My older brother Tom and his buddy Gary took a Twilight Zone/Stephen King approach to big brotherhood with me since, of course, Tom spent six years as the lone little bro to Jim enduring his own private hell.
If they weren’t chasing me with a snapping turtle the size of a garbage can cover plucked from the Menomonee River or locking me in complete darkness in our root cellar telling me the Witch Hazel lived in there, they simply demanded upon my presence to “GET LOST!”
So, I’ll blame them for my penchant to wander along the logging roads and dusty trails of the Northwest often times getting lost, although seldom rising to serious fear levels.
When my Golden Lab Summer, Border Collie Pepper and I rolled off onto the labyrinth of off-roader trails outside Sisters, Oregon on a crystal clear summer morning, I knew sooner or later we’d be lost, at least for a bit.
I’ve lost count at the number of years we’ve come up and I’ve ridden around this area. About every quarter mile these deep sandy ruts run into another trail, so you can easily lose track of time and space.
With so many routes already explored, finding new territory became the day’s challenge. It didn’t take long before I made a couple turns here and there, always trying to climb into the foothills and move away from Highway 242, the major road from Sisters up to the McKenzie Pass.
In these cases I’m usually pretty certain I could always retrace my route and find my way back to safety, but finding a new route to somewhere or something new always takes precedence.
More than an hour in, we rolled up to another unknown intersection and a decision loomed. That’s when I looked left, then, whoa! Hang on! Is that smoke wafting through the forest?
Just then the dry, dingy air hit my lungs. Damn! Where did that come from?
To say that my mind raced with questions and conjectures would be an understatement.
Judging from the wind, that smoke was coming from wherest we came. And it appeared to be increasing in intensity at a rather unnerving pace.
Right turn became my only option. That meant continuing to head West with my goal to find another turn South toward Highway 242. What I love about these roads now haunted me. We never, EVER, see anyone else out here.
Most often in these situations I can pull out my cellphone and confirm I have no service. Somehow, one bar lit up my morning. I pulled up my mapping app and dropped a pin at my spot. Maybe searchers can use that to find my sometime.
These roads I lose myself on never show up on the maps. But there are a few more developed roads that do cross-cross around. The ones with the red lava stone base jump out to say, hey, you’re not that lost.
Looking at the maps, I see the closest option to the north. Suicide Gulch Road. Not exactly what I had in mind. The smoke seems to be coming from the Northeast, so, no, we’ll say Westward bound.
Summer and Pepper eagerly engaged a quicker pace. Pepper loves to run way, way out front when she can. Away we go.
We long passed the time of the ride where I would give my dogs their ration of water I bring along. One bottle for them and a bottle of Gatorade for me is usually plenty. Time to save those for the Worst Case Scenario.
Times like these I somehow manage to remain calm, although those WCS thoughts drift in and out. I kept making turns that would head West and South. I came upon a compass like intersection with options basically for South (which I was on), North (from where I came), Southwest, Southeast, Northwest and Northeast.
I opted to stay the course, even though the cross trails were more well worn.
Voila! We hit red lava stone. Not only that, I was pretty certain it was the road that would lead us to 242. I didn’t know for use until 10 minutes later when I finally recognized another previously lost on road that I’ve ridden.
We got to the highway and, silence. No cars. Anywhere.
This is a major tourist route in summer. Best guess had to be the road has been closed. That doesn’t bode well for us.
But two cell bars looks fantastic, and I text my wife to head up 242 to pick us up (she left at the same time we did to ride up 242 for a spell, then head back to camp).
No response.
So we start riding down this highway, my dogs and I, terrified more of a tourist hitting us than the fire killing us, if I’m honest.
One mile. Still no traffic at all.
Two Miles. Nothing.
We’re obviously heading into thicker smoke.
Finally, a dump truck headed up to the quarry! It’s not closed, I hope.
A few miles later, the distinctive headlights of our F-150. Saved!
The camp host told Debbie a fire broke out at Indian Ford, just 5 miles from our campsite. Turns out, though, that the smoke is from a big fire that started the day before near Smith Rock State Park — one that would threaten Sisters and force evacuations for the next week or so.
The air quality index for Sisters quickly jumped from 45 to 94 to 108 and then 177. Time to move.
This week’s question: Have you ever faced your greatest fear on your bike?
I’ve not had ‘chased by a wildfire’ nightmares. Mine is getting thoroughly lost in the middle of nowhere.
Back in the 90s, I was cruising around the SW USA and ended up mountain biking near Silver City, NM. It was gorgeous. Came upon a five way intersection that I couldn’t quite locate on the map I bought. Went a bit down each option and still couldn’t find myself. Ended up turning around.