Oregon: Big Cycling

Worldwide bicycle touring for many brings images of South East Asia or New Zealand, however North America remains off the radar for many considering a cycling holiday. Now consider that with no language barrier, familiar food and fabulous cycling, it’s a destination that once discovered is hard to beat.

Oregon, in the Pacific Northwest, has made huge efforts over the past ten years to become a cycle friendly State, so much so that Portland has become almost revered amongst American cyclists as a fabulous example of what can be done. In the winter of 2014 I put a tour together with Cycle Oregon for a nineteen-day tour of the western part of the State. As a result, eleven of us flew in on a warm September day to be met by Chris who runs the appropriately named ‘Bike Friendly Guest House’, complete with a fully tooled up workshop making bicycle re-assembly a piece of cake.

Exiting Portland along blissfully quiet roads we crossed Cascade Bridge and headed northwest to join the Banks Vernonia cyclepath. Built in the 1920s to transport lumbar, it was Oregon’s first “rails to trails” project and provided 21 miles of tarmacked bliss through the Douglas Firs.

Arriving at an isolated bed and breakfast north of Vernonia, our host Glen explained with a smile that due to trees and fire risks, the fire department required them to have a 5000 gallon pond on hand; rather than have a stagnant pond in the garden he’d plumbed in the hot tub which was much enjoyed by everyone. Dinner was a feast of ribs, pasta salad followed by apple crunch all washed down with a glass of wine from a local winery.

Morning arrived and it was pretty obvious that our hosts were having as much fun as we were. Glen reminisced about his long lost Peugeot PX-10 bike and Sandy snapped away with the camera, so rather than the planned 09:00 start we got away an hour later - but isn’t this half the fun of cycle touring?

We were immediately greeted by great tarmac, a flat road and the logging trucks. Logging is big in these parts, which sounds worrying. However they are great drivers, always overtaking with metres to spare, so far from intimidating. We were travelling through an unpopulated land. Even the elk at the elk viewing area had disappeared, houses were few and far between, and other than the views, there were few distractions. If you stopped awhile and let the ticking of the freewheel cease, the silence was amazing.

Country music blared out, car parks were littered with huge pickups and Red Dodge cars with vast exhausts. Inside more clues; chainsaws and stuffed animals decorated the walls and the TV tuned to the hunting channel: yes we were in ‘real men territory.’

You could hear them from the road as we turned along 38th street. The sea lions of Astoria marked the start of four days down the Pacific Coast. Hundreds had taken over a set of jetties, splashing about in the morning sun, creating quite a sight. Under the enormous Columbia River Bridge - akin to a giant Meccano kit - to arrive at the coast near Seaside, courtesy of the 1.5 mile long boulevard that runs next to the beach. All, thanks to Oswald West, the14th Governor after fifteen months had traversed Russia through to Japan. Now heading down the West coast, he was due to finish his trip in Panama.

It wasn’t just the sea views that entertained us. At Heceta Head, the state acquired the lighthouse which had been built in 1894 and are the process of renovation to bring it back to the standard to which the keepers kept it all those years ago. The only hiccup was a volunteer overpolishing the original English lens and managing to push out the central section of one of the prisms: $25,000 later, it’s thankfully been repaired.

North America’s largest sea cave was passed, filled with sea lions and for $12 you could take a lift down and say hello to our flippered friends. So it went on, fantastic vistas, ascents and descents in the company of other cyclists heading south. The most remarkable was a guy riding a road bike with an enormous backpack heading for Brazil!

Waving farewell to the coast with one last fabulous view, it was inland to Florence before finishing the coastal section at Reedsport.

The next phase of this remarkable State was the Cascade Mountains. Stretching from Southern Canada to Northern California, and we had to get over them. We headed east along route 38, then along Umpqua River scenic drive as it snaked through the forest. Roosevelt Elk are the largest mammal in Oregon and they so enjoy the meadow grass in the valley that they stay put and a scenic turn off has been built. The pace had changed; gone was the frenetic coast, replaced by a backcountry life as we headed eastwards.

Beep went the waffle iron. Breakfast is big in the States in all senses of the word. Pancakes, oatmeal and coffee were the favourites and they would fuel us up for another glorious day through the mountains. Onto the “Row River Trail”, at 16 miles one of an increasing number of rails to trails projects in the USA. ‘You guys are awesome’ cried an American lady as she realised where we were going and joined us down the trail on her bike, guiding us past the covered bridges that are a feature of the area.

Ascending towards Oakridge, the road paralleled a small river, quiet and peaceful. I’d expected a few logging trucks but we were passed by only two cars all day. There were plenty of facilities, campsites and toilets and all the time we slowly plodded upwards, topped the climb and descended to our motel for the night where the English manager had written “Welcoming United Kingdom cyclists” on the board outside: a lovely touch.

Onwards to the McKenzie Valley where the hot pools were enticing and we enjoyed a dip in pools at a barmy 104 Fahrenheit surrounded by folks in all varying degrees of undress. ‘I’ve been here all summer’ said the resident naturist and went on to explain that the water came from the cave at the top into which he dared not enter.

