Ride Archives - Adventure Cycling Association

Ask An Adventure Cycling Tour Leader: How to Get Over Trip Abandonment

Brielle Wacker — Tue, 15 Apr 2025 14:00:10 +0000

I had to abandon a long tour that I had been planning for years halfway through it, and I’m still devastated. How do I get over it?

Dear Devastated,

I’m so sorry. It’s understandable that you’re feeling a great sense of loss, given how invested you were in this trip. It is totally okay to take some time to grieve the fact that it didn’t turn out as initially planned. You had intended to make this dream a reality, and circumstances got in the way of that happening. Something like this, that has been in your mind and heart for so long, isn’t something you can get over just like that.

Last year I co-led two cross-country trips, and at each of the orientation meetings, our participants shared why they picked this particular trip. It was truly inspiring to hear so many of them describe the years, and even decades, that they had been thinking and dreaming of riding their bicycle across the country. Many had to wait for the right time, whether it was retirement or kids leaving the house. They had to get the support of their loved ones, since nine to eleven weeks is a really long time to be away from home and household responsibilities. Many had to save up money because even though bicycle travel is pretty darn cost-effective compared to other types of travel, it still costs a chunk of change to go on a multi-week tour. Everyone did so much preparation just to get to the start of the tour — even that was a feat to be celebrated.

Then the actual riding started, and “it got real,” as they say. Both tours dealt up challenging weather, traffic, and road conditions. Even under the best of circumstances, 60-75 days is a long time to ride your bicycle. And honestly, there were times when some riders didn’t think they’d finish. I don’t know your unique circumstances, but a whole list of reasons for ending your tour come to mind: injury, weather, mechanical issues, family emergency, group dynamics. Any of which can lead to fatigue, loneliness, frustration, homesickness, and finally just feeling the need to tap out. You are human.

Robert Stapleton

The need to abandon your tour before it was complete does not diminish what you accomplished. If your initial tour was 3,000 miles and you made it halfway, that means you rode your bicycle 1,500 miles! That is something that 99.9% of people haven’t done and won’t ever do. If you planned to ride for a month and only made it two weeks, you still planned and completed a two-week bicycle tour, which is long, even for the most committed recreational cyclists. I would bet money that if you described your tour to nearly anyone — where it started and where you finished — they would be impressed beyond belief. Please don’t sell yourself short on what you did.

While it’s possible that you’ll always have some regrets about what happened, sometimes as time passes, we’re able to make peace with an unfortunate outcome. Let me share a personal experience.

When I was in my early 20s, there was nothing I wanted more than to join the Peace Corps. After making it through many stages of the process, they ultimately declined my application due to a past medical concern. I also was devastated. I felt really lost, trying to reconcile my reality with what I had been envisioning for many months. Eventually other opportunities and possibilities came, and I took another path in helping others and in satiating my appetite for adventure. I still think about the Peace Corps but no longer feel the deep disappointment from that rejection. Ultimately, I’m glad that life worked out the way it did. I wonder if your future adventures might also someday ease what currently feels so heartbreaking?

In addition to recognizing the validity of your feelings and trusting that time might cast a different light on your trip, I’m wondering what the possibilities are for resuming your tour where you left off? Many, many people tackle epic journeys in smaller pieces for time and logistical reasons. Section hiking the Pacific Crest Trail or section biking the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route are much more common than tackling the whole thing in one go. It doesn’t even have to be right away. When the COVID pandemic started, many epic trips had to stop mid-way through. Even though it took two or three years, some of these groups were so committed to finishing with the same people that they went to great lengths to make that happen.

Rebekah Zook

If this is a possibility, you’d hardly be starting from scratch. It sounds like you’ve done much of the planning, and from the amount of the tour you’ve already completed, you probably have some wisdom that you didn’t have the first time around. If it wasn’t a particular event that caused you to abandon your tour, but rather some more generalized conditions, are there ways to mitigate circumstances that were challenging? If you were previously solo, can you bring a riding buddy? Is this a route that would benefit from some vehicle support? Would it be helpful to break the days into shorter distances or factor in more rest days? It’s okay to adjust expectations for what your dream long tour should look like.

If you decide to start planning a new dream tour, there’s never been a better time for bike touring! The options for off road adventures utilizing bike paths and gravel roads keep expanding. Many small towns welcome bicycle tourism. Digital routes are easily searchable and accessible via RidewithGPS. And if the planning seems like a lot, Adventure Cycling offers several epic guided tours each year. Not only are the logistics taken care of, but as tour leaders we are there to support and empower you on your journey.

Your feelings about your discontinued tour are totally valid, and I feel for you. No one wants to keep mulling the “what ifs” of plans that didn’t go how we were expecting. Ultimately though, you had an adventure. If there were things you could have done differently, I’m guessing you learned from them. If you ended your tour due to circumstances beyond your control, even the best laid plans go awry. My wish for you is that you are able to both find pride in what you accomplished and start dreaming about your next big adventure. Happy pedaling!

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Even Short Rides Can Be Fulfilling Adventures For Mind and Body

Laura Killingbeck — Mon, 17 Mar 2025 15:45:06 +0000

No matter where I am in the US, there’s always an Adventure Cycling route close by. When I lived in Michigan, I pedaled out my door onto the North Lakes route. In Arizona, I was just a few miles from the Great Divide. When I visited my friend Alison in San Francisco, I biked from her house onto the Pacific Coast Route. And in Massachusetts, I got to host my friends Kaisa and Christoffer as they pedaled down the Atlantic Coast Route.

So when I moved to Durango, Colorado, this winter, I figured that trend would continue, and when I pulled up the Adventure Cycling route finder, I smiled. The Great Parks South Route started less than a mile from my house.

Using Ride with GPS to navigate Adventure Cycling’s Great Parks South Route.

Laura Killingbeck

The first town along the path would be Mancos, about thirty miles away. My friend Dave lives on a beautiful homestead in Mancos. It was the perfect opportunity to invite myself over on a short bike adventure. And to test out Adventure Cycling’s newest innovation: hosting its maps on Ride with GPS. On a Wednesday in February, I stuffed some clothes and snacks in my panniers, hopped on my bike, and pedaled out the basement door. It was warm and sunny. A perfect day. I’d downloaded the route onto my phone through Ride with GPS. In classic Adventure Cycling fashion, this showed me the route layout, distance, and points of interest along the way. Door to door, it would be 31.5 miles and 2,700 feet of elevation from my house to Dave’s. I followed a moderately trafficked highway with a wide shoulder that would take me over an 8,400-foot ridge and into the tiny mountain town of Mancos. I pushed the pedals, breathing deep and chugging slowly up the road. I’d been sick in bed for the last week with body aches and a cough, and this was my first ride since then. I had no idea how it would go. After a few miles, I got a text from Dave saying he was down with a migraine but still wanted me to come. Bodies do not always behave the way we wish they would, but the adventure must continue. Durango’s houses and hotels thinned. Then they disappeared. I was left with the open road, flanked by landscapes dappled in snow. As I climbed higher, the temperature dropped and an icy headwind started to push against my face. The further I went, the louder the wind rushed past my ears. Bushes on the roadside whipped back and forth, and grasses bent to the ground. It reminded me of a stretch of road in Wyoming on the Great Divide, where the wind was so cold and strong it felt like a river.

Layering up on the Great Parks South Route.

Laura Killingbeck

I began to regret my choices. The wind pushed into my mouth every time I inhaled, and my lungs were already sore from coughing. Why was I biking up the ridge in this state? Why did I think this would be fun? In the last twenty years I’ve biked many thousands of miles around the world. Those journeys have been the best moments of my life, yet big portions of them were uncomfortable, scary, or difficult. I kept pedaling and thought about my first bike trip at twenty-one, when I cycled alone against Iceland’s epic winds. What would that younger woman think about me now, complaining in my head about a short ride into a relatively small headwind? I imagined the younger version of me riding next to me on the road. She looked at me and started to laugh. Then I started to laugh, too. She was right — it was pretty funny. I eventually made it up the ridge and coasted down into Mancos. Home to just over a thousand residents, Mancos is nestled in a little mountain valley. I turned off the highway onto a dirt road lined with farms and small houses. After a few miles, I recognized the greenhouses and the row of willows at the edge of Dave’s farm. Dave’s three-legged dog Roo ran out to greet me at the driveway. It’s incredible how fast Roo can run.

Roo running in Mancos, Colorado.

Laura Killingbeck

Dave came out and showed me where to store my bike under the eave of the farmhouse. I grabbed my stuff and followed him inside. Dave’s home is a fun, cozy space. Big windows overlook the mountains, and earthen pots fill the shelves. Dave is a farmer and a potter, so he makes his dishes himself from clay that he digs from the land. Each is a work of art. I felt wind-burned but happy. Dave was doing okay with his migraine, so we took a walk with Roo before dark. As we wandered up the dirt road, the sun began to set, turning everything gold and orange. When we got back to the house, Dave made a delicious pot of miso sausage soup, and I brought out the sourdough flatbread and kvass I’d carried in my panniers. Kvass is a tangy drink made from fermented beets and spices. I’d brewed this batch with beets from Dave’s farm. We ate the soup out of beautiful, giant homemade bowls. After dinner I was pretty much ready for bed, so I lay down on the floor with Roo. (I’m a really entertaining house guest.) Dave needed to practice a short talk he’d written for a storytelling event, and I really wanted to hear it. So he sat on the couch with his notes and read the story out loud while I listened from the floor. The story was about a close friend he’d had who died suddenly at a young age. Dave read slowly, stopping, pausing and re-reading sentences. The story ended years later on the farm, when Dave realized that his grief had grown into a larger understanding of love. As I lay listening, it reminded me of the times I’d lost someone or something I loved. There are so few outlets in society to talk about grief and loss in a way that leads us back to love. I knew Dave’s story would be a gift to everyone who heard it.

A cozy farmhouse in Mancos, Colorado.

Laura Killingbeck

I slept in the cozy guest room, my head resting on a pillow decorated with a rabbit feeding salad to a mole. In the morning, we had breakfast, and I packed my bike for the ride home. It was a calm, sunny day. I hugged Dave goodbye, threw my leg over the saddle, and pedaled back out the driveway. My lungs felt good, and I was happy. This time I took gravel roads back behind Mancos before popping out onto the highway. About halfway to Durango, I stopped at a gas station and got a burrito and some carrot cake. It was mostly downhill from there. Back at the house, I rolled my bike into the basement and unpacked. I’d only been gone for a day, but a lot had happened. Even a short ride can be a great adventure.

Great Parks South Route Overview

This paved route extends 695 miles across Colorado between Steamboat Springs and Durango. It crosses eleven mountain passes and the highest point is 12,183 feet. Highlights include three national parks: Rocky Mountain , Black Canyon of the Gunnison, and Mesa Verde (via the Mesa Verde spur). The ideal riding season is early summer to mid-fall.

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Me, Myself, and I

Bryan Rogala — Tue, 03 Dec 2024 20:59:10 +0000

This story originally appeared in the 2024 Nov/Dec issue of Adventure Cyclist magazine’s Final Mile essay anthology.

