The Great Bike Ride to Camp Wooten 1972

By Randy Haglund

After 135 miles of pedaling our bicycles up and down long, steep grades in extreme heat, our bikes came to a sudden halt.

Three miles short of our destination we came to fresh, deep gravel. Our skinny ten-speed bike tires sunk two inches into the crushed rock and we were forced to dismount. It seemed like a fitting conclusion to an eventful sojourn.

Two weeks earlier, my friend Rick told me he and two other boys were talking about riding bikes to our summer church camp this year at Camp Wooten, deep in the Blue Mountains. Before he could even ask me…

“Can I come?”

I’m not sure he could’ve stopped me. At 15 years old, I rode my green Schwinn Suburban everywhere. Not just all over town, I rode all the way to Tumtum and back in one day, over 40 miles. While there, my friend Jim and I swam across Long Lake and back, a total distance of almost a mile.

Okay, so it’s not an Iron Man Triathlon, but based on my experience, I was pretty sure I could do anything I set my mind to. I never even gave a thought to training.

You’d think I would’ve learned my lesson about being prepared for bike adventures after The Shortcut to Bowl and Pitcher.

Rick pulled out a map and showed me the route. He told me it would take two days, and we had to start planning supplies and such. I don’t remember how I talked my parents into letting me do it, but they did know the church bus would be taking the same route on the second day, so if any trouble arose along the way, it could pick us up.

Mile 0

Anxious to beat the August heat, I had my alarm set for 3:15 on a Saturday morning so as to pick up Rick and rendezvous with our two friends, Steve and Larry, at Sambo’s restaurant by 4:00.

The four of us then pedaled through Hangman Valley on Inland Empire way and hooked up with the Palouse Highway heading south. It became apparent after a few miles that of this group, I was the weakest link. My friends had lettered in sports like track and tennis — they were disciplined. I was in my athletic prime but too busy having fun to get involved with heavy-handed coaches. I was strong, but my endurance flagged compared to them.

So I fell behind.

If you haven’t tried it, driving through the Palouse with its rolling hills rich with agriculture is an enjoyable experience. But when you’re pedaling a bike, the hills seem more like mountain passes. There are no less than seventeen long and arduous summits on U.S Highway 95 just in the sixty mile stretch between Spokane and Colfax. We had only gone about thirty miles when my calves began to quake with each pump of the crank. I wasn’t feeling so boastful about my athleticism.

On top of that, I had a problem with my backpack. Made for hiking, not riding, an aluminum bar chafed across my spine with each push of the pedals. It felt like it had worn a hole through my shirt and was working it’s way toward my internal organs. So I stopped and took my bedroll, made up of a couple thin blankets, and wrapped one around the bar. It helped, but with the middle of my back already raw, I had to ignore the anguish it caused.

Mile 62

We dropped down into Colfax about ten in the morning and stopped briefly at a gas station to refill our water bottles. We then turned west on highway 26. Steve and Larry rode ahead, out of sight. But Rick held back, not wanting me to fall too far behind.

About eight miles out of town, an eighteen-wheeler passed by us leaning on his horn.

What a jerk.

We were way over on the shoulder, so I didn’t know what his problem was. Rick shouted something over his shoulder but I couldn’t hear what he said. When we rounded the next bend the truck awaited at the bottom of a hill.

Now what?

Rick stopped and was talking to the driver, who had gotten out. When I rolled up, Rick introduced me to him as one of his neighbors. The truck driver knew about our journey and expected to see Rick on his route. He asked if we wanted a ride to the next town. Strapping our bikes behind the cab, we stole about eight miles, passing our unsuspecting cohorts on our way to Dusty, a hamlet of about a dozen people. He drove on after dropping us off at a filling station that reminded me of Goober’s in Mayberry—with a lot less traffic. The thermometer on the front porch read 101 degrees.

We sat in the shade drinking bottles of Orange Nesbitt waiting for our friends’ arrival. When they got there, dripping with sweat, I expected them to be surprised but instead they were annoyed we’d cheated.