The McKenzie pass is one of Oregon’s classic rides and for us, the last day over the Cascades. It’s a scenic byway as the moss covered sign proudly told us with the added bonus that trucks were banned. Rain started to fall, passing the 2000 foot then 3000 foot marker with the rain continuing and no let-up in the gradient, it became harder and colder. We weren’t quite as cold as John Templeton Craig who froze to death delivering mail in 1877, but passing his memorial and grave, it was starting to feel like it. Never mind onwards and upwards, a change was in the offing and at just under 5000 foot it flattened and we were able to speed along skipping the puddles as we passed prairie flats. Then suddenly the most incredible change took place as we entered a lava field. As far as the eye could see there were blackened rocks of all sizes. ‘It’s like the moon up there,’ I’d been told, and NASA must have agreed when four astronauts trained here in the 1960s. As the rain fell harder and the wind blew stronger we reached the top and piled into the Dee Wright Observatory, a shelter built out of lava in 1935. Mercifully the sun came out shortly afterwards as we descended 12 miles for a rest day at Sisters, named after the two mountains that glowered from above.

The sun shone and so did the snowcapped mountains, with a dusting of snow from the night before, so good that even the locals were taking pictures. We’d conquered the Cascades and could now settle for endless plains and good agricultural land that the pioneers had striven so hard to acquire. Volcanic activity littered the area and at Smiths Rocks, it reached a crescendo. Ominously present is a series of enormous rocks fashioned by the wind from volcanic activity, now a Mecca for rock climbers with over a thousand possible climbs. Being an American park, the walk from the parking lot to the viewpoint wasn’t far at all, revealing the Crooked River that wound about at the base of several of the more impressive (and high) rock faces. The river led to another of nature’s fantastic attractions; Pallisades State Park. Making Cheddar Gorge look like a furrow made by a pointed stick, vertical walls hundreds of feet high enclosed a flooded valley.

From 1803 the first Europeans arrived in Oregon. History tells us that Native Americans were shunted onto reservations and it was through Warm Springs Reservation that we now headed. It was immediately obvious why this area had been chosen. It was dry, hilly and almost devoid of life, and for a people used to roaming the prairies it must have been devastating. To make a living today is tough in these places, so there was little aside from the two huge casinos built into the barren landscape.

The Deschutes River marks one of the reservation’s boundaries. In 1908 two railroads were built on either bank by two separate companies; one survived, the other didn’t. The legacy - a lovely eight-mile ride along the riverbank, in the company of fly fishermen. However the Native Americans had a far better idea. Instead of a rod, they simply built wooden platforms over the narrowest point and dipped a big net to catch the migrating salmon.

The last major climb of the holiday took us up Route 197 with a steady gradient of 6 % before descending into Dufur, home of the Dufur Pastime Saloon, a place where every conceivable wall was covered in Elk and deer heads, beer mirrors and sketches of Wild West stars.

The 197 wound its way south, but we chose to take the back roads through the freshly cut corn. As far as the eye could see was an ocean of yellow, with the occasional isolated farmstead on the horizon. Past abandoned houses and mill houses we went, before finally following a delightful valley towards Cascade Locks. From the quiet of the countryside, it was a rude introduction to the Columbia Valley. The interstate roared as we rode an almost abandoned road just above it. Compare this to the UK, where it would have been a rat run. In the USA even though there are fewer roads, vehicles stick to the major roads and local knowledge of other roads can be zero. Comments like ‘I’ve never been along that road’ even though there may be only three roads into town are pretty common.

The final stage of our tour was a trip down the mighty Columbia River. With perfect timing the Columbia Discovery Centre appeared on our right, beautifully illustrating the story of this historic area. What stood out for me was just how poorly the Native Americans were treated. 160 years ago Warm Springs Reservation had been set up, but the Native Americans had retained fishing on the Columbia utilising the rapids and waterfalls to catch the salmon. Along came white man, who set up fish wheels in the 1920s that industrially stripped out the salmon; the railway on both sides split villages in half; and then, as a final insult, Roosevelt in the 1930s dammed the river in several places to provide work and electricity. Result: no rapids, no fishing, and no meeting point for the tribes, so in 1957, the treaty was redrawn, compensating the Indians 27 million dollars in exchange for an almost complete loss of social life.

Back on the road again, we rode the King of Roads or historic Route 30 as it’s now called. Running alongside the river, this engineering feat from 1915 must have been remarkable, and much was still in evidence. The glorious triple white wooden barriers instead of galvanised metal, stone arches lining water culverts, and the intricate use of concrete to create lovely bridge decorations. As the Model T Ford had limited horsepower like us, the gradients were gentle so all we had to do was find a low gear and spin away.

So proud of their road were our predecessors that they made a monument of certain points, so the climb to Rowena Crest was marked by a pull in and fabulous views east along the river. The engineering marvels continued at Mosier twin tunnels. Finished in 1921 after two years work they proved too narrow for the modern car, so were filled in after the interstate was built. In 1995 work started to reopen them and now they are a shared hiker/biker path.

Our last day and a different attraction; waterfalls. ‘The highest number of waterfalls in a State park,’ an advert proudly proclaimed. Wahclella and Horsetail falls came and went, then came the mother of all falls, Multnomah. This was so popular that it had its own gift shop, snack bar, and even its own birthday party a week ago; 100 years since a white man stared at the double waterfall taller than Niagra. Onwards and upwards, literally, as we climbed the perfect 5% grade to the aptly named Vista House. Here was sited a sandstone monument to the highway, a mix of gothic and art deco architecture that you could climb and admire the views eastwards along the Columbia River.

So the gorge had finished, the river long since tamed by dams in the 1930s had widened and the valley walls softened. The final part of our journey took us into Portland and back along the southern bank of the Columbia River courtesy of a bike path which seemed a fitting end to 19 days round this fantastic State.

Text by Neil Wheadon