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BUNYAN VELO Travels on Two Wheels, Issue No. 05

BUNYAN VELO ISSUE No. 05 – FEBRUARY 2015

Travels on Two Wheels

CREATIVE DIRECTOR

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Lucas Winzenburg

lucas@bunyanvelo.com www.bunyanvelo.com

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Bunyan Velo PO Box 3621 Minneapolis, MN 55403 USA

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Jake Mann, Leah Johnson, Glenn Charles, Theresa McDevitt, Gabe Ehlert, Rafat Ali, Donnie Kolb, Gabriel Amadeus Tiller, Scott Felter, Patrick Murphy, Jason Goods, Dave Knox, and Charles Youel

CONTRIBUTORS

Johan Björklund Glenn Charles Joe Cruz Brett Davis Eszter Horanyi Leah Johnson

Paul Krahn Ryan Krueger Joey Parent Mark Reimer Russ Roca Kyle Thomas

Gabriel Amadeus Tiller Logan Watts Ben Weaver Lucas Winzenburg

PHOTO CREDITS

Cover: Mark Reimer Opposite: Johan Björklund Following: Lucas Winzenburg

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MADE WITH PRIDE IN MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA

CONTENTS

10 SILENCE Logan Watts

LOST IN IDAHO Gabriel Amadeus Tiller

OPERACION MUERTO Mark Reimer

FOUR SEASONS IN SWEDEN Johan Bjรถrklund

LOST COAST Ryan Krueger

100

OF FISH AND GRAVEL Russ Roca

114

A BETTER FAITH Paul Krahn and Kyle Thomas

130

OREGON OUTBACK Leah Johnson and Lucas Winzenburg

148

SOUTH AFRICA ACROSS Joe Cruz

164

FORGING FRIENDSHIPS BY FIRE Eszter Horanyi and Glenn Charles

182

ICELAND: LAND OF FIRE, ICE, AND FAT BIKES Brett Davis and Joey Parent

198

BIKE SHACK Ben Weaver

SILENCE

Written and photographed by Logan Watts

may have killed the only living thing within miles. It’s amazing how quickly an arm can move when startled, like the muscle instinct of a dog’s ear flicking away a gnat. I didn’t expect a fly in these parts. Maybe it was some sort of evolved and adapted super insect that thrived in the vast Martian landscape in which we were the aliens. Why would something choose to cope here, in such desolation? I let Virginia’s silhouette get ahead just enough to allow myself to be engulfed in the immense silence. It was an eerie, layered void of rock, sand, and thoughts. We had ridden for several days on primitive tracks that eventually descended into a passage through timeworn ridges where the escarpment of the Anti-Atlas meets the Sahara. The rocky terrain required constant focus to find lines that would minimize the jarring effects wrought by chunks of stone and corrugation. The sense of nothingness was only exaggerated by the loud crunch of tires radiating into the breathless desert. It was a place where I found the silence uncomfortable at first, like being lost as a child, or approaching the threshold of a new school on the first day of class. But it kept drawing me in, like

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an itch whose only means of relief was to crawl deeper. It was only a matter of time before solace replaced discomfort, and the beauty and depth of the wilderness pulled me under. I recently read about a study conducted by Harvard and the University of Virginia entitled, Just think: The challenges of the disengaged mind. The study involved placing subjects into an empty (except for a single chair), windowless room for 15 minutes. Without any distractions, each subject was left alone with only his or her thoughts. During one phase of the study, each subject was given the choice of sitting and thinking for a mere 15 minutes, or self-administering an electrical shock after which they would be free to leave. Two-thirds of the subjects chose the latter. How can it be that most people would rather subject themselves to physical pain than spend time alone with their thoughts? Has our First World society actually developed a fear of emptiness, a fear of where our minds might take us when left alone? As I heard about this study it made me reflect back on the amplified solitude that I found in the Sahara.

The tourism industry in Morocco is founded on the romance of nomadic tradition, a constant flitting dance amongst the silent rocks and drifting sands of the Sahara. The desert culture is mesmerizing, albeit somewhat exaggerated in the more touristic areas. In several auberges (guesthouses), there were Berber tents set up in the courtyard, each made of woven wool on layers of intricately patterned carpets with decorative cushions for sitting and sipping mint tea. Each may be leased for the night, in case one was interested in experiencing the ‘authentic’ nomad life. We often asked locals if they knew a place we could camp, which generally required hand signals to illustrate an A, for tent, then the universal gesture for sleep (tilting the head sideways and resting it on the hands, palms together). That usually resulted in the person laughingly questioning, “Like nomad!?” We may have been moving from place to place with a tent, but, by measure of extremity, we were no comparison to the Berber and Toureg people who roam the spiny desert and follow the herding traditions of their forefathers, living and dying by their camel. They are engrained with knowledge to navigate a seemingly endless ocean of rock and sand, using only stars, the sight of insects,

and cryptic landmarks. They must be at peace with the risk that a well 100 kilometers away may be dry, in harmony with the presence of nothing, and comfortable within a constant silence that I initially found unnerving. After killing the only fly in the desert Southeast of Tata, we made our way to Foum Zguid. As if the remoteness of the route wasn’t enough, we decided to take an even more desolate track toward Mhamid, into an area in the Sahara that is generally deemed accessible only by a sturdy 4x4. We made the decision after asking countless locals and hedging our bets with a mountain bike guide, who said, “… well it’s probably doable, but extremely adventurous.” We embarked on the intrepid three-day route just before dawn. The complete stillness of the morning was streaked with pastel pinks and blues as the first light colored the horizon in purposeful bands. To the south, a mesa sawed the sky with its jagged peaks of orange and rust. An extraordinarily bumpy track led us through sandy washes and vast rock gardens, through slivers of single track and pits of deep sand.

