I wanted to share with you some of the images I captured during my fat biking adventure on the Oregon Coast. It was a dark and gloomy day, and I felt a sense of dread as I rode through the twisted paths. Here are some of the scenes that haunted me.
These are some of the images that will haunt me for a long time. I hope you enjoyed them as much as I did.
Adventure isn’t just found in distant lands or epic journeys; sometimes, it’s right around the corner, on a trail lined with wildflowers, under a sky that promises endless possibilities. That’s exactly what we discovered on our latest mountain biking escapade.
The day was perfect for a ride – the sun casting a golden glow over the landscape, the air fresh with the scent of nature. As we geared up, the anticipation was palpable. We were not just embarking on a trail; we were diving into an adventure, a shared journey of excitement and discovery.
The path was a mix of challenges and charms. Every steep climb rewarded us with breathtaking views, every descent thrilled with the rush of wind and speed. Around us, the world was alive – vibrant wildflowers brushing against our legs, the distant mountains standing as silent, majestic witnesses to our journey.
There were moments of pure exhilaration, where it felt like we were flying, the bikes extensions of ourselves. And then there were moments of serene beauty, where we would stop just to take it all in – the flowers, the sky, the sheer joy of being out there, together, in the embrace of the wild.
By the time we finished, our bodies were tired but our spirits were soaring. We had not just traversed a trail; we had experienced a tapestry of nature and adventure, woven together in a memory we’d always cherish.
So here’s to finding adventure in the trails we ride, the paths we explore, and the moments we share. In the dance of wheels and wildflowers, there’s a world of wonder waiting. Let’s keep riding, exploring, and living the adventure.
Hey friends, let’s rewind to Saturday, May 6, 2023. Picture this: we’re camping at Blodgett Canyon, and today’s agenda screams ‘hike day.’ I know, I’m the bike guy, but hey, balance is key, right? Spoiler alert: the day wrapped up with burgers and beer, so no complaints here!
So, about the hike – funny thing, it seemed kind of mundane at the time. You know how it goes: one foot in front of the other, the occasional grumble about needing more coffee. But as I scrolled through my camera roll later, I realized we’d stumbled onto something extraordinary.
The photos tell a different tale, one where every snapshot is a postcard from Mother Nature herself. It’s like we stepped into a world where every turn offered a panoramic view that could make a grown man weep. We’re talking about vistas so stunning, they seemed almost unreal. The kind of beauty that’s hard to put into words, but easy to capture in a photo.
We wove through trails flanked by towering trees, their leaves whispering secrets of the forest. The air was crisp, filled with that fresh, earthy scent that you only get miles away from civilization. And the best part? Those moments of unexpected awe when the trees parted, and we were greeted with views of the canyon that made our hearts skip a beat.
But hey, it wasn’t all silent reverence. We cracked jokes, sang off-key renditions of our favorite songs, and maybe, just maybe, had a heated debate about the best burger toppings.
As the day wound down, and we trudged back to camp, tired but content, it struck me – what felt like a ‘just another hike’ day was actually a collection of moments that many only dream of. We had ventured into a slice of paradise, hidden in plain sight.
So here’s to Blodgett Canyon, the unassuming hero of our weekend. It gave us the gift of unforgettable views, sore legs, and the kind of memories that stick with you long after the burgers are gone. Here’s to finding adventure in the unexpected and to remembering that sometimes, the best moments are the ones you didn’t even realize you were having. Cheers to more hikes, more surprises, and yes, more burgers and beer! 🍔🍻
Imagine planning a thrilling mountain biking trip, only to find yourself pedaling through a winter wonderland. This is exactly what happened to us on May 6th at Larry Creek. Known as a quick getaway spot for camping and recreation near our home, Larry Creek promised a day of adventure. Little did we know, it had a snowy surprise waiting for us.
We started our journey with excitement, ready to conquer the trails. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and our spirits were high. The idea was simple: a day of mountain biking, exploring the beauty of nature. But as we ventured further, the scenery started to change. Patches of snow appeared on the trail, gradually transforming into a thick, white blanket.
There I was, decked out in my biking gear, staring at a path more suited for a snowmobile than a mountain bike. The situation was comical. Picture us, a group of enthusiastic bikers, pushing our bikes through snow, slipping, sliding, and laughing at the absurdity of it all. It was like Mother Nature played a practical joke on us, and we couldn’t help but join in the laughter.
