“Dad, is she really dead?” “Yeah, Tim, I’m sorry.” “Why the fuck is this on Facebook, Why am I getting voicemails and messages about Facebook posts, and why am I reading this on Facebook, I’m in the middle of the woods on Mount Hood and this is how I’m finding out!!!”

“I’m sorry, Tim.” “Is Mom okay?” “Yeah everyone is here with her now.” “Tim, there’s nothing you can do, just stay safe and follow your route and come home on Tuesday as you planned.” “Okay Dad.”

This was supposed to be the camping trip that would end summer. A friend of mine was enthusiastic about giving loaded bicycling touring try. All other previous bicycle adventures my friend has taken involved a support vehicle (known as SAG [support and gear] wagons). My argument, before we departed: touring with a SAG wagon is equal to going for daily bike rides, while loaded bicycle touring is a different beast all together. My friend disagreed. However, the first hours of the trip would be shocking for him; his eyes would finally open to the world that is, unsupported bicycle travel.

I offered my friend three different routes to choose from, as I was in charge of route planning. He always had a vehicle for him to jump into when situations got treacherous.  Because of this, I gave him three options, they ranged from easy to difficult. My friend chose the hardest. He then ignored every bit of advice I gave him.

“Don’t forget your water filter, and oh yeah, how many water bottles are you bringing?” I asked. “Two.” John replied. “You need to be able to carry more than two bottles of water. We won’t be near any services for at least two days. Make sure you can carry enough water. I’m carrying a 1.5 liter reservoir, a 32 ounce Nalgene, and two 20 ounce water bottles. I can drink all that in a day going over mountain passes.” John laughed at me and said, “You’re carrying way too much water.” “Ok, yeah you’re right…” I replied while mumbling something derogatory under my breath.

My mom was still in the hospital after having cancer removed from her lung. I had been considering cancelling this four to five-day adventure due to the seriousness of my mother’s condition. A few days before departing on the bike trip, my Mom had started to improve. She improved so much that her health had stabilized. The doctors would be releasing her the night I would leave, if not, the next morning. So my Dad and I agreed that it was okay for me to go. Not only that, my friend had also spent somewhere in the realm of $1,000.00 to get gear for this trip. Not only for the trip, but he has aspirations of solo unsupported bike tours of his own. But he wanted to go with a buddy on his first experience.

The first day was an easy ride out of Portland. For John, it was eye-opening; “I can’t believe how much water I’m drinking, and how the wind really adds resistance to the bike.” We stopped at a town outside of Portland named Boring, Oregon. This is where John would fill up his two water bottles, for a second time, since leaving his place only 25 miles down the road. We hadn’t been on the road for more than a couple of hours.

I was in rare form the first day. My mouth was releasing all of my frustrations to the world. I was doing this while I watched my friend fight with his bicycle. He stopped paying attention and nearly drove into a ditch. He looked behind him and nearly fell over, almost falling and swerving into me. It reminded me of my first time. We were having fun though.

The second day, the wind kicked up. I have no idea how fast the wind was blowing, but it was a consistently strong head wind flowing down the Clackamas River from high upon on Mount Hood. I had made sure to eat a big breakfast that morning. That said though, I hadn’t had much cycling time since I’d returned from my tour to Montana. Eating such a big breakfast, then fighting headwinds while climbing a six percent grade for three miles, had my stomach in disrepair. We had to rest. All morning long after departure, John was talking about death. I said to him, “Man, let’s talk about positives not about dying and negatives. Let’s be positive.”

I pulled into a campground and found a picnic table climbing onto its top where I laid supine for a few minutes. Then I rolled onto my side and closed my eyes. I felt weak, sick, and thirsty. I forced down a bottle of water, then returned to my horizontal position listening to John ramble on about death, health, exercise, and everything else that I should be doing. I was getting frustrated. But my plan had worked. Taking a 45 minute nap and then slamming a bottle of water had been what I needed, I felt better.

We returned to the highway continuing into the wilderness, and John began pointing out every sign, in detail, that we came upon. It was as if I wasn’t there or something. “No services for sixty miles the sign says.” I see it, confirming the signs presence. “There’s a ranger station up ahead that has a little store where we can get soda, and firewood, but it’s only open during camping season.” I explained. Continuing on we rounded a corner and saw another bicycle tourist.

At the general store we stopped and talked for bit with the bicyclist. I cannot remember the guy’s name, but this was his very first bicycle tour. He had no experience, but lots of ambition, and had just graduated from Portland State. He was on his first leg of multi-content bike tour. This kid was going places, and was a welcomed addition for the rest of the day, and night, as I needed a break from John pointing out the obvious.

The three of us camped that night along the Clackamas River somewhere in the Mount Hood national forest. We had a great night talking about organized religion, bicycle touring, recreational drug use, the girls camping next to us, and the party on the other side of the river. The night was a blast. The next morning we would get up continuing on to the bridge where we would go our separate ways.

