Crater Peak
It is a surprise to us all, my brothers and I, to think it’s been four years since we rode together, something we’ve otherwise been doing each year since 2008. Reasons seem to include job changes, business changes and getting kids-off-to-college changes. Life happens!
But now we’re back and I find myself stopped, fittingly, in almost exactly the same place as last time I rode north to ride with them. Let’s just hope it doesn’t end the same way.
Our Uncle Pete passed away recently, joining our dad, Uncle Paul and their mother in Bethel Cemetery on a hill that looks across rolling fields to their boyhood home.
I wasn’t able to come up previously so I make a small detour to pay my respects. Whispering wind in the tall pine and light jangle of chain against the flag pole are the tenor of my remembrance.
As usual with rides this way, I arrive for a night at my mom’s before the camping begins. She is watching my new nephew who greets me with wiggling eyebrows and a broad, if quiet smile.
Jesse then Jeremy arrive later and we while away the evening at our mom’s peaceful little farm.
The next morning, we laugh at how the packing process has evolved from the early years of milk crates, bungee cords and cases of beer. These days, you could be forgiven for thinking we’re about to cross continents, not just spend a few days in the local mountains.
“Now it’s saying it will rain every day,” I announce with amused incredulity as I load the navigation app, preparing for departure. Joel confirms the same on his app.
As of yesterday, the forecast was consistently for warm weather and clear skies except for a possibility of rain on our last day. Now it’s back-to-back severe weather warnings. That’s funny stuff.
The Kawasaki doesn’t have great fuel range. We’ve had our share of fuel shenanigans in the past so we’re careful to top it off where we can, starting with the lodge in Elk River. Besides, we’ve already ridden forty minutes—time for a break.
The young lady behind the counter graciously feigns amusement at the foolish wit we muster while asking her opinion of the colorfully labeled liqueurs we would hold in contempt any other time of the year.
We sit a minute on the stoop to finish obligatory huckleberry ice cream before heading north from town with new, prized provisions.
After easy miles by shaded campsites, we pause to visit Idaho’s “champion tree,” as the U.S. Forest Service calls it, between Elk River and our mountain destinations. It isn’t far from where we grew up but none of us have seen it before.
“What are you catching?” I ask one of several youth here with butterfly nets. She explains they’re a class assigned to collect a hundred (I think she says) different insect species.
To our eyes, most seem just to be milling around.
“Remember when Jeremy collected bugs?” Joel asks. We have a little chuckle, recognizing one of the through lines of Jeremy’s life, a bit of eccentricity.
After walking just a few minutes we arrive at a tree that is, indeed, quite big around.
“Not as tall as expected,” Jeremy says in a formal tone, and we all laugh.
We looked at the newest entries in a guest book aside the trail and now we’re imagining sardonic remarks we could add. We are very funny to ourselves.
Nobody complains anymore when, gesturing, I simply say, “picture.”
Logging in these mountains means roads are cut and closed faster than maps are made. We’ve been stymied before. We aren’t surprised, therefore, when, after leaving the giant cedar, the map puts us onto a trail increasingly rocky and rutted and the prescribed turn from there is nearly invisible with overgrowth.
This bit of technical riding has been fun but pushing through brush would not be.
Joel and I have both allowed our bikes a rest or two in the dirt today. They earned it.
Perhaps someday we’ll smarten up and all ride smaller motorcycles like Jeremy.
We quickly routed around the abandoned trail from earlier and have climbed up, up to Freezeout Ridge and Forest Road 301. My brothers have taken to calling this the “broken rib” site after the last time we camped here. Good memories.
By my count (of labels on photo folders), this is our sixth time camping here. It’s an oldie but apparently a goodie. Our favorite part is that there’s nobody around.
It is a bit early for setting up camp but we aren’t going to let that stop us. We’ve had our share of setting up in the dark or snow or rain. Besides, we’ll be glad to be settled if those severe weather warnings are right.
Some rain to rinse the smoke from the sky would be welcome.
We move almost mechanically to set up our tents, chairs and Jetboils, as we have many times before. I’m probably not alone, silently wondering what I might find defective, in equipment or myself, after the four year hiatus.
Jeremy and Joel both have new tents, which is a big deal in the world of our rides. I’ll probably say more of that later. For now, we sit with some satisfaction around the fire, not yet stymied by passing years.
Evening ebbs to night under a diffuse, full moon. We agree the huckleberry liquor is weird, in not-a-good-way. Somehow both bottles are nonetheless depleted.
We are glad to see the smoke dissipated some in spite of the rainless night. We’re excited to drop into Avery today then climb back into the mountains to camp along a lake we’ve never visited.
by Jason Abbott