The snow transformed our biking trip into a spontaneous hiking adventure. We trudged through the snow, enjoying the unexpected turn of events. It wasn’t just about biking anymore; it was about embracing the unexpected, finding joy in the challenges, and making memories in the most unexpected circumstances.
As we made our way back, with snow-covered bikes and chilly toes, we couldn’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment. Sure, we didn’t get the biking adventure we planned, but we got something better – a story to tell, a memory to cherish, and a reminder that sometimes, the best adventures are the ones you never see coming.
So, the next time you plan an outdoor adventure, remember our snowy escapade at Larry Creek. You never know what nature has in store for you!
It was the kind of day where the sun seemed to wink at you, suggesting shorts were a good idea, and the breeze—oh that breeze—whispered of adventures waiting just around the corner. On April 29, 2023, the first hot day of the year, I answered the call of the wild, or more specifically, the call of National Forest Trail 072.
Wagonhammer camping was on the itinerary, and let me tell you, it’s the sort of place that gives you the good kind of shivers. The air smelled like freedom, or maybe that was just the absence of city smog. With coordinates like 45.394458, -113.946508 etched into my mind, I felt like an explorer from the olden days, except my trusty steed was a mountain bike with gears instead of a horse.
The Elk Trailhead beckoned, and like any reasonable person who talks to trailheads, I obeyed. The terrain rolled out like a welcome mat made of dirt and rocks, and the hills? They were like slumbering beasts, basking in the warm glow of spring.
Now, the best thing about being on a trail when it’s the first hot day? It’s not just the warmth; it’s the transformation. Flowers you couldn’t pronounce were popping up like nature’s confetti, and the trees—those wise old spectators—seemed to be cheering me on.
But let’s not forget the real hero of the story: the bike. It wasn’t just a mode of transport; it was my partner in crime, a silent ally against the uncharted paths. We had our moments, though. A few times, it decided to nap on the ground, and I can’t say I blamed it. The views were, after all, quite breathtaking.
In the midst of all this, there was a pause—a moment where I stood there, taking a selfie, because if you don’t photograph it, did it really happen? My face must’ve been a picture of joy and a touch of ‘I hope I don’t look too sweaty’.
As the day waned, the campsite became a slice of home. The kind of temporary home that comes with a side of campfire and the best kind of sleep—under the stars.
This wasn’t just a day; it was an odyssey. A reminder that sometimes, the best stories are the ones you pedal through, with the sun on your back and the trail under your wheels. And as I packed up, leaving no trace but my tire marks, I knew I’d be back. Because the trail, much like life, always has more to reveal to those willing to ride it.
Ah, April. The month that’s like your eccentric aunt who bursts into the living room, throws open the curtains, and yells, “Let there be light!” And just like that, the grayscale winter world gets a Technicolor reboot. It’s not just the daffodils and tulips either. It’s as if life itself is putting on a show, with the grand finale being the rekindling of friendships, like those Thursday Night Rides and going down to the Red Barn in Hamilton, Montana.
Picture this: a bunch of us, bundled up in our quirkiest cycling gear (because, why not?), meeting up at the Red Barn. It’s more than just a starting point for our rides; it’s a sanctuary, a hub of laughter and camaraderie. The air is still crisp, but there’s a promise of warmth, a hint of adventures waiting to unfold as the days stretch longer.
The first pedal stroke is like a declaration of freedom. We’ve been cooped up all winter, binge-watching shows and convincing ourselves that hot cocoa is a food group. But now, we’re out in the open, with nothing but the open road, a chain of twinkling bike lights, and the soft murmur of conversation.
As we ride, the landscape shifts. It’s like watching the world wake up from a long nap. The bare, skeletal trees are now dressed in vibrant greens, pinks, and whites. The fields, once a monochrome tapestry, are dotted with wildflowers that seem to cheer us on. And let’s not forget the sunsets. Oh, those Montana sunsets! They paint the sky in shades of orange, pink, and purple, turning our ride into a journey through a living canvas.
But it’s not just the scenery that makes these rides special. It’s the people. There’s something about sharing a trail that turns acquaintances into friends. Conversations flow as easily as the river we often ride beside. We talk about everything and nothing – the new cafe in town, the book someone just can’t put down, the silly antics of pets. These rides weave threads of connection, turning a group of cyclists into a tapestry of community.