***

I rode with tears streaming down my face. I pedaled as hard as I could, hoping that being on my bike would fix it. It used to always fix it. But this time was different — for the first time in my life, I didn’t want to be there anymore. As cars whizzed by, I couldn’t help but think things would be easier if I rode in front of one. In August 2019, two friends and I spent 14 days bikepacking 539 miles along the Colorado Trail. I’d spent the early months of that year training for the ride, and for much of the summer, I’d put in more than 100 miles a week on my mountain bike to prepare. But when I returned to my home in New Mexico and settled back into normal life, my anxiety and depression began to ratchet up.

It kept getting worse until those intrusive thoughts started taking up longer residences in my brain, particularly anytime I rode by myself. What was once a sacred space and a way to clear my head became something I feared because it meant I had to be alone with myself and my thoughts. And I didn’t like either. That’s when I knew things weren’t working. I’d been in therapy for a year by the time I started to fear cycling. I’d done a lot of work to understand and regulate my emotions, which I’d come to realize had always been an issue for me — I just hadn’t fully known it. I grew up in a wonderful home with loving parents, but depression and anxiety run in the family. I also grew up in the Midwest, where “hard things” often aren’t talked about, especially among men, and until I started therapy, the only real way I’d combatted my undiagnosed anxiety and depression was exercise, particularly riding my mountain bike. After my mental health started to get worse when I returned from the Colorado Trail, I leaned into that. “I was fine on the trail,” I told myself, “I just need to ride more.” I now know that sounds preposterous, but I’ve spent most of my career working in the outdoor recreation industry as a video producer and writer. In that time, I’ve been constantly fed the notion that all I need to do to fix my brain is simply work up a sweat outdoors. Headlines like “Science’s Newest Miracle Drug is Free,” “The Incredible Link between Nature and Your Emotions,” and “Take Two Hours of Pine Forest and Call Me in the Morning” dot the pages of Outside magazine and its website, perpetuating that idea. These articles are well-intentioned — and there are proven mental and physical health benefits to spending time in nature — but when you combine this mindset with a community of outdoor athletes that celebrates “suffering” in the mountains, lauds first descents and fastest known times, and glorifies podium finishes, things can get dark. It’s one thing to extoll the benefits of exercise and time spent outside, but doing so without mention or consideration of therapy and medication can be dangerous because it delegitimizes and undermines treatment people may desperately need. When you pull back the curtain of stoke, you’ll find a grin- and-bear-it mentality that permeates people’s approach to mental health. It seems like some folks in the industry, such as photographer Cory Richards, have recently begun talking about this. In The Color of Everything, Richards’s recent book on his career and struggles with mental health, he writes about how his adventures grew bigger and riskier while trying to fill a void inside, and it eventually quit working. But the truth of the matter is that most people don’t talk about it. I was certainly guilty of that, and I initially resisted the idea of help of any kind. After all, I knew the cure: ride more. But it turns out you can’t actually ride away from your problems. When I could no longer control my thoughts, I finally talked to my therapist about medication. That was four years ago, and it’s crystal clear to me now that I needed more help than therapy, fresh air, and exercise could provide on their own. Medication has been life changing. It has allowed me to fully utilize the skills and coping mechanisms I’ve learned in therapy, and, perhaps just as importantly, find joy in riding again. This year, five years after bikepacking the Colorado Trail, I rode the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route (GDMBR) solo to celebrate my 35th birthday. I spent a year and a half researching and preparing, and as my June 1 departure drew closer, the thing I was most nervous about wasn’t the physical or logistical challenges that lay ahead. I worried whether I could simply spend that much time alone. Before I set out, friends asked me if I thought I’d be all right being by myself for so long, and how I planned to deal with it. I wasn’t sure, I told them, but I thought I’d be okay. I planned my itinerary so that I’d see people every so often. I also convinced my wife to drive along with me the last few days of the trip. Still, I knew it’d be a lot of time alone with my thoughts, and that scared me. The farther I pedaled, though, the less afraid I became. My longest solo stretch (Salida, Colorado, to just past Lima, Montana) came about two weeks into the trip. By that point, the initial excitement had worn off, and I was anxious to see where the next few weeks would take me mentally. It wasn’t all easy riding: my dog passed away while I was battling hellish headwinds in Wyoming’s Great Basin; I had a couple of close calls with distracted drivers, moose, and grizzly bears; and I rode through hours of driving rain. But I never found myself in a spot too low to climb out of. The endless vistas, glorious gravel, and hypnotic pace helped, to be sure, but I had more tools in my arsenal. That made all the difference. I’m proud to say that I finished my 2,700-mile ride from Antelope Wells, New Mexico, to Banff, Alberta, on July 15. I spent 45 days on the route, nearly 30 of which were alone. Just like life, the trip was filled with ups and downs, but I came to appreciate even the low moments and found joy in riding solo again. I came home with an overwhelming sense of gratitude for all of the amazing things I saw and people I met. And especially for the long days of happy, meandering thoughts on the bike. More than anything, I rode into Banff feeling more grateful to be alive than ever before.

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Good Seeds: Cycling Central Washington During the Apple Harvest