Mile 79

Dusty had certainly earned its name. The surroundings had transformed from the fertile farm country of the Palouse to a more arid ranchland farmscape.

From there we turned south onto highway 127. Soon we would reach the part of the trip we were all looking forward to. The last eight-and-a-half miles of the day were a nearly 1200 foot elevation descent into the Snake River Canyon. When we got to the rim I let go of the handle bars and coasted sitting up straight. The breeze was hot, but the air moving across my perspiring face still felt good.

But before long I saw Steve and Larry stopped by the side of the road. Rick asked what was wrong.

“Flat tires.”

“Both of you?”

“Yup. We’ll fix ‘em and meet you at the bottom.”

So Rick and I lazily freewheeled to the Central Ferry Bridge and waited.

And waited.

After the better part of an hour, they appeared in the distance. They weren’t riding their bikes, but walking them!

When they finally got to us they explained they would fix a flat and only go a short distance before they got another one! After a few attempts they gave up and walked.

“How could that be?”

“There’s some sort of spikey seed or something. You can’t avoid ’em.”

“But me and Rick didn’t get any flats.”

“Actually, I do have a flat,” Rick said, glancing at his bike.

Sure enough, he did.

I had the oldest and cheapest bike of the lot, but I did invest in touring tubes. They were expensive French imported inner tubes I needed a special adapter to inflate. Turns out they were a worthy investment. Rick had regular tubes like the others, but he had Michelin steel belted tires. Whatever menace lurked here could even pierce through steel!

We were all so exhausted; we decided to wait until morning to do any tire repairs. Eating jerky and freeze dried pears, we then camped out on a wooden dock on the south bank of the Snake River for the night.

Mile 98

My teeth were chattering.

After riding in 101 degree heat the day before, it was surprisingly cold that morning, and my thin blanket didn’t suffice. The sky to the east was pink but the sun had yet to rise over a mountain range. I would’ve started a fire but the barren landscape yielded nothing combustible.

So I paced the river bank and rubbed my achy muscles waiting for my compadres to awaken. I was anxious to get going.

When the others finally got up, they groaned in pain. We gazed south with grim intimidation. Eight-and-a-half miles down into the canyon was nice, but now we faced a seven mile uphill campaign first thing. After patching tubes.

We were finally ready to go and we didn’t get even a few yards before Larry and Steve stopped again.

More flats.

Rick and I gave them our spare tubes and told them we’d meet them in Dodge, the next town.

After a long uphill assault, we were rewarded with another decline to a service station just outside the tiny town of Dodge in the Pataha Valley. Even better, it had a little cafe in it. A one-man show, the proprietor served as chef, dish washer, table busser, and gas pumper. Plus I think he did some auto mechanics as well. We told him about our buddies and their flat tires.

“Puncturevine,” he said.

“Huh?”

“It gives flat tires to bikes, motorcycles — even cars sometimes! Throws out this nasty sharp seed that lands on the road and gives people fits! The state’s been trying to eradicate them.” He shrugged. “Lucky for you it mostly grows in the Snake River canyon. You guys are probably out of danger from here on out.”

We feasted on the best ham and egg breakfast I ever tasted. After washing it down with black coffee, we went back outside but Steve and Larry were still not there. Then we noticed our bikes each had a flat.

*Sigh*

Getting out my patch kit, I found the leak and fixed it. The station had a compressor so we didn’t have to use our hand pumps. We were ready to go but still waited for our companions.

Finally we spotted them coming over the crest.

Walking.

We told them the good news about how we were out of the woods now. They ate a quick breakfast and after more patches we added up our total wounds. Twenty-one flats in all. One for me, two for Rick, and the other two guys had eighteen between them. Steve worried if the tires would hold up the rest of the way.

At the junction of U.S. highway 12, we were itching to get out of Dodge.

Mile 107

It was already late morning and we had a decision to make. Two routes to Camp Wooten. Larry and Steve wanted to go east on Highway 12 and then turn south over Marengo grade. I lobbied to go west to the Tucannon River Road. It was ten miles longer, but fairly flat. I pointed out that Marengo grade was another uphill climb on an unimproved road, according to our Metzger map. Besides, the church bus would be taking the paved route, and might miss seeing us along the way if we took the short cut.

