Colockum Quilomene Traverse - Day Two

The planned route for Day Two was from Tekison Creek to Brushy Creek.  (Via ten gazillion feet of climbing at ridiculous grade angles.  But I digress.)

If we were lucky, our arrival might even coincide with one of these caught-on-satellite wild boat-people party events, in which case we could bathe in the river of tequila and rum that would surely be flowing and immerse ouselves in the no-holds-barred revelry.  And then in the morning, we could pile our hung over selves and gear into boats with our new BFF's and hitch rides back to Vantage via fossil-fuel-powered river travel.  Sweet!  (Hey, a guy can dream.)

The Google Earth data shows that we started at about 600 feet, and topped out at around 1950 feet. We were out for 6 hours and 16 minutes and we travelled a mind-boggling 9.88 miles.  Our average speed was 1.6 mph and our max slope up was 30.8% and our max slope down was 36.3%.  What Google Earth does not show, is how many times per hour, on average, I swore to myself that, assuming I got out alive, I would never, ever, ever, do this again.

As the morning light emerged and Day Two began, snakes were still very much on our minds.  The inevitable business of "doing our morning business" would mean a lonely and terrifying excursion into the grass and brush for each of us, and an even more terrifying experience of the vulnerability of squatting with no way to protect or even know what was advancing against our white, fleshy backsides.  We all survived the experience, but I don't think that any of us will ever be quite the same.

We eventually broke camp and as we walked our bikes out onto the road, the first snake of the day appeared. Naturally.  But amazingly, this was the last snake we would see on the entire trip.  As quickly as they had imposed themselves upon us, they vanished.

What we didn't know just yet, was that the challenge presented by the snakes would be replaced and surpassed with an environmental challenge that would become the theme of this second day ~~~ HEAT.

For the moment, though, it was good just to be back on the road.  We motored across the creek and headed uphill.

By "uphill", I'm talking about the ridiculous grades of up to 30% that I mentioned a minute ago.  That's Randy in the white, and Ward in the blue and then up the trail a bit is Joe, who NEVER walks his bike, walking his bike.  I can't speak for the other fellas, but much of this ascent, for me, was spent microanalzying every bit of gear I brought and why it was necessary to be hucking it up this insane slope, on this idiotic surface, on this increasingly stupid hot day.

There is very little in the way of shade-generating vegetation (a.k.a. "trees") out in these here parts, and so when we did find a bit of this rare goodness, we drank it in.  Bike touring through the desert is super fun, as you can tell by the expressions on our faces.

Some 2+ hours after leaving camp, we had climbed the 4 miles to the summit.  The trail was so steep that you were constantly blowing yourself up to make it through a technical section without getting off your bike, or maybe it was just so steep that you were blowing yourself up pushing your 85 lb beast up some loose, rocky shit.  The net effect was the same: Over the course of the climb, I had blown up and recovered so many times under a sun that I couldn't hide from on a day that was rapidly climbing into the mid-to-upper-80's, all while trapped in a body that just emerged from winter and hadn't had any chance to acclimate to any kind of warm weather, that I was feeling damned spent.

I looked at the road ahead and while it was scenically gorgeous, it was at the same time frightful from the perspective of constant exposure to the sun and the physical challenge that it promised to deliver.  Oy.

The crazy-ass wildflowers were just an integral part of the trip.  So rad.

If you haven't yet concluded that we were genuinely travelling through the desert under the harshest of conditions, just have a look at Stu's garb.  You don't do this kind of thing unless you have to.  And it should also be said that not just anyone can pull this look off.  Stu's the man and I totally dig it.

My five compadres, hammering into the midday sun . . .

By the time we got to the bigass descent down into the Brushy Creek, I was pretty wasted.  I hadn't pee'd once all day and wouldn't, until around 8:00 that night.  I'd sweated every last molecule of salt out of my body and as a result, I was feeling a bit "unbalanced".  It's not like I had a choice of whether or not ot continue, though.  And so I did.

That strip of green vegetation was where we would be travelling, assuming we survived the death fall off the ridge . . .

