Cycle Oregon 2007: Day 3 - All I Can Say Is Wow

I slept well after Day 2. I went to sleep before the snorers could strangle the silence of my night, and I stayed asleep. I woke to the expected high-altitude cold, but the theraputic embrace of a full night's sleep had me clear-headed and in good spirits. My legs felt great and my beard was beginning to grow in nicely from 3 days of not shaving; I felt ready for the biggest day of climbing on Cycle Oregon. I also felt ready to see the natural splendor of Crater Lake in person for the first time -- in my almost 15 years as an Oregonian, I had yet to see the lake in person.

Happy to not have to pack my bag before heading out, I dawned my riding gear and headed for the RVs. Due to the stomach-churning debacle on Day 2, I told myself it was a "no solid food" day on the bike... meaning I would wait to eat until we got back to camp after the ride. I had ample Hammer Gel, and there lots of drinks on the road, so figured that would keep me calorically balanced until we returned. I also told myself I was going to go easy on the day and enjoy the views of the lake and the company of my fellow riders. I was fairly certain I could convince a few others to take a congruent tack on the day along with me.

As we assmbled at the RV and riders began to trickle in, I was blessed with the gift of hot coffee, a banana and a muffin from Lon's mom, Carol, as well as a scoop of Cytomax from Lon and Sally. I was also able to warm up since they had both a fire outside and heat inside the RV. The crew was in great spirits across the board and everyone was psyched to have a beautiful, challenging day of riding ahead. We assembled for the group pictures and said our goodbyes to the non-riders and hit the road.

I had forgotten to pee before we left, so I jumped into the woods to take care of business before we got on the main highway. Robbie waited for me, but the rest of the crew went on. By the time we made it back up to Zed and Scottie, the main field was long gone, and we just settled into a groove to tackle the ~14 miles up to the rim. We were all feeling pretty good, not pushing too hard and grinding out the moderate 4-6% grade towards the lake. It was remarkably like the 14.5 miles up to Larch Mountain from the turnoff from the old Columbia River Highway. We were laughing and talking and passing tons of folks as we made our way towards the rim. We took turns pulling, but when you're climbing, leading the group is more setting the pace than anything. While we weren't setting any land speed records, we were certainly holding our own.

With probably 5 miles or so until the top, Zed broke off the front and Robbie, Scottie and I chased him the remainder of the way. It was a long slog to the top, and I was totally floored to pass a guy on a fixed gear. All I could say was "jesus christ!" as I rode passed him. Just as we pulled up to the parking lot at the top where lunch was being served, Lon, Sally and the rest of the crew had just arrived, but were electing to forego the lunch stop and get going on the rim loop. After about .03 seconds of contemplation, my companions and I decided that we would hang out, fill up the bottles and take some pictures of the lake before hitting the trail, so we waved them on.

My first view of Crater Lake made me weak in the knees. I knew it was going to be staggering, but I had no idea of the scale of both its beauty and size. The fact that it was created by an incomprehensible eruption and is nearly 2000' deep are mere metadata next to the awesome, blue spectacle that is the lake itself. It is an unbelievable testament to natural process, and I was angry with myself for not having been there before.

Robbie, Zed and Paul took for-fucking-ever at the lunch stop, but it was nice to not be on an intense schedule. The only commitment I had for the day was a massage at 5PM. We hooked up with Ed and Alex (a.k.a. the A Train), lathered up with sunscreen and made our way back onto the road. It seemed like around every bend on the rim road was another mind-melting view of the lake. There was one spot where you could see almost directly down to the water and it was the bluest blue that I had ever seen -- it looked like jewlery.

The rim road was a fun ride. Big climbs punctuated by rocketing descents, only governed by a slightly crappy road surface, and the presence of other riders. As we were passing a group, Scottie, who was pulling at the time, said in his best Crocodile Hunter accent, "On your left, four bikes." And the gal we were passing said, "Four boxes?" To which I responded, "Yeah, that's Australian for 'Four Bikes'." We all got a good laugh out of that, and would use the phrase "four boxes" when passing others throughout the rest of the week.

We made the arduous climb up to the overlook and were happy to be refreshed with drinks and snacks and good old blue rooms. We also had cell service, and I was able to call my lovely wife from perhaps the most beautiful spot I had ever stood. We took some pics and hit the road again.

By this time in the day, our group had slimmed down to just Robbie, Zed, Scottie and me, and we were pretty much being paced by Scottie who got some kind of insane kick of fresh legs. The climbs around the rim were not awful, but they were long enough that that the top was always a welcome site. The day had also grown hot, and at nearly 7000', the sun was a relentless reminder to keep greased up in sunscreen. Riding with the Aussie lads was a blast, we laughed and joked through the hard climbs and flew down the descents, eventually ending up at the Crater Lake lodge, and the last rest stop of the day. More stunning views of Wizard Island were ours for the taking, as was the welcome information that we had less than 1000' of climbing left, and then it was all downhill back into camp. We all agreed that a jump into Diamond Lake was in order upon our return. We hooked back up with Ed and Alex and left the last rest stop.

The last bit of climbing was tough, simply because it was the last bit of a long day of uphill battles, but we slogged through it, and as expected, the descent off the rim was fucking unreal. The road was great, the visibility was great and we got lucky enough to hit a stretch of time where there weren't many other riders out, so we hit the gas bigtime. Before you know it, we were back in camp, and crossing a chocolate-milkless finishline (since it was an "option" day, I guess they didn't see the need for chocolate milk. FOR SHAME).

