"I can't see shit"
"Yeah, this is terrible, let's pop in the lodge & check the forecast"
And so went our third ride up the lift.
The first two weren't great. But this time the winds picked up and the rain got heavier.
That's right. Rain.
We shuffle into the Pine Martin lodge to reassess. A ski patroller tells us we made the right decision, conditions are that bad. We sit down and check the weather. Looks like the fog & rain will let up a bit in a half hour. We strip our gear to wait out the weather, thankful we're in here and not out there.
The wind is coming from the west, which means the Cloudchaser lift should be protected over on the East side of the hill. After our rain delay, we gear back up and traverse across to the other side. The conditions over here, while not great, are significantly better than where we came from. We lap Cloudchaser a few times & I can tell Landon is having a much better time. Must be a touch easier to get your snowboard legs under you when you can actually see where the hell you're going.
As lunchtime approaches we head back around the frontside to see if conditions have improved. If anything it's gotten worse. At this point in the day we're so wet it looks like we've walked through a car wash.
We trudge into the base lodge to dry off but soon realize that all we've done is make ourselves cold. I look at Landon and he doesn't seem to have a strong hankerin' to head back up. I feel bad because he only has 3 days here but you can't beat Mother Nature. We decide to call it a day after 9 runs, not great not terrible. We load up the car and hit the road back to Bend.
No more than a mile down the road we drive out of the fog into bright, beautiful blue skies. You've got to be shitting me. But that's the way that the world goes 'round.
We set our course for Cascade Lakes Brewery, which, according to their website, boasts a fireplace. Sounds like an ideal spot for clothes drying and après beers to me. Landon agrees.
Upon arrival we find that the fireplace is actually a huge outdoor firepit, which should do the trick just the same. We peel off our wet clothes & arrange them around the fire to desiccate. Landon ventures inside to order a round of suds. The beers are delicious and the fire hot. So hot, in fact, that it starts to melt the bottom of Landon's shoe at one point.
We decide to order another round to allow more time for our gear to dry, but in reality the beers are so damn good we couldn't have just one. After round deux it's back to the Econolodge. We have a big adventure planned for tonight - trekking to the last Blockbuster in the world. But that's another story for another time. It's just so ludicrous it deserves its own post.
So for now we'll just fast forward to Friday morning, bloodshot eyes and a pressing need for greasy food. As luck would have it there's a greasy spoon right in the parking lot of the motel. Hell of a deal.
Laurie's Grill is exactly what you'd expect out of a joint in the parking lot of an Econolodge. And exactly what we need. The breakfast sandwich on a biscuit with an included cup of coffee hits the spot better than Davy Crockett in a shootout with Bigfoot. Landon's breakfast burrito looks pretty outstanding as well. Just the fuel for a bluebird day at Bachelor.
Let's Try This Again
The main draw of Mt Bachelor is the Summit chair. It accesses the top of the volcanic cone, above the treeline where the other chairs terminate. As we pull into the Sunrise Lodge I see Summit loading chairs onto the rope. Now we're talkin'.
We strap on the gear and hit the Sunrise chair. When we hop off we see that Summit is on hold. Welllll helllll. Alright, we'll head over to the Outback/Northwest chairs to ride some trails we didn't get a chance to hit yesterday. The snow is ok, a bit icy in spots, but rippable and the runs are longer than the trails off Cloudchaser. After a few laps I check the Mt Bachelor app to find the Summit chair finally off wind hold. Fuckin A.
We make the traverse around to the base of Summit where ski patrol is melodramatically dissuading skiers from heading up.
"EXPERTS ONLY"
"It's EXTREMELY icy"
"We really shouldn't even have the lift open right now with the conditions up there"
"You better be a damn good skier and in love with your edges"
Yeah, yeah, yeah. I've been up there, you've got two groomed runs that aren't even that steep. Spare me with the histrionics.
It does fluster Landon for a quick second but he shoots me a confident look that implies he's ready to send it. The Summit is the main reason to come to Bachelor anyways. As we ascend it appears the biggest safety hazard will be other nimrods straight lining down the hill as fast as they can. I tell Lando to stay to skiiers right and we should be just fine.
