplies to keep riders both warm and relaxed. After having a beverage and becoming adequately cold standing around a small group of us left the truck. Descending fresh snow on an old road bed our small group of riders was treated to one of the most surreal on bike out of body experiences. The crisp snow whispered under the tires while carving big s turns through a stand of tall hemlocks. Turkey and coyote tracks dotted the trail wandering of the road bed and back on.... naturally you begin to want to follow them.

Aid (Bail) Station One: Dogs, Beer, and Good Conversation

 Climbing up an ice and snow covered gravel road for over four miles seemed like it left a number of riders pushing, falling, riding, pushing, falling, riding. The spread of riders from the lead group to the last group was over two hours delaying the aid station just enough where lead riders missed the final turn on the course and where treated to an additional 1500ft climb when the finally started to backtrack. With no course markings and only maps to follow back to camp, riders where ultimately responsible for getting themselves out of the woods.

Above: Bushwhacking during the final
stage of Saturday.

Right: Wrapping Up the weekend
at Bakers Hollow. Solid day.

 Costumed riders get three points.  

Post Ride Antics: 

Tube-O War: two men enter one man leaves. best of three. first to dab. 

Sled Pull: one rider pulls a bigger fella on a tobaggon around a cone. 

 Night Time Derbies - This was the seizure inducing blinky light round.

Saturday's group ride took folks out to Allegrippis for a series of schwag filled stages. 

                             

Regrouping out at the vista on the Allegrippis Trails.

Bushwhack Go!

 Hydro Loop Group

 -PUSH-

 Parking Lot Peppers                                                                                      

With five states represented, ages from 19 - 63, and  no major accidents or incidence, I think will bring it back again next year. Seems like folks want something more of 50 mile ride next year.