Sean Riley — Wed, 30 Oct 2024 22:00:13 +0000

This story originally appeared in the Sept/Oct 2024 issue of Adventure Cyclist magazine. Apples got their start 12 million years ago in Central Asia in the area we now call Kazakhstan. There in the Tian Shan mountains, wild apple trees grew and evolved, creating fecund forests rich with birds, bears, and every variety of apple imaginable. A small town eventually grew near this forest and called itself Almaty — “king of the apples.” Almaty became a commerce hub between the East and West, and by 1500 BC, the apples that had evolved millions of years in Almaty’s forests began to spread to Persia and Europe via horse panniers and digestive tracts. (Apples’ hard, teardrop-sized seeds can survive animals’ digestive systems perfectly intact, finding themselves miles away from their origins and starting life anew.) The Persians and Greeks soon not only created bucolic apple orchards, but refined their apples’ flavors. Orchardists used grafting, the technique of inserting the bud of one tree into the stem of another, to propagate particular varieties of apple, creating apples consistent in tastes and textures they desired. Eating dinner al fresco among the apple trees was a way to experience beauty and showcase their power. In the second century BC, Almaty became a node on the Silk Road, the 4,000-mile trading route connecting Rome with China. While silk and Buddhism went west and gold and Christianity went east, apples went far in both directions. Centuries later, the apple would even cross an ocean and spread across North America, in part because of an unusual, not-yet-famous character named John Chapman. Chapman believed that every plant, animal, and object in nature correlated with specific spiritual truths. Thus, he believed, one shouldn’t merely observe nature but help regenerate it; more natural diversity led to a more spiritually rich world. Chapman didn’t believe in grafting fruit, so he spread apple seeds from America’s East Coast to Indiana by planting them in the land he was traveling on. Apples never before seen on the continent grew across the land. Colonists arrived to settle land where apple trees were already bearing fruit. We now know Chapman, of course, as Johnny Appleseed. Neither I nor my traveling partner (and this piece’s photographer), Hector Dominguez-Maceda, knew anything about the migratory history of the apple when we planned a bike trip during the apple harvest in Washington State, famed as “the apple state.” On one hand, we were interested in heady topics: immigration, nature, and food systems. On the other hand, we sought some adventure. Hector and I are good and unlikely friends. In the early 2010s, I taught him language arts at one of the most diverse and innovative schools in the U.S. After he graduated, we stayed in touch as he made his way through college and then a career. After the school where I worked closed and Hector’s father, a native of Puebla, Mexico, passed away, Hector and I talked about cycling more and more, and about not only seeing new lands, but seeing land in general from a new perspective. In this spirit, in October 2023 we set out to experience apple country from the saddle of a bicycle. Washington State generates 10 billion to 12 billion apples a year, nearly all of them along the Columbia River and its tributaries, from Okanogan in the north to Yakima in the south. Hector and I started our journey at the midpoint of those regions, on the southeast side of Lake Chelan in the last town up the lake, called Manson. Lake Chelan and Manson are well known for their apples. Before the 1950s, apple packers advertised their brands with colorful, iconic labels glued to their wooden crates. The crates were adorned with gorgeous waters at the base of steep peaks, and that imagery is Manson. From the shores of Lake Chelan, the third-deepest lake in the U.S., 7,000-foot peaks rise towering over Manson, a town described by its chamber of commerce as “agri-artisan,” though I might describe it as Edenic. A typical October morning in the region starts at around 40°F. Indeed, when we hit the road at 8:00 am, we could just make out our breath in the morning light. We warmed up while riding the twisting roads on the hills above the lake. The anxiety of scrolling through the national and international news on my phone softened as the sun rose, and in just a few minutes, the joy of riding for pleasure returned. The birds, lake, and wheels created a cadence that detached me from data and reattached me to earth. The feeling comes easy in Manson. Abundance abounds. Hundreds of thousands of bright red and green apple orbs hang from thousands of trees, and squeezed among the orchards are vineyards and blueberry fields. The roads were wide enough to afford space to ride side-by-side, so when we weren’t struck silent by the region’s natural beauty, Hector and I were able to discuss things like Tolstoy, Oppenheimer, fathers, and hip-hop. At one point a truck with a Michoacán sticker — the name of a state in central Mexico where many migrant workers in Washington come from — on its tailgate passed us. (When I studied the Mexican education system in Morelia, Michoacán, in the summer of 2006 through a university program, I was not only stunned by how similar the landscapes were between the two states, but also by how much Michoacános knew about Washington State, rattling off the names of small towns ranging from Sunnyside to Mt. Vernon.) Serendipitously, Hector and I saw five men warming in the sun outside of a white, barracks-like building where many apple pickers live. We pulled over to talk with them — a bicycle always helps people let the guards down. They were indeed apple pickers. They all came from Mexico, from Nayarit in the north to Puebla — where Hector’s family is from — farther south. They had the Saturday off and seemed to relish having nowhere to go and nothing to do. They were happy to speak with us. Some of them worked three-month contracts picking apples, some six, and others nine. All had left family in Mexico to earn money here in the U.S. When Hector asked if anyone else worked the orchards, they proudly answered, practically in unison, “Puros Méxicanos.” Pure Mexicans. They described the work to us, ancient labor. In addition to picking the ripe apples, they discard the unripe ones and trim the trees so they grow more fruit the following year. They pointed to the hundreds of scrapped apples along the side of the road. When I asked them about the industry getting more efficient and work going to robots (the only word I could find in Spanish), they seemed unconcerned. I couldn’t tell if they were nervous about talking to a journalist about this topic or if they were legitimately unworried. We moved on, and although they politely said no to photos, I sincerely thanked them for their labor and they paused their affable laughter, nodding in a way that suggested perhaps we understood each other. On our way out of Manson, we passed an apple picker just starting his day. We yelled “Hola!” and he waved to us, smiling. Hector and I cycled silently, digesting the abundance of what we’d seen and heard in just a short time. As we headed into the town of Chelan at the southern end of the lake, the traffic picked up. We rode single file on the wide shoulders, passing “bicycle on the road” signs every few miles. The homes got larger, the flags more frequent and political, and the trucks newer, cleaner, and shinier. Soon we found ourselves passing putt-putt golf courses, pizza joints, and a long line out of a Starbucks. Chelan is a good spot for amenities. For our itinerary, it was the only spot. We picked up snacks and a lunch for later and cycled away from Chelan and the lake, past agricultural warehouses and processing plants, to the edge of town and beyond. From Chelan’s outskirts, it’s a fast, steep descent to the Columbia River. The lush landscape quickly vanished and was replaced with the austere and arid high desert. In less than 10 minutes, Hector and I had the sense we’d gone from “up above” to “down below.” The cliffs that frame each side of the Columbia River now towered above us. I love this dramatic landscape. While apples were having their heyday in Central Asia 25,000 years ago, this landscape in Washington State was shaped by constant cataclysmic floods. For thousands of years, the ice sheet that covered most of what is now Canada dammed the Clark Fork River in Idaho and Montana and formed glacial Lake Missoula. When the frozen dam burst, the water of Lake Missoula rushed out in unfathomable proportions across what is now Montana, Idaho, and Washington. These floods had once covered the land where we now rode. Their waters were at least 1,000 feet deep, as tall as the cliffs above us. They cut rock and stripped soil, carving out canyons that millennia later would be drawn from for irrigation. Traveling at 10,000,000 cubic meters per second, the floods would have easily kept up with the cars that passed us. Rocks pushed up by a “geologic elevator” from 15 miles below are scarred with deep striations of this period. Crossing over the Beebe Bridge — the least comfortable part of our loop, with no shoulder and cars going 60 mph — the setting was more redolent of a Cormac McCarthy novel than a pastoral. As we headed south along the river, the apple orchards were dwarfed by the cliffs. The landscape became more industrial, but just as compelling. Through dams, irrigation, land ownership, genetic modification, pest control, automation, immigration, power, order — this is what humans contend with to push life out of the seemingly unyielding earth. If Manson was the idyllic past, this river gorge was time immemorial, spreading prehistorically toward the future. On this side of the river, the east side, most of the orchards are “high-density.” It’s impossible not to notice. Whereas traditional orchards have about 350 trees per acre, these high-density ones have about 1,450. High-density apples grow on trellises, resembling hops more than trees. Long sheets of fabric often cover and surround them, like functioning Christo and Jeanne-Claude art installations. We heard recorded falcon sounds above some of the fields that seemed to keep pesky birds away. At least, that was my interpretation. There was no one to ask. The laborers here — the ones we could see — worked far back in the orchards, diminished by the ancient landscape. Even if we wanted to yell hola, the frequent semi-trucks carrying tons of apples to the warehouses outside the town of Wenatchee would have silenced us. The harvest runs from late August until early November, and the frequency of the trucks was relentless evidence of mass productivity. I read an article a few years ago about how the trellised orchards we passed are the likely future of growing and picking in this region; the article, in fact, inspired this piece. The trellises maximize output and minimize labor costs. Though more prone to disease, trees grown on trellises bear fruit faster, and because no part of them is in the shade canopy, the sugar content from apple to apple is consistent. On top of that, trellises create uniformity that will one day allow for machines — the “robots” I referred to back in Manson — to do the picking, rather than human hands. Despite the many benefits of trellising apple trees and automating the harvesting process, many orchard owners aren’t excited about that future. The article I read included an owner lamenting the results of having to shave a nickel off everything in order to stay competitive. “These folks are my neighbors,” he said, referring to the puros Méxicanos Hector and I had spoken with. I identified with this orchard owner’s sentiment. I thought about what things should actually cost, and I thought about consumption and capitalism. Passing these trellises on a bicycle was visceral. Hector and I could easily imagine the vanishing of norteño, Tex-Mex music, and Michoacán tailgate stickers; a landscape devoid of people and, thus, character. The road along the Columbia River slowly and steadily ascends and descends, never at a grade above 3 percent. It’s easy, and not easy: the undulation means non-stop pedaling. Fortunately, 15 miles south of Beebe Bridge is Daroga State Park, a beautiful, lush river park perfect for resting tired legs. (It’s also a campground, some years open until the end of September, others until mid-October.) Along the river’s shore, Hector and I ate lunch and put our feet in the water. While he napped on the sand, I looked at the rock formations on the other side of the river. Strips of strata rock lines ascended and descended the basalt cliffs, much like the roads we’d just ridden. I lay down and slept. We got back on the road and pedaled south 12 more miles, past millions of apples to our left and right. We arrived at Lincoln Rock State Park, named after an Abraham Lincoln–like rock structure, and like all Washington State parks, this one luckily had hiker-biker spots. We caught the park ranger off guard when we rode up; he said we were the first hiker-bikers he had all year. Hector and I set up camp, swam in the Columbia, and looked at the oddly presidential rock structure before us. The first peoples here had seen a silhouette in the rocks, too, though that was long before Lincoln, so I had the simultaneous experience of seeing both Lincoln and, simply, humankind. There were many families at the campground that night, camping in tents, RVs, and cabins. Kids speaking Spanish and English biked in loops around the park, curious about our bikes, panniers, and gear. I told Hector, “Isn’t it wild how much we experienced in just one day?” It was clear he’d been thinking about it already because he quickly responded, “Cycling is a magnifying glass.” All the things you normally just pass by in a car suddenly come into focus; on a bike, you actually have enough time to see them clearly. The stars were out that night. Hector and I, like all bike tourers, had ambitions to stay up late and watch them. And also like all bike tourers, as soon as the sun set, a wave of exhaustion crashed over us. After the 56-mile day, we got in our tents and fell asleep quickly. Just before I did, the coyotes called out from the ancient land. From Lincoln Rock the next morning, we rode part of the Apple Capital Recreation Loop Trail, which spans 21 miles from Lincoln Rock State Park to South Wenatchee; we took it for seven. It’s far off the highway and passes both traditional and high-density orchards. On this pastoral leg, we saw quail and heron, as well as empty wooden crates waiting for apples. When we stopped at the vista of the Rocky Reach Dam, the hum of electricity buzzed overhead. When cycling in this region, you can’t help but stop and think about human will and ingenuity. The trail goes far into Wenatchee, but Hector and I crossed the Frances Farmer Bridge and headed north on the other side of the river, back in the direction of Chelan. Confusingly, this highway is called Route 97 Alternate, as if it’s an alternative to the highway we came from, which is simply called Route 97. In fact, the alternative is the busier road, less about agriculture and more about commuting. There are few orchards on this highway. Drivers heading south wore their Sunday best heading to church, which enhanced the strange spirituality I was already feeling. Though the shoulders were wide, they didn’t feel it; rock formations and sheer cliffs pushed right up against the road. When we stopped for a water break, we heard a rattlesnake in the hills. Indeed, a word that came to mind on the stretch was “lonely,” and I thought of long, wandering scenes in Ursula K. Le Guin’s Earthsea trilogy. In a car, this is the road that you drive to get from point A to point B; it’s an in-between. On a bike, there is no speeding through the in-between. In fact, there is no in-between at all. All must be experienced and endured at the same pace. It may not feel special or comfortable, but you must pedal it. Each part of the world is all the world, and the pace and vantage of a bicycle reinforces that vital truth. As we cycled north, we could see Lincoln Rock and Daroga on the other side of the river. The scale was massive and clear from this perspective. The cliffs diminished the semi-trucks that roared past us yesterday. I imagined our small bikes, small selves, pedal stroke by pedal stroke following the shape of the land like the geologic strata itself. A powerboat played country music in the river. I didn’t know what to do with this contrast — the rugged landscape, the immigrants working in massive industry, a powerboat in the middle of a dammed river, the scale of violence unfolding in the world — but I knew that for the first time in a while, because of Hector’s photos and because of my bike and because of digital detachment, I was at least seeing again. Hector and I had taken this trip for perspective, and at last we were able to see what was right in front of us. About halfway between Wenatchee and Chelan is Entiat, a small town with fruit stands, a ranger station and a grocery store. It also seems to be the town that provides services to Chelan: HVAC, auto repair, construction supplies, and boat repair. The friendly employees in the grocery store felt like a balm to the intensity of the land. While we repaired a flat tire in the parking lot, we ate apples and Tajín-covered peach rings. Hector went in on a Golden Delicious. I scarfed a Honeycrisp. At first it was a gimmick for the article, but then something happened: Hector and I agreed these were damn good apples. We peeled off the highway at Navarre Coulee Road, a long, low-traffic ascent to the west part of Lake Chelan. It’s steep and, at first, stark. Then we got to some spindly pines and stubborn greenery. The more we sweated and grinded, the more we anticipated the summit. When at last we got there, we stopped cycling, felt the air pass through our lungs again and again, and absorbed the land’s awesome beauty. Below us, traditional orchards rolled down the mountainside like Tuscan vineyards. Below them was Lake Chelan, surrounded by land that was gentle and lush, but all around us was only quietude. We could see the lake (which is 52 miles long) curve its way up toward the Cascade Mountains. The topography of the mountains hinted at the depth of the lake. Hector and I chuckled at the agony and ecstasy of getting to the literal and emotional summit, as bike tourers often do. We put our arms around each other’s shoulders with a sense of pride, friendship, and bittersweetness. When we looked back in the direction we came from — in addition to being hazy from the now annual forest fires in the region — it appeared harsh, scrubby, and unforgiving. We were grateful for the contrast of beauty and grit that we stood within, a contrast that adventure cyclists not only accept but seek out. In a land of industry and labor, we had earned a moment of glory. We delighted in the descent to the lake. The air cooled us and our breathing steadied. Though Hector is new to bike touring, he flew past me. I’ve gotten more cautious and sentimental as I’ve aged; I took my time. It gave me joy to see him fly, and to take it at my own pace. At the bottom of the road is Lake Chelan State Park, a beautiful spot to camp, but we had a few more miles to go before we could rest. The ride into Chelan from this direction has little traffic and wide shoulders. Views of the lake are constant. We passed homes that were shuttered up until the following summer. There are several beloved wineries along the road, but Hector and I didn’t come for the wine. We were here for the harvest. We rode silently, each of our minds now growing new ideas from all we’d seen. We hadn’t just cycled. Indeed, we’d adventured. It really didn’t take all that much time, was one delicious thought I plucked. After 56 total miles that day, we arrived back in Manson, and our trip was done. I was back home in Seattle the next day. I went to my local co-op for groceries and held an organic Honeycrisp in my hand. I thought of the pickers in Manson, the roaring semis, the basalt rock, the peace while eating dinner with Hector. I thought of land and industry, migration and friendship. I thought about enduring discomfort and devouring joy. Riding a bike hadn’t done this to me in a long time — inspired images rather than analysis. When I turned around and looked at all the people in the grocery store, I had a sensation that we are all seeds in some strange digestive system. But we’re designed for it. We have it in us to stay intact. And wherever each of us is dropped, we, the good wild seeds, will spark some new variation of life. Oh, fellow readers, friends, seeds across this country, across this incredible world, say it with me, loud and in unison and again and again and again: Viva la manzana! Viva la aventura! Viva la bicicleta! — Sean Riley is a teacher, writer, and adventure cyclist from Seattle, Washington. Photos by Hector Dominguez-Maceda

The post Good Seeds: Cycling Central Washington During the Apple Harvest appeared first on Adventure Cycling Association.