We hop off the lift, and just as I expected, it's not that bad. I think ski patrol was just trying to keep the Jerrys away. We carve our way down Beverly Hills in style back to the bottom of Summit. While waiting for Landon I see a ski patroller come down with an avalanche dog on his shoulders. The dog is chillin.
That was a great run so we hop right back on Summit. On our way up we start chatting with a guy who's probably in his early-to-mid 20s named Mitchell. He's local to the area and has been skiing this mountain since he was a tot. The thing I've realized about skiers with a home mountain is that, to a man, they will claim that their mountain is the best skiing mountain on god's green earth. Mitchell is no different, "I've skied all over, and I might be biased, but on a good day you can't beat Bachelor"
Now I love Mt. Bachelor, and yesterday notwithstanding, don't have a bad word to say about it. But I have a hard time believing that it's superior to every ski hill spinning chairs. But, of course, I don't tell Mitch that. I just nod, "hell yeah man, I love it out here."
He says the best snow today is over the other side of the mountain, down the Backside Bowls. I ask him if it's cool to follow him and he agrees to be my ski sherpa. Giddy up. I chat with Landon & we decide to meet back up at the top of Sunrise after my little excursion with Mitch.
We hop off the lift, Landon peeling left for the groomer, Mitchell & I heading straight for the backside. At the top of the cornice that drops down into the bowl, Mitchell gives me a thumbs up & swoosh, swoosh, swoosh skillfully negotiates three jump turns into the bowl. I give it a look and the entrance looks, well, challenging. Nothing left to do but commit to the send. I slide down the icy wall, clumsily execute a jump turn, slide down the ice some more, another inelegant jump turn, another icy skid. I eventually reach a point where I can ride it out to a decent patch of snow. It was a baby giraffe to Mitchell's graceful gazelle.
But I made it.
Mitch is about halfway down the top section of the bowl where I meet him, skiing much more deftly. He continues down the bowl, effortlessly negotiating the combination snow/ice/crud, hitting kickers, booters, balletically flying through the mountain air. I follow, avoiding the jumps, straining a bit more on the terrain. He's right, there are pockets of good snow back here, but most of it is pretty hard and chunky. The good pockets of soft snow are magical, but just as soon as you get used to the soft fluffy velvet, the Cascade Concrete returns, chattering your knees like a sewing machine.
On a powder day this would be outstanding. But today it's just not ideal. We make it to a point where Mitch asks if I want to follow him through the trees and I decline, heading for the catchline that carries skiers back around to the frontside of the mountain. I hop on the Northwest chair then traverse over to the top of Sunrise where I meet Landon.
From here we take a groomie down to the base of the Pine Martin chair. While in line, the liftie coordinating the queue operations shouts out a question to the amalgam of humanity.
"I have a trivia question for everyone! What is the name of the South Sister?"
"Charity!" shouts a woman from the middle of the pack
"Who said that? Come on up here, you're next in line!"
The sisters he is referring to are the Three Sisters mountains, a trio of closely spaced volcano peaks about 10 miles northwest of us. They were named Faith, Hope, & Charity in the 1840s by Methodist missionaries. Each of the sisters rises over 10,000', the highest peaks in Oregon behind Mt. Hood & Mt. Jefferson. Mt Bachelor is so named because he stands alone, separated from the sisters.
Once at the top of the hill we slide over to the mountaintop lodge for a little sunshine & beer. We saunter up to the bar right at last call for a couple brewskis to enjoy on the patio. The view is remarkably better than yesterday.
After enjoying the beers and the views it's just a nice easy cruise down to the Sunrise Lodge and the car. Except about halfway down I get a strange feeling like we're going the wrong way. The feeling is confirmed shortly thereafter when we arrive at the West Village Lodge.
Well dadgum.
Somewhere on the top ridge we must have dropped down too soon. Best not make the same mistake again since lifts are gettin' awful close to quittin' time. We'd be in quite the pickle, given that the two lodges are 2 miles apart. This time up we make sure to stay on the high traverse and see the spot where we blundered the first time.
All told, we skied just under 21,000 vertical feet. A solid day on the slopes.
