green fire , the hills swimming in chloroplasts , a vibrant force of life stretching out of sight . St . Elmo , that arsonist , must have washed up on California ’ s beaches and had a field day . If the mountains have their secrets , as Leopold thinks , then surely they must write them into the trees , growth rings reading like a diary of every fire , the record of every lean year , buried in the hearts of the solemn pines .
Marina , the schedule keeper , pads up behind me , her small wiry frame dappled by sunlight filtering through the needles . “ We ’ re packing up and leaving , now that the sun isn ’ t so high . It ’ s all downhill from here .” I breathe a sigh of relief and follow behind her . Jacob is twirling his thin bandito-style mustache as he swings his long , gangly legs over his bike frame . Time to hop on the aluminium horse and stick it to California : Oregon is just through the tunnel .
Different state , different mountains . Same bloody sun . Luckily , Oregon ’ s trees like to crowd right up to the road and shade it from the heat . It ’ s many days later , and we ’ re climbing up the Cascade range now , gaining altitude above sea level at a racing snail ’ s pace . Next stop is Crater Lake National Park , which is apparently still snowed in , even on May 16 . Right now we have stationed ourselves outside a gas station in Prospect , the last town before private land dissolves into National Forest . This little collection of civilization is 2,000 feet past sea level , which leaves us with 5,000 more feet to go until we ’ re on top of Mount Mazuma , the mountain that preceded the explosion which created Crater Lake . To put that into perspective , humans have never built a building past the Tokyo Skytree ’ s meagre 2,080 feet . Perhaps another way to think of it is that we still have 430 flights of stairs to go . I massage my calves as I think about this . After we finish gnawing the fruit that we bought inside , we hop onto our bikes with vigor and delve into the forest , passing giant trees with pinecones the size of infants . “ Do not pick up any cones ,” reads a sign pinned to a tree . “ These trees are part of a genetic experiment .”
We grab three for kicks and souvenirs , and ride , giggling , up the road . At midday we reach the huge sign declaring that we are entering the national park , and we bring out a worn and crinkled map to trace our progress for the day . Thirty miles and two thousand five hundred feet closer to our lofty goals . By four in the afternoon Jacob ’ s stomach begins to growl threateningly , and soon it becomes a unanimous gastro-intestinal decision to pull off at the next rest stop and make dinner . Soon the road begins to follow a huge gorge named Castle Creek , and as an outhouse appears around the corner , we park our bikes and busy ourselves with preparation for dinner . I gather firewood as Jacob lights some twigs in our hobo stove , a metal coffee can with holes poked in it for ventilation . Dinner tonight is a one-course meal – instant mashed potatoes with a can of creamed corn , eaten on the most comfortable looking log that is out of sight of the road . With a touch of garlic salt , the meal tastes passable . With a handful , it tastes like ambrosia laced with LSD . We discuss our options over and between mouthfuls of dinner . It ’ s forecasted to be a cold night , and we don ’ t want to set up camp in the darkness . Crater Lake will have to wait for tomorrow . That ’ ll give us most of the day to enjoy it before we hightail it out to continue our thousand-mile loop that started in Seattle .
We walk to a big map near the road , temporarily abandoning the pots and bowls behind us . Marina volunteers to bike ahead to scout for campsites , and Jacob and I watch her until she ’ s out of sight . As she disappears around the corner , Jacob slowly turns towards me and says , “ I think she just stuck us with the dishes .”
Sharing a chuckle , we hurry through the chores , load the bikes , and amble over the road to
Superior Surf by Jon Martin