In The Tall Trees

Jeffrey Yeates — Fri, 11 Oct 2024 18:17:47 +0000

This article originally appeared in the 2024 Nov/Dec issue of Adventure Cyclist magazine.

“The earth has a small negative charge of around 200 millivolts, and humans have about the opposite.” I nodded, unsure of the science behind this assertion, as Mark, a pediatric surgeon turned mental health therapist, explained his theories to me at the breakfast table. It was my first morning in New Zealand. “Humans need to neutralize that charge,” he continued. “You do that by getting in touch with the earth.” I nodded again. Mark then leaned closer, away from his wife, and lowered his voice. “The other therapists in my practice don’t like it, but instead of pills, I sometimes prescribe my patients to get into nature.” He sat back and smiled. “You know, walk barefoot. Touch some trees.”

This story is not just about trees. Or millivolts. It’s about a bike ride along New Zealand’s Timber Trail, one of 23 Great Rides sprinkled throughout this scenic, far-off land. Located in the middle of New Zealand’s Pureora Forest on the North Island, the route is described in an online brochure as “the best two-day ride in the country. Hyperbole? I’ve come to touch some trees — or at least ride among them — and find out.

On Day One, with Mark’s opinions about millivolts and non-pharmaceutical prescriptions ringing in my head, our group finished an ample breakfast of bacon, eggs, and sausage, plus all the muesli, fruit, and coffee we could take, at the Timber Trail Lodge. We’d spent a comfortable night at the guesthouse, set on a hill overlooking its namesake route’s halfway point. A few minutes later, our bikes loaded on the trailer, we clambered into the shuttle van to take us to the start.

Our driver, Vaughn, turned back to us. “Okay, question for all of you: did Rob take a breath when he was driving you up here last night?” Everybody cracked up. We couldn’t say for sure one way or the other.

Rob is Rob Kakahi, a 69-year-old Māori from the Iwi Ngāti Maniapoto (iwi is Māori for “tribe”). The previous night, he’d started talking about the trail and the surrounding old-growth Pureora Forest as he shuttled us to the hotel, and he never let up once on the hour-long drive. And why not? Rob and his iwi belong to the forest. He was here for the intensive logging of native New Zealand trees in the forest. He was here during the environmental protests in the ’70s to save the forest. And he is here now as trekkers and cyclists discover the glorious, preserved forest.

Te Pureora-o-Kahu — “the place where Kahu regained her health” — is the Māori name for the area surrounding Mount Pureora, the highest peak in the Hauhungaroa Mountain Range. (Kahu was a Māori ancestress, and her legendary wanderings throughout New Zealand’s North Island as she mourned her husband’s death are a major settlement narrative in Māori lore.) In between periodic eruptions from nearby Taupō Volcano, the Pureora area lay pristine for millennia. This idyll ended abruptly in the 20th century and by the 1940s, timber companies were pushing into the ancient native podocarp forest, felling 100 to 150 enormous trees a day. Hardwood conifers like the rimu, tōtara, and New Zealand’s tallest tree, the kahikatea, were chopped, chained, dragged, and carted out of the mountains to be milled into lumber.

Jeffrey Yeates

Opposition to logging the ancient trees grew in the 1970s, culminating in 1978 when protestors lived on platforms in the canopy to block operations. It worked. The New Zealand government declared the remaining tracts off limits. The old-growth trees were saved, but as Rob explained, the sudden shutdown threw thousands of loggers out of work, devastating local communities.

With the loggers gone, chirps and trills from some of the country’s most endangered birds replaced the buzzing of saws and roar of machinery. Few visitors entered the protected areas, and the remaining trees grew in peace, the forest taking back the bare hills and tramways and other signs of logging, a slumbering Eden, until 2010.

“It was a John Key project,” said Russ Malone, Timber Trail Lodge’s operations manager, of the effort to use adventure tourism to help rebuild the local, post-logging economy. New Zealand’s prime minister at the time, Key pushed for new cycling trails as part of the Tour Aotearoa, a 3,000-kilometer bikepacking route linking the entire country north to south (or as I like to think of it, One Trail to Rule Them All). The Timber Trail’s 85 kilometers became part of that network when it opened to riders and hikers in 2013.

Vaughn, our shuttle driver, dropped a dozen of us at the Pureora start point, we all took photos in front of the Timber Trail sign, and then we rolled into the forest. I watched my fellow riders, shining in the morning sunlight, disappear into a dark opening of trees, moss, and vines. As I entered, the forest absorbed the noise and sunlight. We were in ancient lands.

I showed up solo for this bicycle trek but quickly made some Kiwi friends, including Tommo and Tania, just ahead of me, who have ridden all over both islands. Behind me was Robert, a former Marylander who’s lived in New Zealand for the last 26 years. Most of my fellow cyclists were on Trek Powerflys, part of the wave of electric-assist bikes. I kept it old school with a rented Trek Roscoe 7 hardtail.

The Timber Trail is 53 miles long (85 kilometers), with an elevation gain of 4,600 feet (1,412 meters) and a descent of around 5,800 feet (1,765 meters). Most riders start at the east end, as we did, and head west toward Ongarue so those numbers are in their favor. How difficult was the route going to be? I’m an experienced roadie, so I figured I had the fitness. As for mountain biking, I love it, but I’m not ashamed to admit that steep descents with big rocks scare me. New Zealand rates the Timber Trail as a variable 2–3 on their 1–6 scale, with 1 being easy and 6 being extreme. This sounded reasonable. Day One’s extended climb toward the Mount Pureora summit and the descending switchbacks accounted for most of the level 3 difficulty.

Mark riding through trees in Pureora Forest early on Day One.

Jeffrey Yeates

The first miles were easy and marvelous, winding through the dark, ancient trees with sunshine slashing here and there through the canopy. We rode past a red and black Māori whakairo rakau, or wood carving, representation of a Waikato Māori chief, Te Kanawa. He challenged a fellow chief to a race that roughly followed the route of the Timber Trail, or so the story goes.

We soon discovered that not every hill in Pureora is virgin forest as we eventually rode out of the woods into direct sunshine. Some of the region remains in private hands, and we rolled within sight of some of those tracts. Although no native or endangered trees are cut, we could see a few barren hillsides, recently harvested. Adjacent to them were a few more hills filled with medium-sized teenage trees targeted for cutting as part of a 25-year cycle.

Back in the forest at kilometer 11, we rolled up to the footpath spur to the Mount Pureora summit. A group of schoolboy cyclists were munching on snacks, having just returned from the peak. I chatted with one of their teachers, Jonathan, who sported a fabulous mustache. “This ride is a final exam for the mountain biking section of our outdoor education class,” he said. “Later, we’ll do kayaking and rock-climbing expeditions.” Feeling some regret that “Awesome Wilderness Adventures 101” was not one of my high school electives, I looked at the boys in their mud-covered shoes and asked, “Is the summit hike worth it?” A few of them nodded and said the trail was fun, but with their teacher standing nearby, I briefly wondered about the sincerity of their response.

It was worth it. My riding companions decided to skip the detour, but I figured it was a perfect day, so carpe diem and all that. Leaving my bike to the side of the trail, I headed into the lush forest, the sounds of the boys’ laughter fading behind me. About halfway up, the forest thinned, and I found myself among scrub and smaller trees. I could see a giant wooden tripod marking the summit, but it remained distant as I negotiated the mud puddles and slippery roots. Finally, I reached the exposed peak and the wind slammed into me. From nearly 4,000 feet (1,165 meters), I could see Lake Taupō, the country’s largest, and the still-snowy summit of Mount Ruapehu, an active stratovolcano and the highest point on New Zealand’s North Island. Mount Ruapehu has been relatively quiet since 2009, but in 1945, it erupted and triggered a mudflow that killed 151 train passengers. Fortunately, the volcano I was standing on, Mount Pureora, is extinct.

Riders cross the Maramataha Bridge, New Zealand’s third- longest suspension bridge and the longest on the Timber Trail.

Jeffrey Yeates

I hiked back to the trail and saw that I was alone, my biking buddies and the schoolboys gone on ahead. From here, the route continued up for several miles to its highest point at 3,200 feet (971 meters). Usually, long ascents are my chance to catch other riders ahead of me, and I enjoy calling out a cheery, “Hey, lookin’ good!” as I pass friends on the mountain (and they probably curse me under their breath). However, there wouldn’t be any shoutouts on this ascent. No matter how hard I pushed, I couldn’t catch my electric bike–riding friends. Curse them and their silent motors!

So it was in solitary splendor that I crested the tail, aimed downhill, negotiated some switchbacks and another corner, and then rolled to a stunned stop. I’d hit the first suspension bridge. “Wow!” I exclaimed to the trees.

The Timber Trail is much more than its famed suspension bridges, but this was a wow moment. The soaring towers and gleaming silver cables were like seeing the Arc de Triomphe anchoring the Champs-Élysées in the final stage of the Tour de France. Despite its inelegant name — Bog Inn Bridge — the crossing was a beauty, stretching nearly 400 feet (115 meters) over the unnervingly steep gorge below. The bridge towers were lowered into place by helicopters, then strung with cables. In addition to the dozens of vertical suspension cables, several horizontal sup-porting cables were strung across the chasm to reduce sway. It all looked comfortingly solid, although a sign advises no more than 10 riders at a time.

I parked the bike and stepped out onto the bridge. Despite the horizontal cables, I was definitely swaying. “Just like a pleasant swing in a summer hammock,” I told myself. A hammock perched over a chasm perhaps, but still a pleasant swing.

Crossing the bridge, back on my bike, I was alone among the trees again, but far from lonely. Nor was it very quiet. Throughout the ride, and especially in the native woods, I heard the whistles and shrieks of birds. Dark shapes flitted across my path. Although I couldn’t identify the individual species calling and flying past me, I knew there was a good chance they started with a “k” — the kōkako, kākā, kākāriki, and kūkūare are among the birds found in Pureora.

Cyclists pass under an ancient, gigantic tree fallen over an old rail trail cutting. This gives an idea of the size of some of the native trees that were logged in the mid-20th century and are now preserved.

Jeffrey Yeates

After six hours and 26 miles of biking, not to mention 2.5 miles of muddy hiking, I finished Day One back at the Timber Trail Lodge. I found my cycling companions, including Tommo and Tania, already out on the deck enjoying a card game and cold beverages in the late afternoon sun.

Given the Timber Trail’s remote setting, nearly all cyclists choose from several mid-trail lodging options. The Timber Trail Lodge, my choice, sleeps up to 45 in rooms with shared bathroom facilities or private suites. Your stay includes breakfast, dinner, and a to-go-lunch, but there are add-ons, including transport to trailheads and bicycle rentals. It is off the grid with solar power and rainwater cisterns and is as lovely and quiet as I could have hoped.