As we circle back to the Red Barn, there’s a sense of accomplishment, a shared joy in the simple act of riding together. It’s not about the distance covered or the pace. It’s about the laughter, the stories shared, the silent moments of appreciation for the beauty around us, and the promise of many more rides to come. Then back to Missoula and the TNR.
In the end, it’s these moments that color our lives. April may bring the physical blooms, but it’s the laughter, the pedal strokes, and the shared sunsets that paint our world in the most vivid hues. Here’s to many more Thursday nights, many more rides, and a friendship that grows richer with each passing mile.
It was just another Thursday, or so I thought, as I peered out the window. The sun dipped low, kissing the horizon with a fiery passion only a sunset could muster. There, against the silhouette of mountains and the painted sky, my trusty bike awaited the next day’s adventures.
Cut to the chase, and there I was, gearing up for a pre-summer escapade. Missoula, Montana, with its trails that snake through the awakening woods, beckoned me with its siren’s call. The scent of pine and earth under the warming sun was intoxicating. Each pedal stroke was a verse in the poem of spring, each breath a chorus of life returning.
But life, with its irrepressible humor, always has a way of keeping you grounded. Literally. In the midst of all this poetic springtime glory, there it was—a sight that could make a statue giggle. The universal symbol of ‘oops’ – the humble yet ever-so-famous plumber’s crack. Spotted during a pit stop at the local gas station, it was a stark, hilarious contrast to the day’s earlier elegance.
It’s these moments, the butt cracks of life juxtaposed with the majesty of sunsets, that make the mundane magical. So, as I await and anticipate the full bloom of summer here in Missoula, I’m reminded to laugh at the little things and to ride the trails of life with the wind in my hair and a smile on my face. After all, isn’t that what makes any ordinary day into something extraordinary?
To safely climb down the cliffs of Cape Meares, Oregon, it’s important to take the necessary precautions. First, make sure you have the proper safety equipment, such as a climbing harness and a belay device. It’s also important to bring a helmet and a climbing rope.
Once you’ve gathered your equipment, begin by choosing a route that is least hazardous. Look out for any loose rocks or unstable surfaces and avoid climbing down any slippery areas. If there is any vegetation growing along the cliff wall, make sure to use it to your advantage and take advantage of any handholds it may offer.
As you climb down the cliff, take a moment to appreciate the historical significance of the area. The Cape Mears area was first inhabited by the Tillamook tribe in the early 1800s and was the site of a number of battles between the tribe and the United States military. In 1856, the U.S. government established a lighthouse at Cape Meares, which still stands today and serves as a reminder of the area’s fascinating history.
The brilliant red lens, perched upon the hill
Casts a beacon of light most bright and grand
A guiding star for sailors, lost in their night
The red lens stands, a symbol of the land
The crashing waves, the salty air, the gulls that call
The lighthouse stands tall, a masoned wall
A reminder of days gone by, when all was still
The red lens stands, a beacon of will
A symbol of hope, and a sign of luck
The red lens will guide tired ships back home
The lighthouse stands, a reminder, of life’s hard luck
The red lens still burning, long after I’m gone
It was our last day, a day that wore a cloak of regularity, but beneath it, Hell’s Gate State Park was waiting to whisper ancient secrets through its rock formations. The Snake River, a silent witness to history, offered us a pathway to these stone sentinels, its waters a guide to the heart of Lewiston’s rugged beauty.
We had tread upon many a trail before, but nothing quite like this—the rocks stood like nature’s library, each layer a page from a time we could only dream of. As we hiked, the air was thick with the scent of pine and the sound of our boots against the dirt. It was as though each step was a note in a symphony, the crescendo building with the sight of the towering cliffs that loomed ahead.
Lunchtime found us at a rest area, an unassuming pitstop that soon felt like a banquet hall under the open sky. With sandwiches in hand, and hearts full of the morning’s silent conversations with nature, we dined like royalty in the company of whispering trees and the distant, yet ever-present, murmur of the river.
This wasn’t just a farewell to Lewiston, but a nod to the unexpected chapters that often go unwritten in travel itineraries. As we journeyed home to Missoula, our minds replayed the day, finding joy in the simple act of recalling the sights, the sounds, and the rock-solid serenity that graced our last day at Hell’s Gate.
