Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Oregon, Day 6 - Alpine Trail

again, from Kissing the Trail... "From the town of Westfir numerous forest roads climb toward Buckhead Mountain, on toward Sourgrass Mountain, and way up to Alpine Ridge. And if you can take the punishment, it's a big chunk of Turkish Mountain Bike Delight."

Another couple hours car-ride and we were at the trail head. The views were beautiful, and the dragonflies were numerous and huge. In some of my pictures I can spot many of the crazy things, buzzing all over the place like little psychotic helicopters.

We shuttled the beast in that big black Dodge. Nothing but the "Turkish Delight" for me, thanks.

As Hemingway would say:

The views were broad. The trees were large. The large trees were broad. And good. And the Dragonflies. The Dragonflies were broad and good and large. The sun gleamed brightly.

"Are we to the trail head yet, Dear?" She asked.

"Hmmm," I replied

Her lips drawn thin with disappointment, "Please don't pout, Dear. Don't pout when the view is so grand. We should be glad. We should be glad for the day, and the trail, and the wine. Must you be so bitter? Today? Why be like that today? It is still a nice drive, isn't it? A nice drive, and yet, so much different than Pamplona."

The sun baked our skin. Her cheeks were reddened by the heat. Her skin was wet with sweat, and grey with dust from the trail. The sweat was good. The dust was not. Her breasts were full. The wine was good. The dragonflies were big.

"Please listen to me when I'm whimpering senselessly, Dear. " She sniveled.

"Hmmm? What?" I said.

"What rot!" she barked. "Why can't you just be pleasant? Can't we be pleasant? Must you act such the sot all the time? Such a mongrel attitude toward me, I just don't think I can go on!"

"Yes" I replied. It was a shame. A damn shame.

An hour passed. I prepped the gear. She stood by the truck, vacant. I took her hand. It was caked with dust. The dust was grey. The hand was small. The skin was parched. The sun gleamed down. The wine was red. The truck was black. The paint was crackled. The black paint was crackled and peeling. And dirty. The black truck was dirty. The dirt was dust. The dust was grey. Her breasts were ripe. The dragonflies were huge.

"It is a fine sky today. Lets have a drink" I said.

"Lets!" she pipped. Lets get good and drunk! Then we'll ride. We'll ride the bikes the way you love to so. It will be grand!"

"Hmmm," I replied.

The view from the trail. Chris and I stopped for a few pictures, and to just oggle the views. It was a hot day, all Hemingway aside. Oregon was in the midst of a heatwave while we were there, but you didn't much feel the heat when you were riding in the trees, only when you stopped in the sun.

The river between the trail head and the town. I barely knew where the hell I was, so don't ask me what river or town. Well, I guess the town was Westfir... not that it was big enough to matter.

Covered bridge from the small town near the trail head to the parking lot for the trail, where we stashed the second set of cars. I guess the bridge originally crossed the river over from the town to a train depot, either that or the bridge was relocated to the site.

Another good day on the trail. Kristen had gotten me a digital movie camera for my helmet/handle bars, and the trail movies from this ride really are something! I'll edit them down to something more manageable to post and stick them up at some point...


Paul said...

It was a good ride! The drive wasn't as bad as McKenzie.
I do worry about you sometimes when you wax poetic. I start wondering if you have been hanging out with Mary Puffins.

Steve said...

You're better at Hemingway than Hemingway!

Utahdog! said...