Nearby is Piropiro Campsite, a wide expanse of lawn surrounded by trees in the wop-wops (New Zealand term for “middle of nowhere”) with shared bathroom facilities. Barely two more minutes down the trail sits Camp Epic. “I first visited here 10 years ago and realized this is where I wanted to be and what I wanted to do,” said Paul Goulding, Camp Epic’s owner. Seeing the need for more rider accommodations, he opened the campground. “I modeled our tents and facilities after an African safari.”

I chatted with some of the schoolboys, who were playing card games around one of the tables in the common eating and kitchen area. With the sun setting behind the tents, I bade the Camp Epic glampers farewell and rode back to my guesthouse. I was just in time for a dinner of bacon-wrapped chicken, potatoes, and broccoli salad. As the only non–New Zealander, I played the role of ignorant outsider and enjoyed the opportunity to lob questions about controversial topics, such as politics, religion, and the touchiest topic of all: rugby.

From afar, New Zealand has always seemed to me like a place of cooperation and unity, an island paradise. It was heartening to observe the different views and disagreements in our after-dinner group and be reminded that every country wrestles with divisions. Yet there was no bitterness, and the mood remained as warm as the glowing wood stove nearby.

Around midnight, I awoke and stepped out onto the common balcony to chill myself in the night air and enjoy the quiet. A few nearby tree limbs murmured while unfamiliar Southern Hemisphere stars sparkled above. Off to my side, I could see a light on in the common room. I walked over to turn it off and found Robert and another guest at the table, still engrossed in conversation.

Rolling to a stunned stop, the author arrives at Bog Inn Bridge, the first of half a dozen spectacular bridges.

Jeffrey Yeates

It was early spring on the North Island, and Day Two dawned with temperatures in the high 40s Fahrenheit to start and would only reach the low 60s. We filled up on more eggs and bacon and then hit the dirt. The first highlight of the day was the longest suspension bridge of the trail — Maramataha Bridge — extending 462 feet (141 meters) with its towers rising at least 200 feet (60 meters) from the gorge below. It is the third-longest suspension bridge in New Zealand. All of us gathered at one end, setting ourselves up for photos and gaping at the views.

More forest, more views, more fun downhills, and then the final suspension bridge: Mangakotukutuku Bridge. While not as long as the others, Mangakotukutuku dramatically spans the giant rocks jutting out of Goat Creek below. After hopping among the rocks and shouting out to Tommo and Tania and other riders as they crossed above us, we lay out in the sun, pleased with our efforts. We only had about nine miles (15 kilometers) left, and they were predominantly downhill.

We traced the old Ellis and Burnand logging company tramway. The rails and ties used to transport the felled trees out of the forest were gone, but we soon discovered evidence of the loggers from decades before. There were a few abandoned camps and worker huts on off-trail spurs. At one point, we stopped and walked around a massive, steam-powered log hauler, its cable still attached to a giant, rotting tree. I imagined that trail workers, pondering the bulk, decided to leave it as a trail-side exhibit, rusting away in a grassy meadow.

At kilometer 75, we anticipated the other highlight of Day Two: the Dungeons & Dragons–esque Ongarue Spiral. The 360-degree loop of railroad track is not a fantasy trap for tired cyclists but instead a remarkable engineering feat, built by Ellis and Burnand to ease the grade for their loaded timber trains. As we approached, our trail spiraled down underneath itself, leading into a black tunnel. Out of sight and around the corner, I could hear the hoots of other riders in the tunnel, and then, almost before I realized it, we were rolling into the dripping darkness, aiming for the bright smudge of sunlight ahead.

We exited the spiral demon-free. With most of the mountain forest now behind us, the landscape softened. Inevitable New Zealand sheep appeared among the hills, and it would not have surprised me to see some Hobbits wandering about. New Zealand is Lord of the Rings country, of course, and the Hobbiton film set, a major tourist draw, is only a few hours north of Pureora.

We wound through the easy bucolic miles, then up one final rise and were at trail’s end. All was cheery here at this roadside spot with an open shelter, water, and simple bathrooms. I saw most of my cycling companions from the last few days lazing on the benches and ground. Instead of waiting for the shuttle, several of us decided to ride a few more miles on a paved road to where our cars waited in the lot. Along the way, I passed a giant herd of curious reindeer, their antlers destined for Asia, keeping their collective eyes on me as I rode by. More sobering, I paused at a trackside memorial to a 1923 train accident that killed 17 people.

As I changed clothes and packed up my rental car, I ran into Vaughn, our driver from the first morning. He congratulated me on finishing the trail, asking how I liked the scenery. “Rob Kakahi said this was the most beautiful part of New Zealand,” I replied, “so it must be.” Vaughn laughed and said something about there being a lot of beautiful scenery in New Zealand.

Among all of New Zealand’s natural wonders, is the Timber Trail the best two-day ride in the country? Well, I hope to sample more of New Zealand’s 23 Great Rides and compare, but scenery aside, I think the route could be the most meaningful ride in New Zealand. It comes back to the trees, of course. Because Rob isn’t the only one who gets emotional about this land.

Before my trip, I watched a documentary about Pureora Forest, featuring former loggers and Māori whose jobs and communities were abruptly wiped out in the 1978 logging shut-down. The interviews took place in the forest itself, and, sitting among the preserved trees, it was clear that their bitterness toward the protestors had softened. “I think what the protestors did was the right thing to do and maybe we should have done it ourselves,” mused Dave, one of the former loggers. A bulldozer operator from the 1940s named Bruce took it even further. “The logging should have never happened. This is magnificent . . .” and then he trailed off, emotion overtaking him as he looked around at the towering ancient trees.

I rode among those trees — I may have even touched a few of them — and yes, they are magnificent.

The post In The Tall Trees appeared first on Adventure Cycling Association.

Bike Touring During Wildfire Season: What to Know and When To Bail

Hollie Ernest — Thu, 29 Aug 2024 14:22:53 +0000

Climate change is increasing North America’s dramatic wildfires each year, with apocalyptic smoke-darkened skies and scorched landscapes. In 2021, smoke from California wildfires reached as far as New York City, while ashes from Colorado fires fell on coastal regions. “Unfortunately, because smoke can travel thousands of miles, you don’t have to be close to the fires [to be adversely affected] by wildfire smoke,” said Dr. Mary Prunicki, director of air pollution and health research at the Sean N. Parker Center for Allergy and Asthma Research, in an interview with the Washington Examiner. Recent studies suggest that particulates in wildfire smoke are 10 times more harmful to humans than car exhaust. The majority of wildfire smoke is made up of particulate matter with a diameter of 2.5 micrometers, called PM 2.5. These particles are so tiny that 30 of them equal the width of one human hair. Invisible to the naked eye, they can infiltrate our lungs and our bloodstream, impacting our immune system and central nervous system. “Air pollution that comes from wildfires affects every organ in our body,” says Aaron Bernstein, who leads the Harvard T.H. Chan School of Public Health’s Center said in an interview with Outside Online. Between wildfires and the resulting smoke plumes, plans for pedal-powered adventures might need to be altered. Dr. John Balmes, a California air pollution researcher and spokesperson for the American Lung Association, says, “The worst thing to do is to go exercise like running or biking when the air quality is bad, because that increases your dose of exposure to the wildfire smoke. People often start breathing through the mouth and bypass the filtering mechanism of the nose.” Supporting this claim is another study that shows that particles inside the body were 4.5 times higher during exercise than at rest.

Is it Helpful to Wear a Respirator or Mask?

N95 masks can filter out PM2.5, but the fit has to be tight, over the nose and mouth with no gaps. It should be collapsing somewhat when you breathe in. To me, that sounds very uncomfortable, limiting, and reserved for emergency situations, like when smoke moves in unpredictably on a bike tour. Post-pandemic, I carry an N95 mask with me all the time. They are lightweight and take up no room, so why not pack one? If you are traveling during fire season (which is lengthening every year), carry a mask. If you’re curious about the feasibility of other masks, the Guardian published a review of cycling masks in 2015, with London’s air pollution in mind.

Understand Where the Smoke is Coming From

The government’s Fire and Smoke Map can help you see the origin and trajectory of the smoke. Then you can assess how it might impact your route. If you are riding an Adventure Cycling route, you can toggle the Fire Data and National Interagency Fire Center Incident Data layers at the bottom of the Interactive Network Map. Dr. Tod Olin, a pulmonologist and director of the Exercise Breathing Center at National Jewish Health, recommends watching the Air Quality Index (AQI) for your specific location. The EPA updates the AQI hourly on AirNow, and there is an app for smartphones. The index is worth printing out and keeping in your handlebar bag. When the direction of the wind changes, so does the path of the smoke. Keeping an eye on the wind direction in the weather forecast can help you predict where smoke will travel next. If the air is stagnant or blowing from the direction of a nearby fire, consider waiting until the wind picks up from a different direction. Dr. Olin’s recommendation is simple: Identify an AQI number that becomes your own personal no-go number, (likely between 101-200). If you have symptoms of inhaling particulate matter such as stinging eyes, runny nose, coughing, sinus irritation, wheezing or shortness of breath, these are indicators that you are at your own AQI no-go number. Other indicators are headaches, fatigue, and fast heartbeat. Once you see that number, or experience those symptoms, abandon the mission and reroute.The stress of wildfire smoke on your body can be cumulative, so what feels comfortable one day might be difficult to bike in the next.

Know How to Reroute (and When You Should Turn Around)

Before you leave, check your route to identify potential bail-out points. Research if these intersect with a bus or train line. This level of planning is helpful when smoke blows in, but also a variety of other situations. Years ago, when I was cycling south from San Francisco, the wind blew me off my bike—not once but twice. With wet feet, bruised elbows and deflated ego, I got on a bus. The next day was a glorious ride. If you are on a longer trip (Southern Tier, Great Divide, etc.) consider taking a bus or train around a smoky section and returning to that area at a different time of year. Spring can be a magical and low-fire risk time to ride. Plus you’ll often have better water access and get to see wildflower blossoms. Aligning your route with the Amtrak train line is a good option, especially since they have options for transporting your bike for nominal fees. Check Amtrak train routes across the U.S. here and check here for more details about bikes as luggage. It’s never easy to alter your journey, especially when you’ve been looking forward to it, and spent time and energy planning and organizing. It can be physically, mentally, and emotionally challenging. But when it comes to smoke, protecting our lungs for years to come is worth a little rerouting now. After years of touring in the U.S. and abroad, I now accept that a change in plans is all part of the plan. In 2020, the pandemic sent me home from remote Patagonia. I was 14 months into cycling around the world solo, a life dream I had held since 2010. Yes, I cried. Before that, illnesses turned my timelines upside down. More recently, visa issues forced me to travel in the opposite direction. I’ve learned to deal with the disappointment, mourn the loss of what was to be, and get on to planning the next trip. After being at home in California for almost three years, I went back to Patagonia in 2023, exactly where I left off. I have continued pedaling around the world, to the tip of South America, then Africa, and now Europe. Restarting wasn’t easy, but neither was starting in the first place. If I can do it, trust me, you can too. When the smoke settles and the path forward is free and clear, you will ride again.

The post Bike Touring During Wildfire Season: What to Know and When To Bail appeared first on Adventure Cycling Association.

