I
can recall a time I felt growing pains. I was walking down the hallway in our
house and a sudden pain shot through my leg, in fact I remember crying out that
I had just been shot in the leg with an arrow, a flint tipped Port Orford Cedar
shaft right through my femur. I've recovered from the incident, and have since
grown to the towering height of 5’9 (take that Port Orford Cedar). The point is
we all experience growing pains; in our bodies, relationships, jobs, in
everything. Life.
This last summer I was scouting out a bikepacking route for a group of high adventure scouts. The leaders wanted the boys to be pushed to their limits but still survive, thus avoiding the wrath of the ever-looming matriarchs. It just so happened that summer I found the most opportune subject in my fourteen-year-old nephew. I knew his matriarch, and wasn’t afraid of using him as the guinea pig. I planned out the route knowing what to expect 80% of the time; the 20% of unknown was a bonus and the real test (I thought) for my nephew and his age group.
For those of you not acquainted with bikepacking, simply put it’s taking everything off your back you would use for an overnight backpacking trip and attaching it to a bike. Then ripping down trails, fire roads, and two tracks (oh and the grueling uphill that always comes with the down). It’s a grand time.
Weekend arrived, we kitted out, and set out. The first section of the ride is a well-used quad trail, flowing gradually down hill like a river, and like any proper river has a few rapids. Having navigated it many times I bobbed and weaved through rock gardens and two foot drops. I had the upmost faith in Nat’s skills and knew that she would survive. In hindsight I should have covered my nephew in Go-pro’s, as he took on every rapid and failed miserable but recovered admirably…we missed out on some great crash footage.
The next bit was the unknown to me. It is an old two-track road that has been overgrown for the last umpteen years. The riding has potential, but the encroaching gamble oak reminded me of a scary movie scene that has arms reaching out to rip and tear their victims apart--the gamble oak was not much better. We all received a few slaps to the face, shirts ripped, and it was a gamble (pun intended) to use speed to bust through as an occasional oak arm would grab a fist full of break lever resulting in a bushy endo. In the end it was easier to push through all the grabby, grabby. Gaining a little in elevation we worked our way out of the slap happy forest and entered lush green meadows with knee high grass (a rarity in these parts) it was beautiful--in the kind of way an American GI would view the Guadalcanal or the jungles of Vietnam. Beautiful if you didn’t have to move to get through it. Hiding in the grass were hundreds of downed aspen trees not worth going around. We would dismount and carry the fully loaded bikes over and over. The short distance riding was not worth it, so we became mules and pushed, pulled, and hiked the bikes. It became particular enjoyable as the terrain got steeper and steeper. We did come across some interesting geological features for these parts, such as granite boulders like you would find in Little Cotton Wood canyon. The thought crossed my mind to re-visit the place with some bouldering pads, but the thugs in the slap happy forest pushed that thought aside. I would have to get my “Ash”(see Evil Dead for that reference) on in a serious way to accomplish that mission.
Eventually, we reconnected with a well-used track and enjoyed some deserved down hill time. We then spent the rest of the day and well into the evening burning our legs and lungs out on a consistent six mile climb. That night sitting around the stove on a ridge; huddled in our down jackets, backs to the wind and eyes on the stars I asked my nephew what he thought so far. His response, though pleasing, was surprising; he liked it, said it was harder than he thought it would be. Come to find out this was his first time camping away from a car. He had never spent a night out on a backpacking trip let alone a bike-packing trip. I thought about the activities of the day, especially his additional pain and suffering with all the extra wrecks he endured. Lots of pain, but lots of growth.
Besides a brutal little push up some steep two track the day, and trip, ended with five miles of rushing trail. Once again I lamented the forgotten go-pro to document a young boy's many and mighty wrecks. As expected the rapids didn’t disappoint and my nephew wiser from previous encounters took his time to pick a line and ride them out. He’s only fourteen and has lots of growing to do and with that, lots of pain. We all have growing to do in one-way or another, but that’s how you know your progressing, learning and enjoying life. Get out and feel some growing pains.
Post Sound Track | The Beta Band
Full Set | Growing Pains
Feta Mac
20 min prep | 35 min baking
Ingredients:
- 4 cups macaroni and cellantani pasta mix
- 4 T butter
- 4 T olive oil, plus more to grease dish
- 5 cloves garlic diced
- spinach
- basil
- 1 tomato diced
- 1-2 cups feta
- 3 green onions diced
- bread crumbs
- spices to taste (oregano, cumin, cayenne)
Instructions:
- boil water and cook mac (I like to mix mac with cellantani), when texture you like drain, and run under cold water.
- in same pot on low/med heat add butter, olive oil, and garlic sauté until garlic is tender then add 2 handfuls spinach, pasta, and mix well. add spices (oregano, cumin, cayenne pepper) to taste.
- grease 9x10" glass pyrex with olive oil
- layer:
- pasta mixure
- fresh spinach, basil, tomato, green onion and feta
- past mixture, remaining fresh veggies for garnish, bread crumbs, and feta.
- bake at 400 for 35 min
Life is a series of storms; some lesser, some greater, some devastating, some refreshing--and all in some way beautiful. I have weathered many a storm in the open, far from home and loved ones. And I have journeyed home in anticipation for many more. For me home has always been in the same place; one block from the grocery store; one block from the schools; one block from the pool and park; and right next to my best friend's house. Even after I left home, blazing my own path in the world I would return for comfort and work a few weeks or months at a time. Always saying my good byes and looking forward to my next visit. That’s changed now, in March 2015 Nat and I moved to my childhood home. It’s been two weeks now, I’m not sure what’s going on, Nat is neck deep in community recreation and I have a mustache.