The next morning, on our third day, we all packed up together and hit the road. It was Sunday morning in the middle of the Mount Hood national forest along the Clackamas River. The forest road was littered in beer cans, smoldering ashes, cars strewn along the side of the road in the ditch; the area where we were in was thrashed with car campers. A despicable sight. Passing a long line of cars, Coors Light cans, Pabst Blue Ribbon cartons half burnt, and camp-sites filled with passed out car campers, we finally bicycled by a smoldering pile of ashes spread out on the shoulder of the Forest Road.

Looking at this smoking pile I decided to turn around and douse the ground that was burning. As I turned back, dismounting my steed, a couple of people opened their pickup truck doors and stumbled out gazing straight at me. Feeling uncomfortable while fearing a confrontation with unreasonable drunks, I quickly hopped back onto my bicycle and continued on leaving the burning ditch still smoking. A week after returning from this very trip the area was on the news; there was a large forest fire.

            John, myself, and the tourist whose name I cannot remember, had found the turn off to Timothy Lake. The nameless rider would continue on to Detroit, Oregon. John and I, we would make a left turn continuing to climb up to 4,500 feet in elevation before dropping down to Timothy Lake. We were in our second day without cell phone coverage. And our second day without a store. At camp last night everyone used my water filter to restock on clean drinkable water (as John had forgotten his water-filter). This was also the point where we would turn away from the river. Thereby meaning, no more water until reaching Timothy Lake. From our turn off point, to Timothy Lake, was 17 miles predominately uphill. No more than a mile up the road, John starts talking about death, “I hope he makes it to South America and doesn’t die on the way.” “Why would you say that, John? I thought we weren’t going to talk about death.” “Well, people die.” Captain Obvious at it again, I said to myself. Then it happened.

“I can’t believe how much climbing were doing, at this rate will reach 8,000 feet.” Na we’re fine I said. We’ve only been going on this road for about five miles now. “Well,” John says, “I’m running low on water.” 12 miles later we stop. And it’s about 2:00 in the afternoon. John has been complaining about climbing hills the entire time, he’s running low on water, and getting overly frustrated. I’m tired of hearing complaints because well, I warned him. John wants to check his phone because he heard a beep. No phone service.

We continue with the last five miles to the turn off to Timothy Lake where we stumble upon a historic ranger station. John starts to look for running water. We find some after a short search. The first water source we find, John says, “Lets filter it, I think it’s contaminated because it’s got caution tape on the spigot.” I says, “It’s the first source of water we have found, let’s keep searching, I’m sure we’ll find potable water, we’re at an old ranger station.” No, filter this, John demands. “Come on dude, don’t panic.”

Tired, but with our thirst quenched, we coast on down to the Lake. At lakeside we plan our evening. Should we campout here, or continue up to the highway and see if we can’t make it closer to highway 35? We decide to keep moving, it’s 3:30 in the afternoon. But unbeknownst to John, we have to climb back out of the mountains another 10 miles, and over the summit at 4,500 feet again, just to get to highway 26. Timothy Lake sits at an elevation of 3,120 feet. John is tired and weary of climbing hills in the Mount Hood National Forest. It’s his third day of bicycle touring, and he’s run out of water, he is hungry, and his sense of mileage is off. He’s exhausted, frustrated, and uncomfortable. I feel for him. I’m feeling good, just frustrated that John isn’t having a good time anymore.

We finally make it out of the forest and next to the main highway, Oregon highway 26, at Timothy Lake Sno-Park. It’s 4:30 in the afternoon and we’ve been riding all day. However, we’ve only gone 32 miles, but it’s been a serious climb of 32 miles. John is feeling ever more frustrated with the situation. He wants cell phone coverage, he wants to be in a campground, and he wants to have running water, and he doesn’t want to be here. But here we are, we’re under a shelter at a Sno-Park on the side of highway 26 where I ask him, “Hey, what do you think about chilling out here and then dipping off into the woods over yonder setting up camp just outta sight?” “I don’t know, I don’t feel comfortable here, we’re trespassing right now. There is a sign right here that says no camping!” “We’re not camping we’re resting and planning John. And I’m starving so I’m going to make dinner now, Okay?” “Okay.”

Prepping to make dinner, I pull my cutting board out and clean it. I pour a bit of water on the board scrubbing it clean with my camp towel. Then I dry it off and set it down in front of me. I look away and reach into my bag grabbing my knife. John is across the room at his own table about 10 feet from me. I look back at my cutting board with knife in hand, and there sits three half-round pieces of shiny polished wood, each about the size of a nickel, resting on my cutting board which I just finished cleaning. Thinking nothing of it, I wipe them off and set my knife down next to my cutting board. I look into my bag grabbing some food items. Returning to the board, again, three more half round polished pieces of wood all sitting neatly on board. I look around and John is busy working with his camp-stove, frustrated, and oblivious to me. I wiped the wood pieces away, and dive back into my food pannier retrieving spices this time. Once again, there are the three shiny wood pieces. I said to John, “I think a Spirit, or Ghost, is trying to communicate with me. You never know what’s in these woods.” As I show John the shiny pieces of wood. “It’s just squirrels.” He replies. No squirrels were around.