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Lost in Idaho Written and photographed by Gabriel Amadeus Tiller

here wasn’t a glimmer of light in the sky — even if we hadn’t been nestled deep in a fir forest it still would have been pitch black. There was no moon and a thick, wet layer of sodden clouds hung over the uninhabited basin on the southern flank of the rugged Sawtooth Range. Even when the sun reluctantly came up a few hours later, the morning light was feeble, desaturated, and cold. But right then, at three in the morning, I wasn’t worried about the lack of light. I was worried about the constant drip, drip, drip through the needled canopy onto my down sleeping bag. I was lying awake second-guessing my decision not to bring a shelter for this three-week bikepacking trip. It doesn’t rain in Idaho, they told me. It also wasn’t supposed to be so steep. Nor so rocky. We were three days into Adventure Cycling’s new Hot Springs Mountain Bike Route and already our group had dwindled from six to three. Well, to be honest, we were off route, pioneering some infrequently traveled trails between Atlanta and Alturas Lake in an attempt to shorten our route a bit. The rest of the group was on a different time frame and opted for the two-day ride to Ketchum’s brewery and movie theater. Bastards. I had pored over topo maps studiously back in Portland and determined this trail to be feasible if the pass was clear of snow at 9,200’. Last night we found that it was. Mostly. What we hadn’t been expecting was giant swaths of the forest flattened across our path from the winter’s avalanches. After a much-tougher-than-expected hike-a-bike for most of the day we were tuckered out and sloppy by the time we flopped down onto the large, dirty snowdrift guarding our shoulder summit. We peered over the other side into the Ross Basin, considerably more foreboding than it had appeared back in Google Earth. As we descended into it over the steep, loose, chunky scree I admired Lyle and Dan’s blind faith in my navigation skills — and hoped to hell my judgment proved to be sound. Or at least my luck not so transparently tenuous.

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Operacion Muerto Written and photographed by Mark Reimer

n the early spring I was talking with my friend Hal about a project he’s been working on over the last few years called Operacion Muerto. As he describes it, Operacion Muerto is a series of off-road endurance challenges that require participants to identify their own routes. It is not a race, but it follows a number of pre-selected checkpoints and a typical route spans 400 to 500 km, all off pavement. Riders must commit to the dates they intend to attempt the challenge beforehand, and once committed, may not change due to poor weather. The challenge is only completed after sharing your story online with accompanying photos. I was looking for something new to try and decided I would give it a go. Having never attempted a ride this long, it would certainly test my limits, even if it wasn’t a race. Mostly, though, it sounded like a fun way to spend a weekend getting lost in the woods on a bike. Sign me up! This is my account of the 2014 Operacion Muerto challenge, a 420 km loop that runs across Riding Mountain National Park in Manitoba, Canada. I made my attempt together with my good friend Graham Madden. Our ride began in Neepawa, a small town in Eastern Manitoba. MUERTO ACCOUNT

We pulled into Neepawa at about 9:30 pm on Thursday, August 14. The sun had already set, making it clear that the dog days of summer were coming to a close. Our plan was to find somewhere to camp in town and hit the road by 9:00 am the following day. This was my first Operacion Muerto challenge, Graham’s second. Graham and I were on the same page here – we decided to do the ride in three days, riding easy but long days, getting a lot of sleep, and eating well. This wasn’t going to be a ride where we’d kill ourselves just to see if we could do it. Our ride was about stopping for a swim, kicking back in the shade while passing around a bit of bourbon, sleeping in, and taking the scenic route whenever possible. In the quiet hours of the evening, we toasted in hopes of a successful and fun ride over a few beers and called it a night by midnight. I was excited and nervous, but quickly fell into a deep sleep. FRIDAY, AUGUST 15: 180 KM

One of the great things about sleeping in a tent is how easy it is to wake up early. I’m not much of a morning person, but there’s something about waking up with the sun while camping that just feels right.

