Listening to the gentle rush of the Twisp River flowing over a colorful kaleidoscope of bedrock as deer stroll through the campground undaunted grazing here and there, the lure of the peace and quiet of getting way, way away to nature calms my soul.
We stumbled upon Poplar Flat campground a few years ago after a nightmarish experience down the road at War Creek campground when we were almost stranded for a night in the middle of nowhere with no cell service when I miraculously (yes, I’m bragging here) unstuck our Santa Fe and trailer.
Poplar Flat sits 20 miles from downtown Twisp.
Head out Second Avenue, which turns into Twisp River Road, which turns into Forest Road 44, which eventually turns to gravel for the last two miles, and you land in this rustic camper heaven.
Just a few sites. The water turned off (keeping others away). The dumpster sits back down five-and-a-half miles at War Creek because of the bears that hang around Poplar Flat (see Hey, Just Ride 12). Never more than two or three sites occupied. Right on the river. Perfect.
Yep, that’s why we make the pilgrimage out past the edge of the civilized world with no cell reception.
So imagine our horror as we pulled into the campground, and started around the loop to our favorite campsite No. 7 when the Santa Fe just died with a moaning decrescendo of its usually perky electronic tones.
No warning lights or other tones, mind you, just a roll to its death smack dab in the middle of the loop. Come on baby, just 150 yards to No. 7!
But no! Nothing.
As usual there wasn’t anyone else camping there to help out. With wildfires popping up in the area almost daily, the Forest Service folks had more important things to do than check on Poplar Flat (we never saw anyone in three days there).
Stranded.
No choice but to hop on my Cannondale Lefty the next morning and ride into town to start sorting things out. Then ride back to calm my wife. Then back the next day …
This week’s question: Has your bike ever bailed you out of a hopeless situation?
Well … I was motoring through Denver one dark night after a long bout of revelry with evil companions and I may or may not have been cleared for takeoff, much less landing. The cop certainly had his doubts, lit me up, pulled me over, and asked that question nobody wants to hear at stupid-thirty with no money for bail:
“Have you been drinking, sir?”
I admitted that yes, I may have had a dram or two (or 22, not counting a few illicit add-ons), adding that I was not far from home in hopes of catching a break I did not deserve.
Which I did! The officer sighed, said, “Pull over and park, sir. Walk home.”
I thanked him profusely and did as ordered. Well, almost. I pulled my bike out of the bed of the truck and rode home.
A couple miles from home driving my topless Jeep I ran out of gas just as it started raining. Grabbing my bike off the rack, I rode home, got a gas can then pedaled to the gas station. Back to the Wrangler, I fueled it up and finished my driving. Though soaked to the bone, I was proud of my self sufficiency.
Nothing quite as literal as that, but stranded in a sense. When Wife #1 left unexpectedly and started using her birth control jelly with some other guy, I got on my bike and started riding lots. It was a lot healthier than staring at the deer rifle under the bed and thinking self destructive thoughts.
Been riding ever since. Cheaper than a psychiatrist, just as effective, and entirely non-violent.