We stopped by the RVs and said our hellos to the other folks who had arrived shorty before us and had a beer and some Recoverite. I had a massage scheduled in a few hours, so I went and washed my ass and head in the shower truck, and spent sometime in front of the laundry bucket cleaning my kit and other 3-day funkdafied camping and riding gear. Freshly scrubed and in clean civies, I met the lads at the lake for a brisk, but marvelously refreshing dip. Diamond Lake was the perfect temperature: cold. The air temp was in the 90s, and the wind was just starting to blow a bit.

We dried off and got a beer and a slice of pizza, and sat down to watch the band play. The afternoon sun was shining through the trees, which provided the perfect amount of shade. Despite the fairly arduous day of riding, I felt great, and was enjoying the company and the pizza and beer. It was beginning to be difficult to imagine a better day -- save for the fact that I was missing my family. I found a spot with cell coverage and called Mandy and spoke to the boys too -- they were having fun and missing me too, but getting to hear their voices just made the day all that much better.

My 5 o'clock appointment for a massage rolled around and I made my way over to the massage tent to get the first of my two scheduled massages on the trip. The massage therapist was a gal from Portland named Nova, who was very friendly and conversational, as well as strong. She was a musician, so there was lots to chat about. She worked the knots and strains out of me, so that at the end of the hour long session, I was nothing but a grinning mass cookie dough. I hopped on my bike and rode back over to RVs to hook up with the group as we had agreed to forego the meal tent and head over to the Diamond Lake Lodge for dinner.

We had a very nice dinner at the lodge, with what ended up as around 20 people, laughing, drinking and eating real food for once -- it was like a Viking feast. I had a huge slice of prime rib and it was delicious. The only dent in the otherwise excellent dinner was that both Carol and Helgard didn't get their food until we were essentially done with the meal, but due to the innundation with hungry cyclists, I think the Lodge had their hands full and were doing all they could to accomodate. Roland was generous enough to pick up the no-doubt hefty tab, much to the delight of me and my fellow grateful diners. Our bellies full and our hearts content, we packed into Helgard's car and headed back to the RVs for some good ol' tunes around the campfire.

When we got back to the RVs, Derek and Tucker set about building a roaring fire and we all found seats in the ring with our beverages of choice in hand. I broke out the trusty Martin and began to tune up as the dreaded calls began: "Play Stairway!" and my favorite, "Do you know Freebird?!". Unfortunately, I know both of those songs (to some degree, anyway), and was drunk enough to own up to it, which lead to me playing them horribly to satiate the crowd (ok, I did it because Roland bought dinner, and he was the squeakest wheel, so I felt it was only fair).

I played a few songs and we were all laughing and talking in-between, when out of the darkness came a banshee howl, "SHUUUUUUT UUUUUUUUP! IIIIIII AM TRYYYYYYYYING TO SLEEEEEEEEEEP!". At this point, it wasn't even 10 o'clock, so we all shrugged it off as I delved into another song. Predictably, on the last note of the tune came another shrieking blast of vitriol from the abyss, "SHUUUUUUUT THE FUUUUUUUCK UUUUP, I NEEEEEEEEEEEEEED MY SLEEEEEEEEEEP!". To this, Sally replied into the darkness, "We don't have to, the noise cut off isn't until 10:30!" We waited for a response... nothing.

I continued to play, and we laughed and sang and carried on for another 25 minutes or so, when a small light appeared in the distance, bobbing angrily through the trees. I knew what it was, or at least, I had an idea... Seconds later, a hideous creature (which can best be described as an Oregon Mountain Hag; a term coined by Tucker after the incident) in a flannel, polka dot moo moo burst into our firelit circle and began waiving her arms in maddened fury and screaming at us to stop playing music as she needed her sleep. Her putrescent, yellow-eyed gaze fell upon me and my guitar. and her bony, wart-riddled finger pointed straight at me, as her acrid stench began to permeate the air. "YOU!" she shreiked in a voice like wet sandpaper, "are you the one playing all those fucking guitars?!" Seeing as though I was the only one with a guitar in the area, the smart ass in me was overwhelmed by the possible responses to this inane and obvious query. However, I must admit that the guitar player in me was flattered that she assumed there was more than one guitar being played. "Yes" was my regrettable reply. To that, she marched straight over to me and grabbed the headstock of my guitar in an attempt to smash my 1975 Martin D28 and throw it into the fire. Luckily, the Oregon Mountain Hag is a weak, pathetic bitch, and her attempt was easily foiled by my casual grip on my beloved instrument. In her frustration, she circled back to Ed, who was standing behind me, and attempted to smash his head in with an empty beer bottle. The shock of the group turned protective as Ed grabbed her arm and said, "Get the hell out of here!". We rallied around Ed, and cries of "Crazy bitch!" and "what the hell was that?!" followed the Mountain Hag as she fled back to her hovel.

Stunned in curious amazement at the bizarre spectacle we had all just witnessed, the group made sure everyone was ok, and decided it was probably a good time to call it a night, although there was a deep temptation to continue playing, just to aggrevate the Mountain Hag. The rare appearence of the fabled Oregon Mountain Hag, while stressful at the time, turned out to be a perfect, albeat surreal, exclamation point to an absolutely marvelous day. I made my way back to my tent and fell into a dreamless sleep with a big fat smile on my face.