We've become those people...maybe now all we need is a Sube (P.S. is it funny that this is the urban definition for Sube: Someone who is so socially, academically and full-on they cannot even begin to actually understand how anything functions, even their own spastic mind--basically a spaz I feel like this is how my brain functions) besides the point.
Welcome Aldo <the Apache> to the roaming Randall clan. He's a louisiana Catahoula, ironically--maybe not so much, a cattle herding pup. We picked him up in Roosevelt and the whole ride home he was shaking, his favorite this to do was nuzzling into my armpit. Being with us for a few days he's still timid and exploring. All he wants to do is cuddle and sleep--as he grows he's to be a 95 pound bundle of energy and endurance for long hours of roaming.
Birthday's have always been about the weekend. An awesome, radical adventure with the best of friends; great food; and getting outside. True birthday weekenders are a dying breed as with each aging year the weekending becomes less and less of a priority with life's other "priorities" taking the front seat. The one night, 2-hour dinner meet up with friends doesn't quite satisfy the quench. There's a feeling with each coming year to prove you've still got it, you've still got what it takes to push yourself that extra mile, to do something to top off year's past. Birthday weekends are the time to celebrate and start your next year of life with a bang of bad-A-ness.
We got lucky with this one and TK was all gung ho to get out of the city with us. We got off to a little later start than expected, surprise, but it ended up being perfect night riding desert conditions--yes, it is still February. We rode through the night following the spiraling road leading up to Jacob's Chair until we found the perfect soft sandy spot to lay our bivy's. We woke to views of canyons as fas as the eye can see and in a bed of petrified wood chips. The ride ended with the final ascent to the base of Jacob's Chair and masterminding plans for future climbing lines. Of course the descent was the sweet reward and end to a quick desert bikepacking escape. Cheers to another year TK!
We got lucky with this one and TK was all gung ho to get out of the city with us. We got off to a little later start than expected, surprise, but it ended up being perfect night riding desert conditions--yes, it is still February. We rode through the night following the spiraling road leading up to Jacob's Chair until we found the perfect soft sandy spot to lay our bivy's. We woke to views of canyons as fas as the eye can see and in a bed of petrified wood chips. The ride ended with the final ascent to the base of Jacob's Chair and masterminding plans for future climbing lines. Of course the descent was the sweet reward and end to a quick desert bikepacking escape. Cheers to another year TK!
full set | Jacob's Chair
It's D's b-day weekend, yes birthday's last a weekend around here. We were stoked to get out of dodge, and lucky for us it's also a 3-day weekend--thank you MLK! We started off at TK's cabin up Hobble Creek. It's the perfect quick escape only 20 minutes and you're out of town, out of smog, away from the masses, without reception, and in the winter surrounded by endless possibilities for touring.
We spent the night skinning in by starlight, catching up with friends around the wood burning stove, and snacking to our hearts content. That morning we scouted some lines, I had a few snowballs thrown my way, and enjoyed basking in our T's in the 40 degree sun rays.
Arisaig, or the Safe Place, is a village set on the shore of Loch nan Ceall on the west coast of the Scottish Highlands. Chilly clear blue waters and outlooking the Hebrides this was a welcomed landscape variation from the jagged and mountainous Cullins region on the Isle of Skye.
We arrived to a ghost town with only a grocery store (the only one) open. We quickly gathered together dinner supplies and set off on foot to explore the village. The single road wraps around to the church on a hill overlooking the loch. With the single lane street vacant of traffic, and the town void of other tourists the entire walk you could hear the quiet lapping of waves against the sandy coast.
Before we left on our trip Dustin's Grandpa Pace had asked us to keep an eye out for any McDonald's on headstones. We received fair warning that there were in fact two clans of McDonalds, one spelled Mac- and one spelled Mc-, the latter was ours and not to be confused with the first. Up until this point all the tomb stones we had found were of the Mac- clan. As eery as tomb searching sounds, we actually found the grave yards to be beautiful and solemn places...well until J picked up a book of Highland Ghost/Folk Stories. As luck would have it we happened across tomb stones of the Mc- clan ancestors of Grandma Pace's family. After our short bout around the village we set off to find a spot to set up camp. The beauty of Scotland is camping on public lands is free of charge and can be done anywhere, within reason. We found a pull off already holding a Sprinter filled with a group of four 50+ year old women gathered around a campfire in wetsuits and enjoying dinner after a sea kayaking adventure. They welcomed us to share their beach camp and we set to work making setting up camp.
The spot was my favorite of the entire trip, like it had been pulled straight out of an adventurist's novel. A white sandy beach, surrounds by black rocky shore, with clear blue ocean waters reaching to the shore and stretching out past the loch and into the vast seas. We made camp, enjoyed warm drinks, a hot meal, soaked in the scenery, and as a symbol of one of our final nights in Scotland we set off paper lanterns we had found in the grocery store.
I then remember crawling into the tent and snuggling into my sleeping bag as J read a folk/ghost story about a priest, listening to the beach bug popping against the tent wall trying to make their way in, and dozing off the the sounds of the ocean and nothing--I truly felt like I was in a "safe place."
Then came the lights, bright flashing red, blue, and white lights. Then the megaphone voices--still drowsed with sleep I can't quite remember what was said. I perked up pretty quick catching the word "coast guard." My first thought was my supposed "flagged passport" had caught up to me, so with the feeling of urgency I stuck my head out the tent door only to be blasted by a spotlight. Come to find out a patrolling guard out a sea had seen 4 lights float from the coast into the sky and go off evenly spaced apart. They had radioed to the village's land unit to search the coast for any distressed ships. It took a minute then it clicked our paper lanterns, 4 lights we had set off had been the supposed distress call. With the misconception cleared, my name and number were taken down for record--another point to my growing Scotland "record"--the night fiascos ended and I was drifting back off in my safe place.
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