And so, as the road stretched out before us, it was clear that every end is just a disguised beginning, and every rock, a storyteller waiting for a listener.
In Nehalem Bay State Park we rode,
Our fat bikes gliding through the sand,
The air was warm, the sky was bright,
A piece of broccoli in the sand, such a sight.
With each pedal, we felt alive,
The beauty of nature all around us,
The ocean waves crashing nearby,
The feeling of freedom, we couldn’t deny.
The sandy dunes, a coastal paradise,
A piece of broccoli, a funny surprise,
We rode until the sun went down,
Our faces lit up with a joyful crown.
That memory will forever stay,
Etched in our hearts, never to fade away,
Nehalem Bay State Park, our special place,
A memory we’ll cherish, a smile on our face.
As the snow began to swirl and blanket the fields of Montana, I knew that I had to start planning my escape. It was time to find a place where I could feel the warmth of the sun and the lick of the salty sea.
So, I packed my bags, hugged my family goodbye, and set off on my adventure. After days of travel, I finally arrived at the majestic cliffs of the Oregon coast. The sun was low on the horizon, painting a beautiful picture of yellows, oranges, and black. I could feel the warmth radiating from the sun and the glimmer of the ocean.
As I walked down the walkway, I noticed the fresh scent of the ocean and the lush green hedges surrounding me. I felt like I was in paradise. I knew in that moment that I had found the place where I belonged.
I decided to take up residence in one of the cozy beach cottages nearby. Here, I could spend my days strolling along the shore, listening to the sound of the waves, and watching the sunset. No more cold winters in Montana. This was the life I had been dreaming of.
From that day forward, they knew me as Mr. Bear, the resident.
Mr Bear had been on many adventures with Mo and Bill, but he had never seen an ocean before. One day, they decided to take a road trip to the Oregon Coast.
On the way, they made many stops, but when they reached the coast, all Mr Bear could do was stare in wonder. He had never seen anything so beautiful.
Mo and Bill lost track of Mr Bear. He had no idea how to get back to them. He searched high and low, but all he could find was sand and sea.
Just when he had almost given up hope, a kind-hearted octopus came to his rescue. It showed him the way back to Mo and Bill, and it reunited them at last.
The moral of the story is that even when things look bleak and there is no way out, help is always nearby if you just look for it.
So I was at the Cape Mears lighthouse the other day, and I had to take a picture. I was standing right next to it and I noticed something – the lighthouse was really short! So I said, “Wait a minute, this lighthouse is tiny! What kind of lighthouse is this?!”
Then I noticed the sign on the side – “Cape Mears Miniature Lighthouse.”
Mo laughs.
“Well, if this is a miniature lighthouse, what would a full-sized one look like?”, I asked the lighthouse keeper – and he just shrugged and said, “I don‘t know, we‘ve never seen one.”
Cape Meares is a rugged headland on the Oregon Coast, on the northern part of Tillamook Bay. It is between Nehalem Bay and Tillamook Bay, and named after William Mears, an English sailor who explored the area in 1846.
They built the lighthouse at Cape Meares in 1890 and was the first lighthouse to be built in Oregon. It is the second oldest surviving lighthouse on the Oregon coast and is still in operation today.
We know the area for its rugged coastline, which comprises rocky cliffs and sandy beaches. It is popular among visitors for its whale-watching and fishing opportunities.
The area also has a long history of logging, and was home to a large fish cannery in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.
Three Arch Rocks National Wildlife Refuge and Wilderness? Man, that place is a certified slice of heaven on Earth, let me tell ya! Nestled along that rugged stretch of the Oregon coast, it’s an oasis of natural splendor that never fails to take my breath away.
Just picture it: you’re standing there, the salty sea breeze whipping at your face, and before you looms this majestic trio of towering rock formations jutting defiantly out of the crashing waves. It’s like nature’s own architectural masterpiece, sculpted by the relentless power of the Pacific. And let’s not forget the real stars of the show – the thousands upon thousands of seabirds and marine mammals that call this place home. Tufted puffins, marbled murrelets, bald eagles…you name it, they’ve got it!
I remember the time I laid eyes on that scene, it hit me like a ton of bricks. There I was, a peaks person through and through, gawking like a kid in a candy store at this raw, untamed beauty.
If you’re a nature nut like me, or just someone who appreciates a good jaw-dropping view, you owe it to yourself to experience Three Arch Rocks.
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