Redwood National Park: Local Adventures Can be Grand Adventures

Hollie Ernest — Tue, 02 Jul 2024 20:57:43 +0000

This is a ride report for the Short Route: Eureka, CA: Redwood Coast Loop while the author and her husband were developing the route. Sweat dripped down my nose and landed on my handlebars. Gnats whirred in my ears, determined to steal my sanity. By slapping them, I slapped my own face, and when I slapped my ear too hard my hand got tangled in my helmet strap. I cursed the added weight of the bottle of wine and steak in my pannier. Won’t steak be fun, I had thought. Won’t that be romantic. It was the Friday of Memorial Day weekend. I questioned why we weren’t swimming and grilling out on the long weekend, like normal people. Instead, I was huffing and puffing and checking the map every tenth of a mile to see if we were at the top of the long, steep gravel climb. We had left our house near the breezy Pacific Ocean in Arcata, California, and pedaled 35 miles over two watersheds, inland to the mountains and the heat. I used to think there was no point cycling roads I drove all the time. For years, I planned cycling trips in other states or countries and neglected the roads around me. Groups of us would mountain bike on our local forest trails, but local overnights seemed either too close or too much hassle. But my partner Tom and I had decided to change it up, mapping this loop and riding it over the long weekend. En route up this hill I had driven dozens of times, I saw clusters of trees I never noticed before, including a few particularly large Douglas firs and madrones. There were also scattered acres that had been harvested for timber, a large boulder shaped like a dog, and the beginning of royal purple larkspur flowers. “Was that there last time we were here?” I asked Tom as we pedaled past a small DIY shooting range just over the BLM boundary. He said that it was. Despite appreciating the novel observations, I was tired and kept asking myself, Where am I? Did we miss the turn? Missing the turn to Lacks Creek is impossible. We would never miss the turn. Tom had driven up to Lacks Creek close to a hundred times during the building of the trail system. We had actually met on that drive years before when I volunteered for a trail-building day. I should have known that his up-for-anything attitude and my motivation for adventurous weekends would lead to this masochistic Friday afternoon. I wiped my sweaty hands on my saturated shorts and kept pedaling. We finally reached the unmissable turn, pedaled another mile, and set up camp overlooking the fog covering the ocean to the west. Horse Mountain sat to the southeast of us, and rays of sunset danced around the clouds. The arduous climb became a distant memory and we felt somewhat smug about our weekend getaway out of the fog and into the warm spring air. Congratulating ourselves with steaks over the fire, we drank wine from the bottle and I went over all the flowers I had seen on the ride, including ones I hadn’t noticed on other trips by car. We were already excited for the next two days of pedaling. The next day we woke up foggy in our heads and legs, but after strong black coffee and tortillas filled with Nutella, we carefully descended corrugated gravel towards the Hoopa Valley to the east. We saw a bear, a fox, and osprey, marveling at the geology of the cliffs and bluffs along State Highway 96, as we cycled north along the Trinity River. The Trinity River merges with the Klamath River, known for its legendary salmon runs. We crossed the bridge at the confluence and refilled our snack supply at the newly renovated Weitchpec store. After crossing the bridge over the wide, murky water, we turned left on the 169, then crossed back over the Klamath and climbed up switchbacks on Bald Hills Road, cycling west. Over the next day and a half, we crossed the ancestral lands of Hupa and Yurok Tribes, up and over Bald Hills Road, and into Redwood National Park. Before crossing into the park, there is a very elaborate Yurok Veterans Cemetery, with somewhat overbuilt concrete buildings, ramps and railings. We paid our appropriate respects over the Memorial Day weekend. The smell of bigleaf maple blossoms sat heavily in the fog as bird calls echoed in the steeper parts of the valley. The pain from Friday had dissolved and we glided along, happy to be pedaling through the mist that covered the golden meadows and purple lupine lining the road. Two years before, I had worked a summer in the Bald Hills on a project to restore habitat for native grasses. Even though I had hiked for more than 100 hours over the oak woodlands and prairies, I hadn’t felt the rolling hills as intimately as that day. This time, on bikes, each meadow and each hill etched into my mind like a nail scratching into an aluminum tree tag, recorded for later. As the road leaves the ridge, potholed hairpin turns lead back to the coast and Highway 101. We descended quickly, seeing 1,00o-year-old redwood trees and outpacing the cars. From the intersection of Bald Hills and Highway 101, you can turn right to go north for more redwood glory via Newton B Drury Scenic Parkway, or turn south and ride through the town of Orick. There is a well-known burger and shake stand in Orick, and I felt like I had earned a meal there. We attacked the elk burgers, fries, and milkshakes like we hadn’t eaten in weeks. I wiped ketchup from my chin and stared at the redwood burls across the highway. Sitting on our stools next to the two-lane highway across the street from a run-down motel, we deemed this was the best Memorial Day weekend. We were on a local adventure, absorbing the hills we call home. The section along the 101 was the most familiar to me, since I drove it often for work. But again, I got to see what I had been missing. A short walk along the beach near Freshwater Lagoon left sand in our cycling shoes, and the waves were deafening, rising close to shore before crashing onto the hard-packed sand. Continuing south along the coast, we passed Big Lagoon and Stone Lagoon, pedaling slow enough to note the level of vegetation in their brackish waters. Otters poked their heads out and gulls crowded the shores. Cormorants glided low over the choppy water. The sky was overcast when we arrived home on Monday afternoon. Instead of punching the weekend to the last minute like usual, we had time to unpack, clean gear, and get ready for work the next day. Despite this moment of responsible behavior, we felt like we had gotten away with something. We’d had an epic weekend and felt like we’d gone far away and seen things no one else had. Since that memorable trip years ago, I’ve cycled various parts of this route on different rides. Each time, I feel a deeper sense of connection and familiarity with the place I call home. Instead of regarding these places as mundane or boring, I see them as more special. Each small hill, each large mountain, each watershed, or smooth-barked trees… are all special. This particular weekend reminded me that adventure is a mindset, and the ‘grand’ part of grand adventures is up to us.

Find the route here

Nuts and Bolts

This is a loop route with a start / finish in Eureka, California.
It is 185 miles with 16,167 feet of climbing and can be cycled in either direction.
There is not much resupply, so take most of what you’ll need and top up on snacks accordingly.
Depending on the time of year, you’ll want to be strategic about water. After a rainy winter, there will likely be more springs, but these dry up in the fall or during low-precipitation summers. There are several waterless sections as well.
You can shorten or lengthen this route according to your timeframe. There are several out-and-backs included in the route, in order to factor in spaced-out campgrounds. The road is mostly paved roads with a few short gravel sections.

Highlights

Ecosystem variety! You’ll see Humboldt Bay, inland conifer forests, steep river valleys, oak forests, and prairies before returning to the Pacific Coast.
Seeing several watersheds
Redwood trees
Mountain views
If you do this route in the summer you’ll have campgrounds with riverfront spots

While dominant winds on the coast are typically from the west and/or north, it’s worth checking the wind direction on an app like Windy before choosing which direction to ride. The route is designed to leave from Eureka, the population center for Humboldt County, but you could easily start from Arcata, McKinleyville, or another nearby community. Eureka and Arcata have plenty of shops and accomodations, but once you get pedaling, resupply is limited to convenience stores in Weitchpec and Orick. Campsites near the route are marked on the Ride with GPS route, and you can divide the days however you like. People who want to speed through it could do it in two or three days, while sightseers could turn it into a five-day tour. This route has a lot of climbing, as well as some short sections with high traffic, so it is not recommended for families or kids. This route takes place on the ancestral lands of the Hupa, Karuk, Yurok, and Wiyot peoples.

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A Little Loop in Michigan

Laura Killingbeck — Thu, 06 Jun 2024 19:49:43 +0000

One of my favorite ways to see a new place is to make my own bike loop. I love pedaling away from wherever I am and returning a few days later to the same spot. There’s a magic in leaving and returning at the speed of your own legs. This year I spent the winter caretaking a condo and dog in western Michigan, and after that I had a few days to explore. I decided to go on a little bike loop to see more of the backcountry and coastline.

Route Planning

To plan this trip, I just poked around the Adventure Cycling Association website and Bikepacking.com to see if there were any bike routes nearby. On the Adventure Cycling website I found the North Lakes cycling route, a paved U.S. bike route along the coast of Lake Michigan. The route had easy resupplies, great views of the lake, and plenty of camping options. And it passed directly through the town I was in!

I found the North Country Traverse on Bikepacking.com. This is a 172-mile non-technical singletrack route starting at a trailhead about 50 miles away. The route also showed plenty of backcountry camping options, water, and easy resupplies. I compared the two routes and found they intersected at the northern terminus of the North Country Traverse at Traverse City, creating a near-perfect loop. I could ride out of town on the North Lakes cycling route, cut over to the North Country Traverse, take that to Traverse City, and then hop back onto the North Lakes route down the coast to where I’d started. So that’s what I did! The total length of this route was about 300 miles, and it took me about a week and a half. I also wrote about my first day on this trip in this story. Here are the details about this shorter route, and how to tackle it yourself.

Navigation

Before I left, I downloaded maps of the area to my phone and tablet through Google Maps and Gaia. Google Maps is a free source for offline road maps. Gaia is an excellent app that shows detailed hiking and biking routes, campsites, and landscapes. I also downloaded the North Country Traverse GPX files to my phone and tablet from Bikepacking.com. Along my ride, I also picked up a paper map of cycling routes from the Michigan Department of Transportation. You can order or download that map from their website.

Landscape and Climate

I left in mid-April, which is technically spring, but in Michigan it still felt like winter! During the first few days of my trip, I experienced rain, sleet, snow, and a brief moment of surprise hail. Nighttime temperatures were in the 20s. A week and a half later when I finished my trip, flowers were blooming and temperatures were in the 60s. The entire loop was mostly flat with some short, rolling hills. There were no mountain passes or significant elevation changes. The North Country Traverse highlighted western Michigan’s secluded forests and dunes. The North Lakes Route reminded me of Adventure Cycling’s Pacific Coast Route, which I cycled last year. If you’re attracted to shoreline riding, the Michigan section of the North Lakes Route is a gem.

Camping and Resupply

I camped every night along the way. The North Country Traverse and my section of the North Lakes route both pass through National and State forest land with ample free dispersed camping. I supplemented my dispersed campsites with registered camping in Michigan’s extensive network of primitive campgrounds. As always, the Adventure Cycling Association and Bikepacking.com show campsites, lodging options, and grocery stores on their route maps. I always bring tons of food with me wherever I go. I prefer to eat as much as I want all the time without having to measure or ration anything. I also often dehydrate my own foods ahead of time and take them with me. This means I end up carrying a lot of extra weight in food, but I don’t really mind. On this trip I supplemented the food I brought from home with resupplies at country stores, gas stations, and grocery stores. There were plenty of options. I got most of my water in towns, but also occasionally filtered water from streams.

Bike and Gear

I don’t think you need the “perfect” gear to go on a bike trip. You just need the gear that will get you there and back, and keep you safe and happy along the way. My setup is always a mix of things I happen to have, items that survive the test of time, and whatever new gear I’m testing for gear companies. You can see my full gear list for this trip here.