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Four Seasons in Sweden Photographed by Johan Bjรถrklund

LOST COAST Written and photographed by Ryan Krueger

In this remote stretch of coast, our most likely companions are the native population of bald eagles, energetic seals, leaping whales, and resident grizzly bears, all of which were living among us in large numbers. Our traveling schedule is at times nonexistent. We generally play it by ear, riding when all of the variables intersect. The sun is always overhead in some form and the constant light, wild atmosphere, and exposed surroundings are mentally taxing. During downtime, the anticipation of a pristine stretch of beach overtakes our thoughts. Like a stash of powder or a flowy stretch of singletrack, the tacky, solid beach allows us to cover distance that cannot be found in the deep sand. Relying on them for our timely return, we ride these solid stretches as long as we can when we find them. Many times throughout the trip, low tide and perfect riding aligned with night hours, allowing us to pedal late as the light transitioned from gold, to pink, to orange. Generally, we would sleep from the early morning until midday after long stretches of night riding, before getting up to do it all over again. Now, back at the south side of the Dangerous River where we’d been dodging Arctic Terns and waiting around the fire while the seals put on a show, we are finally prepared to climb into the rafts and head out across the water. The current is less powerful with the rising tide, although it is still not ideal. The sun is showing itself more and more and we’re feeling like our long day has long since expired and the time to cross is now. As we paddle away from the shore, we angle upstream and begin to ferry across, paddling as hard as we can to counteract

the force of the water flowing out of the glaciated mountains upstream. We’d walked upriver to account for some lost ground in the current, but about halfway across I’m wondering if we walked far enough. The rapid below is closing in and the murky, glacial water isn’t all that inviting, so I keep my mind on the objective and paddle on, hoping the other side greets us sooner than later. Seals bob up and down around us, surfacing in pairs, staring at the strange contraptions in which we are floating. We continue to paddle on and the rapid gets closer and closer as we approach the other side of the river. Just when I start to think that we might not make it, we catch the eddy and the force of the river subsides. With a sigh of relief, we pull our gear up on the sand, deflate the boats, and seek out the nearest acceptable campsite. We set up the tent as the sun is rising and finally fall asleep in the early morning light—resting until midday before heading out once again. The next afternoon, our weary legs are slowly turning over miles out on the sand. We are not even midway through the day’s distance and the tide is rising, causing us to ride high up the beach along the soft, sluggish sand. As we pull our bikes up the beach to have a quick break, we encounter an encroaching cloud with long, dark streaks reaching out of the high mountains toward the coast where we sit exposed, awaiting its arrival. The first gust hits us quickly and with force—a wind that would be useless to ride in as we would be unable to keep the bikes upright. We collect a few key belongings and hike back into the bush to seek temporary protection.

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Of Fish and Gravel Written and photographed by Russ Roca

A Better Faith

Written by Paul Krahn, photographed by Kyle Thomas

Oregon Outback

Written by Leah Johnson, photographed by Lucas Winzenburg

RITUALS The start of day two captured some of the things I love most about camping by bike. Out of my duo, I’m usually the one to wake and make coffee. My partner Jake thinks he’s got the better end of the deal, but I relish the solitary morning ritual. A ground fog had risen at 5:30 on this particular morning, removing depth and adding mystery to the little forest we’d camped in. Beyond the thick curtain of fog were the calls of unidentifiable creatures. I waited for the water to boil and thought about our party of six: Martina Brimmer, Jason Goods, Lucas Winzenburg, Amy Oberbroeckling, Jake Mann, and me – an unplanned, serendipitous “team” that had worked together perfectly thus far. I was stoked for the day ahead. Fueled by a delicious cup, we broke down camp, filled our bottles with water, and packed up our bikes. These are some of the most organized moments of my usually hectic life. On a bike, life’s necessities are abbreviated, and it is satisfying to put each piece in its place. I get a feeling of independence from packing up camp, leaving no trace, and riding off with a loaded, self-sustaining adventure bike. This morning was no exception as I pedaled onward with my posse, grinning all the while.

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South Africa Across Written and photographed by Joe Cruz

25k away Soweto, corrugated steel roof shacks and gestures to prosperity juxtaposed, Nobel laureates, artists, fruit sellers, confident dreamers, everyone waving and kind. Brand new sidewalks end like a shrug, coast now through open sewer trench. And then hundreds of k more over the next weeks, dirt and cracked asphalt roads to less famous black townships—locations, in the evocative repossession of linguistic history—with their own economies and joyous thrum defying the abstraction of high unemployment and uncertain futures. I’m a guest at struggling dignified estates of white farmers in the south. In between are expanses of high desert, canyons, sandstone, capering vervets, the puffed mildly comical menace of troops of baboons crossing the path glaring back at my aloneness. A veld with magisterial giraffes breaking into a balletic immense stride run jump run. Too, elephants, wildebeest, dung caught in the tread of my tires. In darkness a basso guttural earthquaking roar of lions just beyond the fence line. Lofting mountains, a town on a cape, everywhere a complicated history that remains visible and daring you to imagine that it’s not so. Navigation is a distinctive obstacle in the Freedom Challenge. I’m following a track across a plateau, thoroughly lost, I drag the heavy machine through sage to the edge to get a better look. The stream and river cut tells me something of where I am, though South Africa keeps hidden from me where I stand. The company of fear like having a debate with an opponent and dimly accepting that you might be wrong three or four more steps in the dialectic. The literal stakes are low, anyway, though, as I’m traveling with a full inventory of what I need and gaining the metaphorical ones with every day.

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FORGING FRIENDSHIPS BY FIRE Written by Eszter Horanyi, photographed by Glenn Charles