After eating John and I got into more conflict. I give the maps to John so he can plan our move just before sunset. “Let’s go here, to Parkdale tonight and get a hotel room.” “John we’ve got 3 more passes to bike over between here and Parkdale, were on Mount Hood and the sun is just about to set, we’re exhausted, and we’re on a busy highway, it’s not the safest option.” “Well, I’m not camping here!” “We’re not camping here, were camping outside of here in the woods somewhere.” John doesn’t like that option so he comes back with, “Let’s go to Frog Lake campground 10 miles down the road and get a real camp spot with water and bathrooms.” “Okay then.”

Just before we pack up I grab my phone. I’m just outside of Timothy Lake on the crest, I check my phone and I’ve got one bar of signal strength. I make a phone call to my parents to check on my Mom. Communication is difficult but I heard my Mom’s voice and she heard mine. All is good, she’s home. I turn the phone off. We’re going closer to government camp, where we will have much better coverage, though spotty still.

Heading over to Frog Lake on highway 26, I’m keeping one eye on my mirror and one eye on the road. Traffic wasn’t as heavy as I expected, but it was coming in waves as is the norm. And, the sun has now set. When all of a sudden, I see a car driving in the shoulder quickly coming up directly behind John. I ditch the bike into the soft shoulder where I come to a rapid halt. John who was on my six never sees the car and stops in the shoulder; which in turn causes the driver to jut quickly, and suddenly, into traffic whilst almost colliding into John, and another car.  This other car was passing the car driving inside the shoulder of the road, on the right side of the solid white line. That was the final straw the broke my back.

John isn’t watching his rear, we are unsafe. Not more than 150 feet behind us was a gravel dirt road. I turned around and entered the road. There, on a gravel road just off of highway 26 between Timothy Lake Sno-Park, and Frog Lake Sno-Park, we camped on a dead-end dirt road. No words were spoken between John and myself that night. John had now been exposed to unsupported bicycle travel. The end of day three.

I quickly set up camp and then got in my tent. The sun had already set. There was a gas station not far from here where I’d grab a morning snack and something to drink. Hopefully John would be in a better mood, day four and mostly downhill. I powered up my phone as we were about 5 miles closer to Government Camp. Bam, 3G coverage! I was getting lit up. Voicemails, and texts. Something had happened while I was away. Something sudden and terrible.

Sitting in my tent I discovered that a cousin of mine had died. I read about her passing in a Facebook post, after listening to a voicemail message about a weird post on Facebook. I had just spoken to her only days before. I called my dad, and the post was true. My cousin had died. Sitting in my pitch black tent alongside of highway 26, I sat crying, waiting out the night. I had, had it with John’s shit, at first light I was going home. My first order of business was to get John somewhere safe.

The next morning I packed up at 5:00am. By 6:00am I was sitting in the dark on the side of Mount Hood with my gear packed; eating cold oats smashed up with a dark chocolate bar mixed with water out of my coffee cup. I wasn’t playing around. Every morning so far, John was jokingly telling me how slowly I pack-up and get moving. Now he’d see what it’s like to make miles. I was going home. 90 plus miles was in store for me. I needed out. One of my closest cousins to me had died and I wasn’t there to hug my Mom, whose baby had suddenly died.

John sticks his head out of his tent. There I am sitting on a rock eating out of my coffee cup. He packs up and says, “Ready.” I can barely speak, I’ve never been so pissed off. “John, watch your rear you almost got hit last night.” “I saw the car,” he replies. “Then why the hell did you stop right in front of him? You didn’t see shit till it was almost too late. If you see me ditch it into the culvert, it’s for a reason.”

We headed out onto the road and made it to Frog Lake Sno-Park where we finally started talking. But words were brief. It wasn’t until we got to the gas station on highway 26, 5 miles from OR highway 26 and OR 35 junction, that we really communicated.

The gas-station was closed.

John says to me, “They open at 8:00, let’s wait.” “Okay.” “Hey Tim, I know that you’re stressed out, and I overheard heard you last night say to someone that you wanted to leave and ride home last night. If you want to leave me here I’ll be fine.” He continued on to say “I understand what you’re feeling right now with your Mom and all.” I cut him off.

“You understand what John. You don’t understand a damn thing,” I lost it: “All you did yesterday was complain about everything that I warned you about. You almost got hit by a car last night. You forced us into a bad situation. And now you know what I’m going through?” He cuts me off butting in…

“You’re blaming me for everything…” I cut him off.

“John, I don’t blame you, I just lost a family member and my Mom is really sick…” He cuts me off again not letting me talk and vent.

“I understand and know what you’re feeling and I understand your situation and that you just lost someone, I overheard your conversation.”

“You don’t understand a damn thing then John, shut your fucking mouth for five minutes and I’ll explain it to you. If you don’t then I’m leaving your ass right here.”

He looked straight at me and started talking again… I left.

At 8:30 on Monday morning I was sitting in a café eating a hot breakfast. I called my Mom. I’ll be there by 2:00 I told her. After eating breakfast I jumped on the bike. By 1:00pm I was in Vancouver talking to my Dad. 93 miles done.

“I thought you weren’t coming back until tomorrow” My Dad asks. “No, I couldn’t be up on Mount Hood right now. I had to come home.” “Where’s John?”

“Stuck on Mount Hood, He’s fine. I taught him well.”