River to River Episode 3: Return to the Scene of the Crime

To be clear, while the legality of cycling on the River to River Trail falls into the gray range of the color scale, the crime I'm referring to was perpetrated upon us by both the trail and our own hubris (entered into evidence below).

“If no one comes from the future to stop you from doing it, then how bad of a decision can it really be?” - anonymous 

Would a warning from the future have even helped when those of our past selves went unheeded? 

Let the record show that Chuck and I made our first attempt at riding all the bike legal (non-Wilderness) sections of the R2R* in 2018. A multi-surface, multi-use trail with heavy equestrian presence, it met us with immediate resistance, which I detailed in numerous blog posts about the experience(s).

Exhibit 1 (March 2018): “We rarely ride more than 50 feet at a time. Bikepacking here, I tell Chuck, is like mule-packing, but you have to push and pull and carry the mule as well. I wonder if I'll be able to lift my arms tomorrow. It's pretty but I don't take any pictures. I need both hands to wrangle my bike.”

Exhibit 2 (June 2018): “...I wasn't excited about turning [back] onto the overgrown trail. My attitude wasn't improved by thick spider webs and flat, mossy, off-camber rocks that looked about as walkable as an ice rink. I grabbed a stick to clear the webs and grumbled to myself, This is where 'This is a great idea' turns to 'This is a dumb idea.'" 

Exhibit 3 (September 2018): Were there trail markers? I don't know...I could barely see my front wheel. I had my first fall as I walked my bike along the sideslope of a brushy hill.  … The slower hikes down wet rocks and roots left us chilly.  "Why did I think this was a good idea?" I asked Chuck. "This quest to ride the whole River to River is stupid. I think it's safe to say I never need to ride any more of it."

Your honor, and ladies and gentlemen of the jury: If the definition of insanity is to do the same thing over and over and expect different results, what is it called when you know exactly what to expect and do it anyway?

What can I (we) say? Six years passed. We made other trips back to the Shawnee, biking along roads that were actually...rideable. Occasionally we'd talk about our River to River trips and how terrible they were, what a stupid, pointless quest it was. And yet...we were so close to completing it. Why attempt to complete a bike challenge that is, at best, only half bikeable? Why do you climb Mt. Everest? Why do you hoot and holler in a tunnel? Why do you keep eating pizza after you're full? Because it's there.

Having learned our lesson on each subsequent trip to the Shawnee, we had set a conservative plan. Chuck mapped a 109-mile loop that stitched together three sections of singletrack with road bypasses around Wilderness areas. We had three days to complete this, which seemed eminently doable: about 35 miles a day.  

We began at Lake Glendale and enjoyed 12 miles of pavement and gravel before Gum Springs Road led us to an 8-mile chunk of trail. It began auspiciously with a surprising gravel doubletrack, but within a quarter mile we'd reached the first mud hole. While motorized use in the Shawnee is disallowed on trails and cross-country, sections of singletrack are connected by pavement, gravel, and forest roads which are legal for jeeps and UTVs. Many forest roads sport mud holes across their width, most so well established that multiple ride-arounds have formed, twisting like braids in the general direction of the trail. Many of these ride-arounds have also developed deep mud holes.

...and so it begins...

The trail narrowed to singletrack, where we traded bogs for new obstacles.  This early in the trip, it was dumb enough to be funny. "We never learn," we laughed as we manhandled our bikes up rocky ledges. "This is ridiculous," we smiled as we lifted our bikes over downed trees. "What's wrong with us?" we groaned as we lowered our bikes down jutting rocks. Getting back on the bikes was an act of faith: most chunks of riding distance could be measured in tens of feet. Our pace rarely topped 2 mph. I bashed my shins on pedals countless times. 

We encountered several creeks, still early enough and hopeful enough to attempt to keep our feet dry. "I just wanted to get a little bit of video of you crossing in case you fell in," Chuck told me. "That's what friends do."

"You're a good friend," I replied. "Only a good friend would agree to do something this stupid."

We stopped briefly at the East Trigg Trailhead for a snack and a look at the large map posted. Our distance to go looked impossibly long. Leaving the trailhead we had a brief period where we could actually ride for more than 5 pedal strokes, but after passing through the Tin Whistle railroad tunnel we were back to gingerly walking our bikes down a chunky hill. Some of the things we walked could have been ridden by a more skilled mountain biker. I could have ridden others on an unloaded mountain bike; my heavily loaded, rigid bikepacking bike was a different story. A backpacker we'd seen at the trailhead passed us with authority. "Your trekking poles are a lot lighter than ours," I told him.