I was too involved in my own survival to take a bunch of dumbass pictures and so this next one is really the only one I have of the descent, which is a shame.  But this is where the 36.3% downslope happened, and as icing on the cake, it was this loose rock bullshit all the way down.  There were stairsteps and all kinds of craziness and for me, there was no riding, only walking, and I can state with utter conviction that after having wrestled an 85 lb bike through this garbage, that I have never worked harder on a bike while going downhill.  And there's not even a close second, let alone 22nd.

Joe's blown knee wouldn't let him walk without a lot of pain and jeopardy and so he rode most of it, although I have no idea how in the hell.

Just a badass rock formation that appeared on the way down, that is all . . .

Based on what Ward and Randy had told us in preparation, we were quite apprehensive about the work it might take to navigate along the Brushy Creek.  Fortunately, because it was still relatively early in the season and because the wild turkey hunters had already been beating a path up and down the creek, it wasn't all that bad.  Yep, there was some hike-a-biking and creek crossing, and Stu had his second flat in here, but it was relatively okay.

Ward and Randy, in their awesomeness, had reconned in a few weeks earlier, along with 11 cans of beer.  As trip hosts, their plan was to put them in a duffle bag along with some rocks, tie the bag off to a tree and drop them into the creek, so that when we all got there, we'd have a few cold beers to share.  That's just how rad these guys are.  It's exactly the roofing scene in Shawshank Redemption.

But in one of the weirdest coincidences in the history of the universe, two bike riders showed up at about the same time that Ward and Randy were planting the stash.  These, to hear Ward tell it, were older guys on older rigid MTB's, and they were true, 'bikepackers' in the sense that they were carrying pretty much nothing on their bikes and everything in bigtime real backpacks.  The 'weirdest coincidences' statement has to do with the fact that NO ONE rides bikes out here.  Until we met up with Megan and Steve at the end of Day Three, we hadn't seen a soul on the road.  (Well, we did see one guy in a truck, but he didn't count, 'cause he was in a truck. ;-)

So when we got to the bottom of the Brushy, Ward went to retrieive the duffel and the first thing he noticed was that the cord had been cut and re-tied.  Not good.  Then, when he go into the bag, he found that 7 of the beers had been stolen, and only four 16 oz PBR's had been spared.  Dirty, lowdown, mofu, beer-snob, THIEVES!  Whatya gonna do, though?  Such is life in the desert.

We finally arrived at our campsite in the Brushy canyon.  It was obvious that it had been a homestead at one point in time, as there were orchards and it was just too logical a place for a homesteader.  I will always think about how harsh our experience was out there on this relatively mild day and contrast that with the extreme days that anyone who lived out here would have had to deal with and just conclude that, holy living hell, whoever was homesteading out here was just pure badass.

I had left my guts on the trail and my electrolytes on my hat and I was pretty messed up.

So what should have been a pretty amazing campsite vibe was pretty damned subdued.  It wasn't just me . . . everyone, I think, was feeling the toll of the day.  I crawled into my tent at 7:30.  I don't think anyone else was that far behind me.  I didn't think the low point of the day before could be topped, but apparently it had been.

At least we had made it halfway, so there was that.

Colockum Quilomene Traverse - Day One

The planned route for Day One was from our starting spot at the Washinton Department of Fish and Wildlife office on the north edge of the Colockum Wildlife Area, to our campground at Tekison Creek, a.k.a. "Rattlesnake Bay" (stay tuned).

Direction of travel is from right to left.

The travel plan, in general, was the same as it would be for each of the four days of this trip:  Start out near river level, climb our asses off until we were way the hell up on some gawd-forsaken, wind-swept ridge, and then descend back down to near river level.  The plan was what it was because it was the only way it could be, really; we were traversing a totally badass section of ridges and valleys and you can't just effing ride straight up or straight down cliffs. In short. So you take the roads (and I use the term loosely) that exist because of some amazing collective human effort that has spanned who knows how many years and involved who knows how many people, or groups of people, to put them there to do exactly what we were trying to do, I think, which is to travel overland along the river in the most efficient manner possible.  Which is not very effiecient.  Because the terrain doesn't particularly lend itself to efficiency.