We make it back to the car, much drier and jauntier than yesterday. We load up and head for Bend Brewing. I figure we can après there & Deschutes since they are right across the street from each other. We mosey into Bend Brewing and the Chiefs guy is behind the bar. We exchange some good natured ribbing, which confuses Landon because he wasn't here the other night when we were chirping at each other. We each order a pint and settle into some Adirondack chairs in the backyard overlooking the Deschutes River.
Mikey's friends Adam & McKenzie told me that during the summer folks will float this river, drifting up to various docks to revel and exchange beers. Today the water is too cold for all others besides the mighty duck. Landon, for whatever reason, is a big fan of the family Anatidae.
What the Duck
"Land, air, and sea, man. The duck can do it all."
Can't argue with him there. As we watch the waterfowl dive down for supper, I wonder aloud how long they stay down there. I grab my phone and start timing their fluvial expeditions. For ducks on the Deschutes River at a quarter to five on the 21st of January we determined that the average diving time was 15 seconds.
This falls within the typical range of 10-30 seconds for diving ducks, a simple fact that, when discovered, should have been the beginning and end of my duck research. However I soon found myself down a rabbithole of duck facts, some of which I have selected to bore you, dear reader.
Diving ducks are a distinct tribe within the Anatinae subfamily, separate from the dabbling ducks, who feed mostly at the surface. News to me that there are two completely different types of ducks and the fact that there exists a tribe rank in the taxonomic classification system. According to the USDA Forest Service, the following diving ducks are found in Central Oregon: Barrow's Goldeneye, Bufflehead, Canvasback, Common Goldeneye, Common Merganser, Greater Scaup, Harlequin Duck, Hooded Merganser, Lesser Scaup, Long-tailed Duck, Red-breasted Merganser, Redhead, Ring-necked Duck, Surf Scoter, White-winged Scoter.
15 species of duck. And that doesn't even include the dabbling ducks. Surprisingly this plethora of duck has nothing to do with the mascot for the flagship university in the state where we are currently recreating. But that's another story.
Perhaps the most fascinating aspect of the diving duck is it's physiology. Their bodies and wings are much more compact than dabblers, and their legs are set farther back on their body to assist in underwater propulsion. They can store an abundance of oxygen in their blood & are resistant to the effects of CO2 buildup that affect most terrestrial vertebrates. Once underwater, special receptors in its nostrils induce a "diving reflex" to reduce oxygen consumption, slow heart rate, and divert blood flow to essential organs. On bottom, they use their feet to maintain a hovering position while feeding, scrounging on anything from aquatic insects, small mollusks, seeds, vegetation, roots, and tubers. When they are done they simply stop paddling and pop up to the surface like a feathered cork.
Of course David Attenborough has a video detailing the feeding habits of the diving duck. The surfacing is pretty adorable. At the time of writing the top comment for this video was, "Ducks and geese are the few animals I know that can do air, land, and sea. How cool is that?" Landon may have a duckophile posse he isn't aware of.
Meanwhile, back on dry land
After concluding our waterfowl observations we step across the street to Deschutes Brewing. We find a high top at the bar and I order a Red Chair Northwest Pale Ale, the namesake of which is the Red Chair at Mt Bachelor, the oldest lift at the mountain, running continuously since 1964. While we are enjoying our barley sammiches and pub fries a group of lads stumbles in and sits at an adjacent table. This feels like a bachelor party (no pun intended), it's definitely more than just a ski trip with the buds.
They are friendly enough and we crack a few jokes back & forth. A few of them start whispering among themselves, one of them nods, and they make a beeline for the restrooms. It seems these guys brought their own powder to make up for the powder paucity on the slopes. Their waitress comes around for their order, which, of course, they are not ready for. After straining to activate the few functioning neurons between them they arrive at an order. As the waitress heads to put it in, they shout what they seem to think is the funniest thing to ever be said,
"Hey! Can you put Adderall on the wings?"
She shoots them a glare with they don't pay me enough for this shit energy.
Landon and I dump down our beers and settle up before heading back to the car. On our way to the Econolodge, we pass by a bar that exudes a nonsensical silliness that I can't resist.