We encountered three groups of equestrians along the trail. In general, horses find bikes scary, and we were careful to communicate respectfully with the riders, ask how they wanted to manage our groups' proximity, and do our part to keep everyone safe. We slowed as we approached, and both times they suggested we pass since we'd be faster. This was very much not the case with the first group, who sent us ahead, where we promptly had to get off our bikes to drag them around a massive mud hole. And then another. And then a rocky uphill. Already worn from the day's efforts, we now were speed pushing to stay ahead of the group and not inconvenience them. 

The second group let us pass, then brought their horses closer to let them see the bikes and gain some familiarity. Thankfully this time we were able to ride much of the trail ahead. After walking much of the first 8 miles, we celebrated our slightly faster pace. We met the final group of equestrians at a creek crossing. After some discussion about who would be faster, they again sent us ahead with the understanding that if we were too slow we'd trade places. "You're working a lot harder than we are!  I could never do that." 

At that point in the day, they certainly seemed to have the better part. We were filthy and tired. I had already fallen once while walking my bike, and we'd both been scraped and bruised by thorns and multiple pedal strikes to our legs. Every equestrian we'd met had been friendly and happy, and why not? They had music, cold beer, and something else to do the heavy lifting.

We emerged in the outskirts of Eddyville with deep relief and beelined to Shotgun Eddy's for what had turned out to be dinner. We discussed our options over the best burgers and baked potatoes ever. Our initial plan had been to lunch at the restaurant, ride roads around the Lusk Creek Wilderness, and push on to One Horse Gap halfway through the next section of singletrack, an estimated distance of 14 miles. It was now past 5; we had less than 90 minutes before sunset, a pace in the low single digits, and no lights. We needed a new plan.

Luckily Eddyville is surrounded by horse camps. Though we'd inadvertently hit the River to River on a huge equestrian weekend, a tent site -- "you can set up anywhere in that field by the arena" -- were still available. We made a reservation two miles from dinner and were set up before dark. Sleep came easily.

The next morning we were back at Shotgun Eddy's for breakfast and strategy. Neither of us was ready to abandon our plan. Yes, day one had been challenging, but we had finished the longest section of singletrack. We were starting earlier. We were strong and resilient. We were like willful toddlers experimenting with cause and effect:  "That socket probably won't shock me this time."

Our initial road ride felt delightfully speedy, not because we were riding fast but because we were riding at all. It was also quickly revealed our (my?) faulty math of the previous day. I'd estimated our ride to One Horse Gap to be 14 miles from Eddyville, but we didn't even reach the trail until mile 13. These early miles featured hill after hill. We would turn a corner and see a climb; when the road was straight it revealed a series of rollers ahead of us. "Just getting to the trail might kill us," Chuck groaned. 

The first two miles of the trail followed a forest road -- mostly rideable with only a few trees over which to heft our steeds. We met a group of backpackers at the Benham Hill trailhead. They warned us of multiple downed trees head. Great. A tight smile. A silent scream. We continued past them, past the trailhead sign to...actually, where even was the trail? Previous to this point, while the trail had been unwelcoming at best, it had been clearly visible. We rode into a low spot in the weeds beyond the signs. Definitely no ticks in here. 

Once we made it through the overgrown brush and past numerous branches and brush on the trail, it actually became rideable, almost...fun. I made sure to appreciate this surprising gift. Every decent mile was one less whack-a-mole hammer to the completion of our quest. This lasted almost until the turn to One Horse Gap, where we encountered a pair of equestrians, one of whom had a young horse who'd never seen bikes before. 

Nervous about how she'd react, the riders asked us to wait until they got out of the way. Unfortunately, we were all going the same way. "Luckily" that way was a long, rocky hill up which we had to push our bikes, so they were almost immediately out of our view. 

As we hiked uphill, trying not to roll our ankles on the loose cobblestone rocks, Chuck mentioned that this was the bad thing about horses: they knocked all these rocks loose. For my part, I found the proximity stressful, not wanting to scare horses or inconvenience riders. And then there was the incredible amount of horse droppings on the trail, somehow always in the best spot to put your foot or wheel. I began to theorize that it was a route-finding strategy. If Hansel and Gretel had left horseshit instead of bread crumbs they'd never have ended up at that witch's house.