The other part of the low-to-high-to-low pattern of movement is that it's the desert (and honestly, it is), and you need water, badly, and it's damn hard to find it at the higher elevations.  So it's best to start and end the day's travel at the bottom of a drainage, where you have an ample supply of this magical fluid.

Google Earth delivers some amazing data, and even if you click for big I'm not sure it will be totally readable, but the red line with the orange underneath it is the elevation profile and the dark blue line with the purple underneath it is the speed at which we were travelling.  It shows that we were frequently travelling under 5 mph, and mostly travelling between 5 and 10 on the way up and between 10 and 15 on the way down.  We had a max slope up of 18% and a max slope down of 19%.  We went 17.5 miles and it took us 5 hours and 17 minutes.  Holy hell.

I've gotten kind of ahead of myself, though.  Let's start at the beginning of this first day . . .

Joe and I left Spokane at around 7:30 and arrived in Vantage on schedule at about 10:00.  Ward was waiting for us.

Ward (L), Joe (R).  Getting in some last bits of conversation before heading into the wild.

Stu showed up shortly afterwards, and Randy showed up shortly afterwards of Stu's [afterward] showing up.  Randy was the designated shuttle commander, meaning he had the rig and the plan to get all our bikes and gear from Vantage up to our starting point near Wenatchee.  The dude's rad.

We arrived at the Dept of Fish and Wildlife office/shop complex and embarked upon the task of putting together our "equipment packages".  This scene would have made the most stoic bike nerd blush.  It was a relatively brief period of time in the hyper nerdism realm.  But it was a good thing.  To be clear.

The two fats that would be making the trip - mine and Ward's - ready to roll.

Randy making final adjustments to his handlebar sling pack, while Joe and his bionic knee look on.

Stu, a meticulous planner, had stashed three daily rations of two beers each, on or in his setup.
I believe the two shown here were deliberately placed such that he could keep on eye on them, lest
the thirsty desperados with whom he was travelling got any ideas.  Maybe they were actual decoys.
The other, I believe, was deliberately hidden such that should the desperados take the first
two rations by force, he would still retain one secret stash.  Given the riff-raff he was travelling
with, it seems like a totally rational plan.

Finally, we were ready.  And of course nothing less than a timer shot would do, to mark the moment in history.
I set the camera to take three shots and when I got home and reviewed them, the first two showed a bunch of
deadpan expressions, but this last one showed some spontaneous smiles.  I can't remeber what joke was told,
but I can tell you that it was just the tip of the iceberg in terms of us cracking each other up during the trip.

Everyone headed out on the trail, while I hung back to take a pic. What was immediately evident was how small we were against the backdrop of this big, bold place . . .

The climb was steady and continuous and it wouldn't be long before we would start to experience some spectacular views of the valley floor . . .

It would also not be long before our so-so road surface began to turn much krappier . . .

A coupla gates needed to be crossed and let me tell you that after the first, no one particularly wanted to be my friend when we hit the second.  It could have had something to do with my 85 lb loaded fatbike, but I am not sure.



So at this point, I guess, we were still a little giddy.  But we were also working our asses of and the reality of the harshness of the terrain and what we were heading into was starting to set in, a little.  Things were about to quickly get more serious though, and in fact, the overriding theme of this entire first day was about to emerge:  Snakes.  Rattlesnakes, to be specific.

Look, I don't care for snakes much, and I had some pretty sleepless nights in front of last year's tour across the state on the John Wayne Pioneer Trail, but in my more rational and sane moments, I recognize that the probability of encountering one is actually pretty low and that my head is my worst enemy.

At the same time, a person has to acknowledge and come to terms with the fact, on some subconscious level at least, that when travelling through the desert, he's among snakes, whether he sees them or not.  And when we saw our first bull snake, just after the gate, said person was forced to come to grips with the fact on  a conscious level.

"Bull snake.  Big whoop.", I bravadoed, internally.  But the edge had been set and I was on some level of alert, although I'm not sure what color.  I am sure that it wasn't just me, though.

