McKenzie Pass

I’ve been waiting to write up notes from last cycling day trip because I’ve been so exhausted—I know, I know—I mean weird people exhaustion as I’ve been back to work in an understaffed bicycle shop where I am numerically outmatched by the customers. I would put up a NOW HIRING sign in the window except that even the printer has run out of ink.

I’m not a super hero. The McKenzie Pass made me realize I’m a mere mortal 

The Pass at 5,325 feet is the longest climb I’ve ever done—maybe not the highest, but the most elevation in one effort—hard to articulate but let me just say I thought I’d be to the top by lunch and, as the hours ticked by, it became more like supper time. It took ALL DAY to climb.

Granted we got a late start, which likely threw me off statistically.

I rode over to friend’s house where we loaded in—after they made breakfast and got ready. So an hour and a half there. Then another hour or so in the truck. We likely arrived around 11:30—then there were the obligatory pics at the sign announcing the Scenic By-way.

Things started gradual, almost imperceptibly level. I knew when things shifted when it didn’t feel as fun. We were at about 2,500 feet when it felt like climbing. I used pull-outs in the road to grab water. I ate electrolyte gummy bears. I snacked on a bar. By 3,500 feet there was a porto and picnic table where I announced I needed something other than grazing food. I’d brought a thermos of soup so drank half and had a handful or two of trail mix.

Onward and upward. We’d been doing a series of switchbacks, but now they really became dramatic. It was, duh, at this point, I realized we were edging toward a mountain pass and not just riding in forest. I counted the turns, hoping we were getting somewhere. Slowly, we kept rising above the tops of the trees—majestic Douglas firs, themselves mountains. Every once in a while I’d glimpse a steep drop off.

Traffic on the road was light—if I’d needed to I could have zigzagged in my lane to make climbing easier. I never felt like my knees were torqued—it just NEVER stopped. Drink breaks and grazing became more frequent and urgent.

Slowly the terrain and vegetation changed. There were smaller scrub-like trees, desert-ish, and lava rock outcroppings. And, also that soft shush sound as one nears the roof of the sky. Condors glided at eye-level. So, yeah, high.

There always comes a point where I want to throw my bike into a ditch. Thankfully this comes right at the end, when I think all energy is spent. Things began to level off. There was even a few dips in the road. Firs and scrub oak gave way to fields of ugly rock. Lava beds. A reminder of how this region was formed. Mountain mommies and daddies having hot sex and birthing The Sisters, the Cascades in hot magma. As much as they are geologically “new” the rock appeared scorched, or pollution tainted, like the ancient ruins in the center of Rome. Everything would look a lot better if power-washed. So, yeah, I’d climbed for this—a lunar landscape of ugly grimey rock. 

After this even the baby hills felt like hell; my legs were jelly. I wasn’t sure anymore if I cared about summiting. Then . . . there were signs for parking. What next a McDonald’s?! It was the Dee Wright Observatory—a castle-like structure built of the very rock surrounding it, Portos—not made of rock. We climbed and took pictures, ate a dozen chocolates, and got ready for the ride down.

Which took about 3 minutes. Just kidding, an hour and a half. We were done about 7 pm as the sun was lower on the tree-crowded horizon, patches of roadway lost in darkness. On the way down, the switchbacks became hazards as I tried to navigate between sudden stabs of light and then pooled shadow. I switched from sunglasses to a pair of safety glasses I carry to guard against bugs flying into my eyes. I’m an old lady so I held onto my brakes—not like the kids I was with who raced each other and did Steve McQueen turns, leaning into the curve, as if doing the Monte Carlo road race. I putzed into the corkscrews, only letting go when we sank below 3,000 feet.

So, yes, I’m tired. Not as sore as I thought I’d be and ready to meet the mountain of Covid-bike-crazed customers fearful that this will be their last chance for—fill in the blank. Every day they phone and walk in the doors desperate to buy lights, helmets, tires and tubes as if stockpiling in their bunkers. Bicycle shopping for the survivalist. We will get through this.