Things were heating up in Boise when I left late Friday morning. I saw 96°F on the display and looked forward to central Idaho and beyond where I expected cooler weather.
It didn’t work out that way. It was a bit cooler through Valley County but beyond that it became progressively hotter. Road construction in Riggins and near Cottonwood amplified the experience, causing traffic to crawl and stop while I simmered in my suit.
By the time I arrived in Moscow, my gear and myself were much in need of airing out. I was glad to spend the rest of the day visiting my mom and brothers before considering further riding.
I arose somewhat early to attend the pancake feed in Troy. I enjoyed running into a couple of high school classmates there, Dena and Amanda, but was disappointed never to see any of my several uncles. Maybe they had a late night …
I went back to Troy in the evening, hoping again to cross paths with some Abbott clan. I had a really good time seeing more classmates, Randy,¹ Tara² and my old roommate Tod,³ but had to represent the Abbotts largely on my own. I didn’t see any of my uncles.
Now that both of my youngest brothers have motorcycles, the Troy Days trip also entails a little mountain riding. Uncles in hiding wouldn’t keep us from that little adventure. We met up at my brother Jesse’s place where my nephews helped the three of us get on our way.
We had only a few hours before Kaden’s birthday party so planned a simple ride to Moscow Mountain. From our childhood home near Troy, Moscow Mountain had been like the binding on our picture-book view. Fields spread toward it and the sun set beside it. I rode many routes across its back and to the old lookout while growing up.
In the early 1990s I began to notice several active logging sites on the mountain where before I’d seen none. Quiet, shaded mountain roads gave way to raw earth and roots ripped and shoved aside by iron apparatus, and piled with broken limbs. Ways that were open became closed. Roads I used to know like hallways in our house became unfamiliar.
Large piles of branches broken from dismembered trees still amass alongside the ever-changing mountain roads. After making our way up the gravel and dirt roads to the ridge, my brothers and I stopped at one such pile to contemplate the steep climb to communication towers above.
Jesse and I chose the easy road around but Joel took the narrow path, albeit sitting down. We all met at the top.
The next time I tried to find that spot, the way had been gated off. It left my thoughts until fourteen years later, riding with my brothers. They were keen to show me some interesting place they’d discovered on the mountain. The trail there had changed but I recognized the area as soon as we stopped, where I’d once stood in the rain and enjoyed my own private discovery.
From the boulder vista, Jesse led us to some single track. I understand bicyclers have cut some nice trails on the mountain. This one had no signs but I expect it’s also their work. They have my thanks.
As I was weaving carefully through the trees, I noticed Joel was no longer visible in my mirrors. I stopped and waited. Soon Jesse turned around and came back. “What’s up?” It was odd we couldn’t hear Joel’s motor. Had he taken a tumble? Jesse and I began walking back down the trail.
There was Joel, around a bend, loafing about by his motorcycle parked in the middle of the trail. He showed us that his rear brake lever had become lodged under a small but stout root. Naturally we harassed him for such a lame problem.
Our watches told us we were risking the wrath of the women. It was time to get back to Moscow before Joel got hung up in a spider web or something. We took the most interesting, direct (that order) route we could. We cracked open our throttles on Mountain View Road and I achieved my GS land speed record.
“Maybe I should have cleaned out the bacon grease,” Jesse wisely observed as the grill heated up for Kaden’s picnic birthday party. Joel and I decided to watch the rising flames from a distance.
While his dad fought the grill, Parker was intent on riding something as long as it didn’t make noise.
Finally it was time to mark another year passed, another year beginning. In not long, it will be these guys out there, wondering why their uncles haven’t kept up.
The next day, I hit the road home—my grown-up home—stretching my legs in all the usual spots, glad for more reasonable temperatures, glad to be riding.
It was after midnight when I finally rolled into Boise.
by Jason Abbott