Creating Your Own Bike Loop from a Larger Route

Since 1976, the Adventure Cycling Association has mapped over 50,000 miles of bike routes across the United States. These bike routes intertwine and overlap, forming hundreds of possible loops. You can also make your own loop by splicing routes together however you want. I’ve often planned my bike trips to start or end at my house or a friend’s house. That’s what I love so much about bike travel: you can start wherever you are, or aim for wherever you want to be. The adventure unfolds along the way. To make your own loop, just choose a place to start or end and then pull out some maps. The Adventure Cycling Association’s Interactive Route Map is a great place to look. How close are you to a bike route?

The North Lakes Route Nuts and Bolts

Overview: The North Lake Route connects 1,600 miles of pavement and bike paths between Minneapolis, Minnesota and Denver, Indiana. Distance: 1,600 miles (1,200 miles plus additional route alternates) Route Surface: Paved Terrain: Backroads, highways, and bike paths. Flat or rolling, with no major mountain passes. Best Season to ride: Spring, summer, and fall (Adventure Cycling recommends May through September). Bike: Any bike Find more information and download maps through the Adventure Cycling Association.

The North Country Traverse Nuts and Bolts

Overview: The North Country Traverse is a singletrack bike route through western Michigan. It follows a bike-friendly segment of the North Country Trail (NCT), a 4,800-mile footpath between North Dakota and Vermont. Distance: 173 miles Route Surface: 86% unpaved, 66% singletrack Terrain: Mostly non-technical with some roots, leaf litter, blow-downs, sand, mud, bridges, stairs, and other obstacles. Flat or rolling. The trail is well-marked with signs and blue blazes. Best Season to ride: Spring, summer, and fall. (Bikepacking.com recommends April through November, or whenever the trail is clear of snow.) Bike: This is a mountain bike route. Recommended tire size is two inches or wider. Find more information and GPX files at Bikepacking.com.

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Celebrating the Northern Tier on its 40th Anniversary

Maggie Slepian — Mon, 06 May 2024 17:18:57 +0000

In June of 1976, Adventure Cycling — then known as Bikecentennial — mapped and publicized their first route: the TransAmerica Trail. This cross-country route stretched over 4,000 miles from Astoria, Oregon to Yorktown, Virginia and became an instant classic. But even as the TransAmerica Trail was being finalized, another idea was taking shape: a second route that would also cross the U.S. coast to coast, but this one would stay up north. The idea was to hug the Canada / U.S. border, aiming to maximize the grandeur and rugged beauty of the northern part of the country.

This is the route that would become the Northern Tier, initially conceived in 1975 and officially mapped by Adventure Cycling cartographers in 1983 and 1984. The final version, completed in 1984, was a 4,296-mile adventure from Anacortes, Washington to Bar Harbor, Maine.

To gain funding for the Northern Tier’s development, Adventure Cycling Founder Greg Siple and former Adventure Cycling Executive Director Gary MacFadden pulled out all the stops on their proposal. They displayed the system of routes combined with photographs of scenery along the way, sending professionally bound copies of the proposal to the Huffy Foundation, which had potential for grant funding. Eventually the deal was made, and the financial backing helped make the Northern Tier possible.

Pamphlet page displaying routes along the Northern Tier states.

The Northern Tier was created by combining a network of pre-existing routes linked together with new segments to reach coast to coast; a dramatic, challenging cross-country ride that begins and ends with serious climbing, leading cyclists through incredible scenery on a near-constant basis. Today, it remains a bucket-list route, taking cyclists from Washington State to the Northern Rockies, into the sweeping plains of the Dakotas and iconic mountains of New Hampshire and Vermont. Cyclists riding its entirety will pedal everything from Going-to-the-Sun Road in Glacier National Park to Kancamagus Pass in New Hampshire, and climb nearly 175,000 total feet. This year marks the 40th anniversary of the Northern Tier, and as summer approaches, the season for cycling this route will soon be upon us. “The Northern Tier is kind of a hidden gem,” says Jenn Hamelman, Adventure Cycling Association Routes Director. “The TransAmerica is the most popular, and people see the Southern Tier as more appealing because it’s shorter. But the Northern Tier is really something that gets overlooked.”

Dan Miller

Hamelman cycled over 2,100 miles across the northern U.S. in 2017, from Maine to Minnesota before she hopped off to avoid the threat of wildfires. She based her route on the Northern Tier, albeit with a few modifications to see friends and acquaintances. “The people across the route were amazing,” Hamelman says, recounting tales of trail angels, friendly locals, and hospitable town stops. That’s not to say her experience on the route was easy. “Both the eastern and western parts of the Northern Tier are very mountainous and hilly,” she recalls. “Crossing Vermont and New Hampshire is just one pass after another. It’s pretty intense… Kancamangus Pass was one of my hardest days of cycling ever.”

Chuck Haney

While Adventure Cycling doesn’t have exact records as to the number of cyclists on the Northern Tier route each year, Adventure Cycling guided tours have rave reviews, and self-supported cyclists have ethusiastically volunteered tales of their journeys. The reasons cyclists gave for choosing this route varied. Some were inspired by other cyclists, some sought the majestic scenery of the Northern U.S. and for several, it was their first extended bike tour. Several people also mentioned the desire to “circumnavigate” the U.S. on Adventure Cycling routes — top to bottom, east to west… on four sides. This epic goal includes cycling the West Coast on the Pacific Coast route, the East Coast on the Atlantic Coast, the northern states on the Northern Tier, and the southern part of the country on the Southern Tier. We reached out to several cyclists for their memories* of the Northern Tier. In their own words, here is the Northern Tier from two self-supported cyclists and one Adventure Cycling tour guide. Perhaps their stories might be the final push you need to add this route to your own list.

***

Deb Gardner

Year: 2018 Type: Self-supported Direction: West to East Duration: 64 days

Deb Gardner

My husband Tom and I completed the Northern Tier route in 2018. We thought of the route as an Oreo cookie — flat grasslands sandwiched between mountain ranges on either side. But beyond cookies, and notable landmarks like the Cascades, Glacier National Park, Logan Pass, visiting Canada (twice), eventually the Adirondacks, the Green Mountains, the Whites and Niagara Falls. The seed [for riding this route] was planted back in 2014 when we were on our way back to the Spokane airport after running a couple marathons in Idaho and Washington. While driving through the Cascade mountains on Highway 2 we passed a mother/daughter duo cycling West to East across the country on the Northern Tier. We stopped to chat with them and decided it would be this trip, this route, this direction, someday. Northern Tier, to us, appeared to be the “granddaddy” of all rides in the continental United States due to its length and the variety of topography. We rode West to East because we live in Indianapolis and we could get home more easily from Maine than Washington. After shipping our bikes to Bellingham, Washington, we started on June 1st and finished on August 7th in 64 days, taking only four rest days.

Deb Gardner

The highlight of the trip was seeing our country and meeting its people at an average speed of 10 miles an hour from a bicycle seat… slower than a car, but faster than walking. In our opinion, bike touring is the best way to experience our country if you’re able. The start and finish of any ride is always a highlight, however cycling Going-To-The-Sun Road and visiting the National Parks were right up there. Tom’s favorite state was bucolic Wisconsin whereas I was in my groove in upstate New York with its mountains, trees, and lakes. We both agreed that North Dakotans were the most friendly folks. For some, the toughest days will be climbing. For others it will be the gas station food. Still others will struggle with the inability to roll with the changes. For us, it is always cold weather. The beginning of the ride included some cold temps and rain which made for some challenging cycling. The Northern Tier route was our first and longest cross country ride. Since then, we have completed the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route (border to border) in 2021 and Southern Tier in 2023, although we decided to turn right in St. Augustine and ride the Atlantic Coast Route south all the way to Key West.

Deb Gardner

Each ride was unique and offered something different. I think we learned the most on Northern Tier, and not as much about bike touring as we learned about ourselves. We learned to be resourceful in limiting what we took on the ride, we learned we could eat like teenagers for weeks at a time and we learned that yes, the mountains are spectacular, especially when going down them, the wildlife in its natural habitat, magical, and the flowers and trees interesting enough to keep our bike pedals turning, but it’s the people we met along the journey that made the trip unforgettable. On the Great Divide we learned compromise. When Canada closed its borders to travelers during COVID, we settled for a border-to-border southbound ride. We learned our bodies would do what our minds commanded, even though the route’s terrain was more than us Hoosier flatlanders were accustomed. Most of all we learned we could get way outside of our comfort zone so long as we took it one day at a time.

Deb Gardner

After having two cross-country tours under our belt, we thought Southern Tier would be a slam dunk and especially so after the Great Divide. Wrong! Southern Tier taught us humility and choosing the right season to ride is paramount. However, consistent in all three tours we lived more simply, presumed the best in people and learned not to sweat the small stuff. Further, we used Adventure Cycling’s indispensable paper and digital maps. On all three tours our post dinner nightly “route rap” was something we looked forward to each night as we looked at mileage, services, elevation and field notes for the next day and then checked the weather forecast for wind and temps. If only the weather forecasts were as reliable as ACA maps. The Northern Tier was our introduction to long distance bike touring… and we are only just beginning.

***

Monte Marti

Year: 2023 Type: Adventure Cycling Guide Direction: East to West Duration: 90 days

Monte Marti

What can I even say about the Northern Tier?? It is constant, epic cycling. Once we took off from Bar Harbor, we saw incredible places like Niagara Falls, then rode into the Rockies and the Cascades… one epic thing after another. All 90 days were just chock full of things that people would love to check off their list. The most challenging part was the distance and days — you’re a long time away from your family and friends, and 90 days is a long time on a bicycle. On top of that, you have the physical challenges. The Northern Tier involves climbing up and over White Mountains in the East and the Rockies and Cascades in the West. Plus, you’re right in the middle of summer, and in a typical summer on the Northern Tier you’re going to face a variety of things from rain to heat to winds.

Monte Marti

The Northern Tier can feel more challenging than other epic Adventure Cycling routes. Unlike other trails that ease you into the climbs, you’re into it immediately, and it’s helpful to be in good shape no matter which direction you start from. Our tour went from Maine to Washington, but a lot of people we met doing it on their own went from West to East because they feel like those are the prevailing winds. We didn’t get stuck with many winds however, and it didn’t seem like they were consistently in one direction or another. I love other epic routes like the Southern Tier and Atlantic Coast for their own reasons. But what I experienced on the Northern Tier is that from start to finish, you’re constantly running into epic things along the route… every single day.

Monte Marti

Each one of these rides is unique. You just need to peel back the onion as to what makes it unique. The scenery, the people you meet along the way, the places you see, the weather. Each of those things makes up an epic trip like the Northern Tier, and each day of a ride like that. It’s something to love and enjoy… that’s the beauty. With the Northern Tier and bike travel in general, every day can be a beautiful adventure. That’s how I encourage people to get past the thought of: Oh shoot, I have another 50 days. Just look at the beauty of each day. It’s going to be challenging. You may have headwinds. You may have 100-degree temperatures. You may have 5,000 feet of elevation gain. It’s a challenge. It’s going to be difficult. But think about it. Once you get it done, you’ve done it and you’ve accomplished it and you get to celebrate at the end of the day. Then you get to go do something different tomorrow.