We met back up with our equestrian friends just below One Horse Gap. I left my bike and walked ahead to ask how they'd like us to pass them. In the course of the conversation, we learned there was a big group riding in the next section of trail we planned to cover. We had already targeted that as a potential to drop, thinking that we could just hike it when we came back to hike the Wilderness sections. Chances are it would be faster than riding it, anyway. 

The ride satisfaction index plunged steeply after this stop. While the trail passed below one scenic bluffline and then along another, we were reduced once again to lifting and pushing our bikes through most of it. To make matters worse, I'd remembered the mileage for this section of trail as 6 miles, but it was closer to 9. The trail was sandwiched between two gravel roads, but we stubbornly clung to our plan, holding tight to the possibility of finishing the bike portion of our R2R challenge. By the time we finally emerged from the trail and made our way to Harbison's Market, no stitching was going to hold together the tatters of our original intentions.

We considered our options over a pizza. Even with deleting the High Knob section of singletrack, it would take us nearly 20 miles, 8 of them trails, to reach camp. Once again, we were hemorrhaging daylight, and we still had no lights but cell phone flashlights and one small headlamp. The trail wasn't going to happen, so we searched for a good camping alternative. 

Chuck suggested Golconda, while I campaigned for Tecumseh Lake, where I remembered a small primitive campsite. The route to Golconda was longer, primarily highway, and required what Google maps classified "steep hills". The way to the lake was shorter, and the road surface was questionable. Chuck was leery of getting caught out on the kind of jeep roads we've previously suffered in that area, but I pushed for the shorter alternative, sure I remembered a gravel road there from our first 2018 Shawnee adventure. Of course, I had also thought our morning's singletrack segment as 6 miles, so my memory was suspect at best.

Luckily, the roads were great, some of the best of the trip. Scenic and largely flat or downhill, they made for an enjoyable ride to camp. I was using my phone to navigate our new plan since Chuck's T Mobile was once again best utilized as an expensive paperweight, and so I was the only one to note the caution in our directions: "In 1.8 miles dismount and walk your bike. Pedestrian-only trail."  I considered this new information carefully. Do I tell him? We were too far in to change destinations now. Why should both of us worry? 

The "pedestrian-only" trail was a gravel road. The lake was as lovely as I'd remembered. A big group of hippies was playing bongo drums in a large site near the road, but there was room for our small tents beside the lake. We set up, ate our last pieces of leftover pizza, and were both asleep before moonrise. 

In the morning, we quickly packed up and rode straight to Elizabethtown for breakfast. We were the only patrons at what may well have been the ghost of a restaurant. The owner wore a ripped shirt, and the counter was lined with dirty dishes. Someone must've been eating there. The furniture and fixtures -- what little was there -- appeared to have been old twenty years ago. The coffee creamer did as well. The food was simple, cheap, and good.

The proprietor carried on a running stream of conversation while waiting on us: "...I've been divorced a couple of times. I'm done with dating...nobody is honest anymore. ...I do have this French lady, though. People tell me it's a scam, but 9,000 texts and she's never asked me for a penny. She's famous. I'll tell you who it is...Emma Watson. ...never asked me for a penny. She's sent me all her bank account numbers and PIN number. I told her 'stop doing that' and she said, 'I trust you'. ...she's pushing 40 now. I'm not a cradle robber."

Our bizarre breakfast fueled the remaining miles back to Lake Glendale. We arrived at the Jeep, battered by the trail and our efforts there, defeated once again by the River to River Trail, a repeat offender if I ever saw one. And yet, what else can you expect. If you stick your hand in a lion's mouth, it'll probably bite you. If you ride the trail, it's probably going to make you regret your every life choice.  

And yet, this quest, if not a good idea, strictly speaking, is a worthwhile one. After all, in the words of one R.L. Bennett's grandpa: "You can't say this is the stupidest thing I've ever done unless you do something dumb every once in awhile."

Well-executed plans leave little room for serendipity. Ours certainly hadn't included a magical lakeside campsite or a wild catfishing story at breakfast. We didn't triumph (yet), but we experienced the joyful stupidity of setting out -- and once again failing -- to complete the ridiculous task we set out for ourselves. We lived a lifetime in those three days.

I rest my case.

* “Bike legal” is a squishy designation here. The trail is comprised of paved, gravel, and forest roads (definitely bike legal), trails through Wilderness areas (definitely not bike legal), and trails through non-Wilderness National Forest (legality not clear). Like any self-respecting rule-follower I went to the Ranger Station, told them what I wanted to do, and asked if it was ok. I got a non-no answer, which was good enough for me. 

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