Frozen Updates

Registration closes Wednesday HERE- 
Get registered or you might not have a spot on the bus

Updates:
-Permits are in and back again-
-Portable Toilets are en route
-Endura has stepped up with some additional schwag
-Huntingdon County Visitors Bureau is sponsoring the Frosty20
-Raystown Lake Level will continue to remain low- means some of this on Sunday
-There is still a bit of snow up in the clutches of Rothrock State Forest
-The pallet pile has grown and so will the fire-
-The Tube o War rope is longer than ever-
-Raystown Lake Shoreline is still down so Sunday should be fun

Thoughts-
1-The only sag wagon is the sad and lonely road ride back to the Camp Seguin-
2-Cold is just weakness entering your body- 
3-Don't know how to use a map- don't come.




Before leaving your house or shanty:
-Check out the must have to ride list
-Check the schedule of events
-Get something for the potluck on Saturday
-Here is the event location: 11900 Martin Gap Road, Huntingdon, Pa. 16652

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.