A few hundred feet of climbing later, as I was crossing some standing water on the sun-warmed road, something moved, and then RATTLED!!! directly underneath my pedals!  My already ragged heartrate pegged hard and I let out some spontaneous and uncontrollable girl noises.  Joe was right behind me and before he could figure out what the hell I was spazzing about, he ran over it with all three of his wheels - the two on his bike and the one on his trailer.  The snake quickly moved off into the rocks on the side of the road, appeared injured, and sat there rattling.  I grabbed my camera and approched to take a picture, until Joe insisted that I was a total dumbass.  I had a hard time arguing the point, so I backed away.

We warned the others coming up behind us about the snake and then we all headed on up the trail.

The mood had abruptly changed; this gig was for real.  We found some shade and stopped to take in some fuel.  It was good to rest, but it wasn't a super joyous event.  Everyone would now be paying a lot more attention to the road and a lot less attention to the rad scenery.

That said, it was impossible to completely ignore the scenery.

That road is what we had just ascended.

It was somewhere-sort-of-but-not-really-near the top of the climb that Stu had his first flat of the trip.  After making the repair, I got out my pump and mentioned that in the course of filling a fatbike tire with air, I had to put in "400 strokes".  The juvenile minds that I was travelling with latched on and had a field day with this theme, and yucked it the hell up.  "I'm usually asleep by the time I hit 150", that sort of thing.  I have to admit, I was laughing just as hard.  Whistling through the graveyard, I suppose.

The wildflowers were out, all trip long.

We were finally getting close to the top, which was both good and bad.  If anyone wanted to turn around now, it was a do-able coast\ride back to the parking lot.  You could be there well before dark and call this whole deal a lapse in judgement and rejoin civilization and leave it at that.  If you forged ahead though, you would be plunging into the next valley, making a quick, convenient escape impossible.  If I had know then what I was about to know within the next coupla hours, I might have gone for it.  But I was still in denial, apparently.

Stu, pushing up a badass rise.

This was my only ungulate sighting of the trip.  Which suprised the hell outta me.  I sure spent a lotta time wading through their poop.  But they had mostly departed for higher elevations, I think.

Summit glam shot . . .

And another . . .

The descent had finally begun and it was certainly good to be rolling downhill.

The rock formations in the evening light can be spectacular.

And we had kind of written off the snakes, because we hadn't had to deal with them for the last few miles. Until:

We were bombing through a brushy section of trail and the rattlers started going off all the hell around us.  It was not just a snake here and one there, it was some freaky gathering and they were pissed and they were right there off the side of the trail, just loud as hell.  We all got through this section of whatever the hell had just happened and we were talking about standardizing hand signals to point out rattlers to the riders behind us, but we were ignoring the elephant in the room, which was that it was getting dark and we had just dropped several hundred feet off of a ridge into the valley of death.  It was kind of somber, let me tell you.

Stu's crossing the creek here and just on the other side, is where we would be camping for the night, and the rest of us are standing there, looking at a baby rattlesnake in the middle of the road.  Holy living hell.

The end of the red line is where we stopped for the night.  Trust me when I tell you we talked about our options.  But the light was fading fast and any alternate plan involved travelling in darkness.  This image was taken at a much drier time of year, because the creek was flowing and the area to the south of the line was green-grassy.  Which is a scary place for snakes to hide.  We beat it with sticks and cut it down with our bare hands and huddled our tents together like sissies.  Whatever it takes to survive.

The thought, however delusional, that we had driven off the snakes and claimed this small parcel as our own eventually began to take hold, and we began to relax, just a bit.  Some liquid courage that we'd packed may have aided our cause.  A full moon rose over the ridge and illuminated the walls of our canyon and the evening was as fantastical as it was frightful.  I don't think I'll ever forget it.

Ward, in one of the most momentous acts of the entire trip, cooked up some gourmet grilled cheese sandwiches and passed them around. Oh. Hell. Yeah.  The ultimate comfort food.

I had no idea how I was gonna have the mental strength to make it through three more days of snake terror.  Turns out that tomorrow would get even worse, but not because of snakes.