Monte Marti

As a leader, you have to coach and help and guide people through the challenges of 90 days on the Northern Tier. You have your group and your gear and your bikes and all of the things that come along with that. But if you break it down day by day, it becomes a beautiful thing.

***

Dan Miller

Year: 2021 Type: Self-supported Direction: West to East Duration: 67 days

Dan Miller

I rode the Northern Tier in 2021, after I retired at 63. I started in Anacortes, Washington on August 1 and finished in Bar Harbor, Maine on October 6, two months and one week. I did the ride by myself except for my brother joining me for a week in Wisconsin. I decided on the Northern Tier because I couldn’t start till August 1 — I had a daughter getting married the last weekend of July. I did some research on scenery and weather and the Northern Tier won. I also read and followed the blog of a couple (Tom and Deb Gardner) that had ridden the Northern Tier several years earlier. For highlights, it’s hard to beat the majesty of the Rockies on Going to the Sun Road in Glacier National Park. The vastness of the Northern Plains is hard to fathom and awe inspiring coming from suburbia. And riding in New England along streams and rivers in the mountains as the fall colors started to pop was amazing.

Dan Miller

The hardest part of the whole trip was the daily issue of logistics. How far am I going today where am I sleeping and where am I eating. Small town restaurants are not always open seven days a week especially along the Northern Tier after Labor Day. The hardest day was my shortest day at 40 miles, cycling into a steady 30 mile-per-hour headwind with strong gusts, occasional heavy rain, and some road construction.

Dan Miller

My “short” speech to people who asked was that everyone who can should do it! It is a big beautiful country full of wonderful people with great stories to share. Turning off the news for two months and getting away from all the gloom and doom and fear is rejuvenating in and of itself, but adding in all the wonderful people, scenery, and daily exercise is life affirming. *Interviews have been lightly edited for length and clarity Feature image: Chuck Haney

The post Celebrating the Northern Tier on its 40th Anniversary appeared first on Adventure Cycling Association.

How You Ride the Great American Rail-Trail

Maggie Slepian — Wed, 24 Apr 2024 15:04:16 +0000

Picture this: You hop on your bike in Washington, D.C. and start pedaling on a series of bike paths and peaceful sections of rail-trails. You angle northwest through Pennsylvania and cross Ohio, continuing across the Midwest into Wyoming, Montana, and Idaho until you reach Washington and cycle all the way to the Pacific Ocean. This journey across the U.S. is separated from traffic, utilizing a series of interconnected multi-use trails and allowing you to safely explore the vistas, small towns, and rich history across the country. Sound nice? That’s the Rails to Trails Conservancy’s (RTC) vision for the Great American Rail-Trail, a massive undertaking more than 50% complete with over 2,050 completed miles already on the ground. New trail segments are added to the route each year, and RTC is working with hundreds of partners across the country to accelerate trail development.

The Great American Rail-Trail is an Iconic Route in the Making

Credit: Rails to Trails Conservancy**

RTC began tracking rail-trail development in the late 1980s. Over time, a non-motorized route across America began to present itself. RTC waited until a pathway through the West was possible and the cross-country route was more than 50% completed before committing to leading its development. After conducting hundreds of meetings to gather input from trail partners, and local and state agencies, RTC announced the project to the public in May 2019.

As it stands, the route traverses 12 states and Washington, D.C., with more than 100 miles of trail in current active development. RTC works with hundreds of trail organizations and partners on local and state levels to help map this route, hitting major cities like Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, Columbus, Ohio, Seattle, Washington, and Missoula, Montana. Notable trail segments include the Great Allegheny Passage, Great Miami River Trail in Ohio, and the Palouse to Cascades State Park Trail in the state of Washington. Since the trail segments aren’t fully linked, people embarking on this journey currently map their own connections between completed trail portions using a series of roadways. No matter what section or state you decide to ride, riding between historic towns and major cities on peaceful rail-trails is the adventure of a lifetime. More than 50 million people live within 50 miles of one of these proposed segments, so the opportunity for increased recreation on accessible, non-motorized paths is a benefit for everyone. Each year has seen major strides in visibility, progress, and cyclists’ time spent on the route. Since the project was announced in 2019, more than $117.5 million in public and private resources have been invested in projects along the Great American Rail-Trail.

Adventure Cycling Partners Up to Create a Detour Route through the Mountain West

Western end of the detour route at the Route of the Olympian. Credit: Rails to Trails Conservancy.

In many parts of the country, people have several options for connecting existing sections, including traveling through towns with services and linking together road segments. Some regions need more connections than others. The Mountain West — particularly between the western end of the Cowboy Recreation and Nature Trail in Chadron, Nebraska and the eastern end of the Route of the Olympian in St. Regis, Montana — provides a unique challenge. This 960-mile section of the route has the fewest existing trail miles, and services can be spread far apart. To help amend this, RTC came to Adventure Cycling to map a detour route. Since the Great American Rail-Trail is based on the idea that cyclists will be on separated paths away from vehicle traffic, it appeals to a certain audience of cyclists. As some of those cyclists are less comfortable on busier roadways, the detour route creates a temporary solution for those ready to ride it right now. Adventure Cycling’s experience lies largely in building safe and accessible routes on existing roadways, and their cartographers tapped a few different resources to create the detour route. These included existing Adventure Cycling routes, regional and social network knowledge, and intel from state and local organizations and cycling groups. “RTC wants to create the safest, most comfortable riding experience for folks. Out here in the West, we have a much looser and more gap-filled set of paths to work from,” says Jenn Hamelman, Director of Routes for Adventure Cycling Association.

Credit: Rails to Trails Conservancy

“RTC’s expertise is in rail-trails and separated paths, and our expertise is in trying to find the best solutions via roads,” says Hamelman, “This detour route travels through key communities that will be on the finalized segment, which will give them a preview of what it’s like to have bicycle travelers come through.” This is the first time Adventure Cycling has collaborated with RTC on any sort of route development, but the Great American Rail-Trail does overlap with several Adventure Cycling routes, including the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route in Butte, Montana, multiple sections of the Lewis & Clark Trail through Montana, and Parks, Peaks, and Prairies through Basin, Wyoming. Adventure Cycling mapped the route and provided all points of interest, including service information and towns. RTC continues to work with its partners across the country to fill these gaps to ensure that anyone can take a trip on the Great American Rail-Trail through the Mountain West, whether for an afternoon or for an epic-weeks long adventure. Explore the 960-mile detour route and the entire Great American Rail-Trail here.

How Should You Choose What Section to Ride?

Credit: Rails to Trails Conservancy

There are plenty of sections to choose from on the Great American Rail-Trail, and the one you pick depends on your starting location, how much time you have to ride, and the amenities you’ll want along the way. Since the route largely follows old railroad lines, it means that many sections offer a new town every 5-20 miles, providing ample opportunities for supplies and amenities. The states do vary in completion, so keep that in mind when picking your section. The 207 miles of Washington D.C. and Maryland are complete, and nearly all of Pennsylvania is mapped, including the iconic 150-mile Great Allegheny Passage. The 468 miles through Iowa are more than halfway complete, with 255 trail miles and 212 gap miles, and the new detour routes a more comfortable ride in Nebraska, Wyoming, and Montana. You can find the breakdown of each state here, along with more information about trails and plans for development. “The Great American Rail-Trail offers something for everyone,” says Kevin Belle, Project Manager for Rails to Trails Conservancy. “This includes well-traveled, paved trails in an urban core to remote, unpaved trails that provide some one-on-one time with nature.” The longest continuous completed section of the Great American Rail-Trail travels between Washington, D.C. and Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania along the C&O Canal National Historical Park and the Great Allegheny Passage, providing more than 330 miles of connected trail. Belle also recommends that users looking for a more rugged experience should try the trails in the western half of the route, like the Cowboy Recreation and Nature Trail in Nebraska. Remember that the terrain changes between the states, and not just with the percentage of route completed. As you move from the mid-Atlantic to the midwest, consider weather changes, and as you progress into Montana and Idaho, the climbing will increase and the elevation ramps up.

What Type of Bike is Best for the Great American Rail-Trail?

Credit: Rails to Trails Conservancy

Like we often say about starting out bicycle travel, the best bike is the one you already own. But if you’re interested in getting more into extended bike tours, we recommend going to a bike fitter and making sure you’re on a bike that suits both your body and your riding style. People ride all sorts of configurations on the Great American Rail-Trail, including lightweight carbon gravel bikes all the way to heavier-duty hardtail mountain bikes. Since there is little technical riding on this route, you won’t need anything super aggressive, and we suggest considering comfort over suspension. Think about whether you prefer a flat-bar bike or drop-bars, and whether it’s easier for you to ride flats or clipless. Whichever style suits your pre-existing touring preferences will be the best option. “Railroads can only travel at a low elevation grade, which makes their old corridors ideal for the trail needs of a wide variety of people,” says Belle. “Most of the existing trails along the Great American are paved or use a crushed stone surface, which most bikes can handle.” Belle did say that there are some segments that are a little more rugged in which a cyclist might benefit from a touring bike or mountain-bike hybrid, so do your research before picking a section and make sure your bike can handle it.

How Should You Prepare to Ride the Great American Rail-Trail?

Credit: Rails to Trails Conservancy

Consider your trip on the Great American Rail-Trail like any other bike travel journey with access to towns and resources. You’ll have to plan your trip itinerary, get your bike and gear ready, and start training. Once you’ve decided on a section of route and taken your timeline into consideration (how many miles per day you anticipate riding), we always suggest you start physically preparing. Adventure Cycling contributor Mac McCoy has a great overview of four training stages here, emphasizing the importance of not just training large muscle groups, but getting your seat ready for long days in the saddle and making sure your bike is set up for your proportions. This means everything from your seat height to the distance between the seat and handlebars, and ensuring everything is working properly. It doesn’t hurt to bring the bike in for a full tune, or do your own multipoint inspection at home. We recommend starting training at least 12 weeks before your planned departure date — whether you’re riding indoors or outdoors — and cycling at least three days per week. Aim for time spent in the saddle as opposed to distance, and work up to two hours or more for your longer rides, keeping in mind you’ll be taking plenty of breaks on the Great American Rail-Trail for sightseeing, snacks, and unplanned days off in particularly cool cities. One of the great things about almost any section of the Great American Rail-Trail is that you’re never far from resources, and while much of the scenery feels peaceful and far from civilization, these pathways and trail segments are popular thru-ways between towns and along rivers. You don’t have the remoteness of other routes to consider when worrying about mechanicals, gear issues, or resupply issues. While there are more resources than other cross-country routes, we still recommend knowing the region and familiarizing with the resources and highlights of your section. Knowing your own to resources, bike shops, and cell service can provide peace of mind.

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**Editor’s note: The images in this article show different segments of the Great American Rail-Trail, but they do not depict the detour route through the Mountain West unless noted.

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