Everyone looked to Rick. If he sided with me, we’d have to flip a coin or arm wrestle or something. He caved in and we went east.

Seven miles later we turned south onto Marengo Road. After 114 miles of steep inclines, I dreaded the idea of another one. Already in a bad mood for having lost the election at Dodge, here I was as usual, riding in dead last. It wasn’t a race, but I felt guilty about holding everyone back again. Only flat tires by the others prevented me from being last the whole time. I felt like an anchor.

At high noon, sweltering heat caused my clothes to stick to me. My eyes stung from the salty sweat dripping from my brow, and my raw back screamed in agony. Not a farm building in sight. No cars or even farm vehicles passed by in either direction. With my Schwinn in the lowest gear, each revolution of the pedals translated into the smallest possible fraction of progress.

I’ve been through the desert on a bike with no name…

Ready to quit, I came to the conclusion that I was not up for this trek after all. Sometimes confidence is not enough. But what alternative did I have? The bus wouldn’t come this way to rescue me. Past the point of no return — what could I do?

Dear God, please help me…

I raised my eyes and through the blurry vision of heat radiating from the ground I perceived a distorted view of my three friends ahead of me. They had stopped at the top and were guzzling warm water from their bottles. Only a couple hundred yards to go! Marengo summit represented the last hurdle before our final dash to the finish line.

Hope.

With a renewed spirit, I stood on my pedals and grunted through each turn of the crank. Like Rough Rider Teddy Roosevelt, I determined to clear San Juan Hill and ride to victory.

When I got there I wanted to collapse but I also wanted to leap for joy.

“You okay?” someone asked.

“Fine,” I gasped.

And I was. I was more than fine.

Not even stopping, I led the group down the narrow switchback route through every hairpin turn until we connected up with the paved road at the bottom.

Mile 118

Less than 20 miles to go. We followed the Tucannon River into the heart of the Blue Mountains pedaling like we were being chased by an ambush of tigers. Still blazing hot, the fertile Tucannon River Valley provided some shade trees, and a farmer’s stray irrigation sprinkler brought welcome refreshment as well. We knew we were getting close, expecting to see the campground around the next bend.

And then… the pavement ended.

That’s where our bikes came to a sudden halt. Try as we might, we couldn’t push through the deep gravel.

So we had to dismount and walk. It was a severe blow. Steve and Larry had already hoofed it for miles through the Snake Canyon. But Rick and I didn’t want to walk. We came to RIDE!

Well, except for that little eight mile stunt we pulled up in Dusty.

It was late afternoon when the church bus showed up. George, the driver, slid open the side door and asked why we were walking. After we explained he invited us to put the bikes on and ride along. “It’s still a couple more miles.”

Rick hauled his bike up the steps and climbed in. Larry and Steve refused. “We’ve come this far, we want to finish.”

I was torn. Should I join Rick on the bus, or tough it out with the other two? I looked down at my tennis shoes sinking into the loose gravel and made my decision.

Mile 140

Rick and I waited at a picnic table for the other two to arrive, once again enjoying a bottle of Orange Nesbitt. I watched a murder of crows graze an expanse of lawn that we would later use for Capture the Flag and Counselor Kill.

Funny. I don’t remember much about camp that year.

But the trip? Nothing but memories. I even spared you quite a few details, trying to keep the story short.

It taught me something. I have my limits. But sometimes, you can push past what you thought were your physical limitations. Mental determination can overcome your weaknesses.

But it still isn’t enough. There is a higher power we can turn to. And it doesn’t have to be our last resort.

Now that I’m an old dude, I’m afraid it’s a lesson I have to learn over and over again. No marathon bike trips for me anymore. But just getting through the day requires mental toughness — and dependence on the One who gives me strength to complete the course.

I’m closer to the finish line than ever.  

***

Have you ever had an adventure that pushed you to the limit?  Tell us how you overcame the odds.