Brother Ride 2025

Call it karma. Like Jonah camped above Nineveh, I was awaiting some divine spectacle, riding behind my brothers up the loose rocky Jeep trail back to the ridge. Instead, they were too far ahead to see because I fell over twice.

We had never been to Silver Lake and I can’t recall coming down this particular road. It’s quite nice: great views and not too rough.

I give my attention to the smell of foliage, pine and wet earth; soft crunch of rock; and mountains unfolding into the crystal blue beyond. It’s the same timeless moment I’ve lived many times in these mountains.

A sprinkle of rain as we ride the highway along the St. Joe River back to Avery has let up by the time we arrive. We kept the ride plan low key so today, like yesterday, we have time for a round at TFP’s.

“Who is TFP?” we ask the older guy who comes to take our order.

“It’s The Fire Pit,” he answers cheerily.

We are troubled by that answer. If it’s The Fire Pit then why is it written TFP’s, possessive, on the menus?

A couple riders from New Zealand (I think) are at a nearby table. We saw them pull up earlier on their similarly bedecked bikes. After we’ve finished our drinks and food and listened in a bit on their conversation, I step over to say “hello.”

“Are you riding the BDR?” I ask. It’s a popular thing to do on bikes like these.

“We’re trying to stay off the BDR,” the one not-on-his-phone answers with a smile. We can relate. The less travelled, the better.

“Where you headed next?” I follow up.

“Elk River,” he answers.

“Oh,” I say with mild surprise. “We were there just a couple days ago.”

“How far do you think we are?” he wonders.

“Three or four hours,” I suggest. Even as I say it, I worry about misleading them. I think you could do it in a lot less time if you hustled so I hope that’s a fair expectation.

We exchange well wishes as my brothers and I exit TFP’s (or just TFP).

We are behaving so well, we decide we deserve ice cream, as advertised on a flag in front of the tackle shop across the highway.

It begins to rain steadily as our scoops are served but has let up by the time we’re done. If this is “severe weather,” we’ll take it.

With happy tummies, we zoom farther down the highway along the St. Joe River. The dark blacktop is decorated with curls of steam as the sun reasserts itself against the brief rain.

I pause to wait in the gravel lot at the turn off to Marble Creek. As I look around, I realize this is where we stopped the second day of our last ride to try and fix my smashed up motorcycle and self enough to keep riding. I wasn’t giving it much attention then. It’s a weird memory.

As soon as Joel and Jeremy come into sight, I take off along Marble Creek, looking for the nicest place beside the water.

I planned the route so we’d be here on a weekday and hopefully have good choices. I’m dismayed to see, though, the first several sites not only occupied (including one we’ve used before), but fenced off and festooned with “No Trespassing” signs. That’s new.

Arriving at the namesake “Marble Creek” site, however, we find it open and available. We confirm easy water access and proceed to get our vibe on.

Jeremy again begins a motorcycle logging operation. I’m starting to think he could make a job of this.

The threat of evening rain, though so far hollow, still motivates us to set up quickly so we have shelter if needed. Afterwards, we find our way to the water.

We will have nice baths tonight.

“It’s not even that cold,” Joel assures me, and I in turn assure Jeremy after I’ve gone in. Of course we don’t believe each other.

Jeremy is hemming and hawing like he might not really need a bath today. Then he sees a rock he could jump from and proceeds to swim right over.

Joel and I concede the most awesome bath to Jeremy.

Feeling refreshed and having the benefit of Jeremy’s fire, we settle in once more to conversations both strong and silly with drinks to match.

We made fun of Joel, of course, for having an aluminum table (or is it?) strapped atop his pack. And then wished we had one too, especially as he made a point of announcing its usefulness.

“See that light over there?” Jeremy says quizically, nodding back toward the road. “That’s so weird.”

He’s right. It’s been an otherwise dark and moonless night but now there’s a faint but growing spotlight at the edge of the clearing.

A shaft of almost full moonlight is slowly finding its way through a gap in the tall pines, creating this curious effect. At least that’s what the aliens want us to believe.

“I’m going to be too tall,” I lament as we arrange ourselves in front of the camera. In response, Joel and Jeremy trade places, which doesn’t actually change anything.

Astute readers will observe we aren’t in full force, us Abbott brothers, sons of Cheryl and Lee. I’d like to say there’s a dramatic story — a feud, an abduction, an amputation — but all is well. Like the four year hiatus, life happens. We’ve still been enjoying Jesse’s wit, driest of all, at other times.

In terms of weather, break-downs, fuel shortages and injuries, this year’s ride has been uneventful. It’s almost disappointing since those can make the most poignant memories. But I think this year we’ll take it.

We awake to another beautiful day, severe weather forecast be damned, enjoy a typical slow morning then wind our way out of the mountains. We pause to regroup in Clarkia and again in Deary where we share awkward hugs before riding our separate ways.