The rhythms of my ride appear to be on autopilot as I crank my bike up the sweeping left-hand turn and hit the long straightaway that steepens in grade before a final brief, stiff wall, and a turn left at the crossroads — my body’s muscle memory apparently embedded in my DNA.
I’ve ridden this backwoods logging road countless times in the past eight years, but my brain’s memory of this same stretch slowly slips from my grasp, despite my desperate attempts to keep them alive, like a fleeting childhood dream.
Sometime immediately before or soon after the Covid-19 pandemic hit, loggers moved in and clearcut a half-mile of this forest. The view to my right reveals nothing but sky and horizon, clear down the hillside to a narrow band of trees that still hide the creek you can hear rushing below.
For years I chugged up this climb beneath a cathedral arch of towering Douglas Firs. Looking left, or looking right, I would peer into the thick woods that seemingly went on forever, or at least as far as my imagination would take it.
I would hide my steed behind the huge stump of the old growth forest on the road’s edge, then wander for hours along the hillside in search of Chanterelles.
That enchanting forest no longer exists, replaced by rolling hills of tree stumps, abandoned limbs and an occasional young survivor sprouting unimpeded to the sky.
For the first year or so upon returning, I still could envision the forest as it once was. My mind would see that wall of hardwood as I wound around the first curve.
I could see the downed tree that blocked the road for the first year, forcing me to dismount and step over before resuming the climb.
Without question I came to embrace the block universe theory, that suggests that the past, present, and future simultaneously exist, somewhere, maybe, just in our minds.
I would hammer up the long straightaway wondering if the long lost shade of the forest that I can feel in my brain despite the unabated sunshine beating down reflects the past or future.
Slowly, over the course of the past few years, those wonderful memories have faded as the reality of the new landscape embeds itself into my psyche.
That comes with good and bad. On the bright side, I can now see a mile up the road as it winds along the clearcut. The grade appears far less daunting having been exposed, rather than hidden forcing me to wonder what’s around the next corner.
My mind fights hard to hang on to the last gasp images. As they fade, my legs do their best to remind me that I know this climb as well as any, even if it only slightly resembles what it once was.
Such is life in the Oregon woods. More than 50 percent of the land in this state is public land. The roads I ply run through a patchwork of public and private forests — almost all of it available for harvest.
The forest sector employs more than 70,000 Oregonians, and provides a heft chunk of our economy. Oregon provides the US with about 17 percent of its softwood and plywood.
Nineteen years ago, when we first moved to Oregon, the sight of hills empty of trees cut like a knife. It felt painful. Eventually I’ve come to accept, if not embrace, the give and take.
When we moved here eight years ago, my new favorite ride hugged a clearcut up a long straightaway, and eventually swung above it, revealing my favorite view stretching down over the rest of the forest to our town nestled in the valley.
That view has been lost as the new planted firs rise quickly and obscure the sight line. My mind can still remember the view. At least for now.
Time to ride