"Hey that bar looks pretty stupid, let's hit that up on our way back through town"
"Sounds good to me"
We dump our gear at the motel & get ourselves cleaned up. We walk back into town, straight to the silly looking pub with the delightfully silly name, McMenamins Old St. Francis Pub. We enter a wood paneled public house sporting a substantial four-sided bar, replete with plentiful bottles of hooch, unique glassware, wooden booths, old world memorabilia, and stained glass windows. It would remind me of an authentic Irish pub if I had ever been to Ireland. I'm delighted.
We belly up and order a pint of the Terminator Stout, a choice befitting of the milieu of the Old St. Francis. Over our flagons of ale we strike up a conversation with the retired couple next to us. They are on a similar trek to mine, touring around to as many mountains on the Ikon pass as they can. Tim, who hails from Ontario, isn't afraid to cut it up; Bunny, a Coloradoan, uses her sharp wit to keep Tim in line.
In between discussions of our respective ski trips I mention how much I love this bar. They ask if we've heard of McMenamins, to which we reply in the negative. They inform us that it's a group that buys old buildings in the Pacific Northwest & rehabilitates them into functioning pubs, with the intention to preserve as much of the buildings' original charm as possible. This particular location sports a hotel, pub, brewery, event spaces, concert hall, and soaking pool, all within the confines of a 1936 Catholic schoolhouse.
McMenamins bought the place in 2004 and converted it into a "wonderfully uncommon hotel and pub." Their website states,
We honor the property's former life by featuring extensive artwork that pays homage to the history of the school and the surrounding community. Photos, memorabilia, our artists' renderings, and students' artwork adorn the walls, making the hotel a unique gallery of sorts.
If I find my way back to Bend I will certainly book a room at the Old St. Francis.
We finish our pints and wish Tim & Bunny good fortune and travel mercies for the rest of their journey. The remainder of our night is spent bar hopping around downtown Bend, culminating in perhaps the best hot toddies I've ever had at San Simón. It's been a long day and we've stayed out too late. We head back to the Econolodge for some well deserved shuteye.
⬤ ⬤ ⬤
I feebly roll out of bed and peek through a half opened crusty eye to see that Landon is even worse for wear that I. We sluggishly pack our bags and strap on our ski gear in a foggy haze of regret. We're in such a state that only McDonald's breakfast has a fighting chance to alleviate our languor. A McMuffin & coffee on the way to the mountain at least gets my engine up to a slow idle.
Our lethargic start & the fact that it's a Saturday means that we're not getting a good parking spot. We find a spot near the back of the lot and schlep through the icy parking lot to the base of the Red Chair. There is a ski team of middle-school aged kids ahead of us in line, gossiping, laughing, throwing snow. Enjoying being here.
Wouldn't know anything about that.
We ride the rickety lift to the top, watching ski practice off to our right. At the top we peel off left for the Pine Martin express chair. I start down the slope & muscle memory kicks in. It's an easy cruise down the groomer, the wind against my face & mild exercise invigorating my beleaguered spirit.
I make it to the bottom and wait for Landon. And wait... And wait... And wait... I start to worry a bit that he's hurt himself, a worry that's well founded given his injury history. I check my phone. Nothing. Better than a text that he's broken his collarbone. Eventually I see the boy making his way down the Midway run.
He slides to a stop & shakes his head
"I'm done"
"Damn, really?"
"Yeah, you can go ahead, I'll just wait for you in the lodge."
Sometime it just ain't your day. He was feeling pretty shaky given last night's festivities and a few small spills shook his confidence even more. The ski slope is definitely nowhere you want to be if you're feeling unsure of yourself. No sweat, I'll just do a few more runs & we can skedaddle. We have to get out of town by 13:00 anyways so Mikey can stop at a few shops in Portland this evening.
Landon slinks off to the lodge and I scoot down to the Pine Martin chair. When I arrive I discover that the line is extensive. Super lame. While I'm queued I start chatting with the couple behind me. Somehow we discover that Melissa went to the same high school as my mother, just one year behind her. There are coincidences and then there are coincidences. This particular coincidence would be even more fabulous if they were best friends in high school or something. Unfortunately, neither recalls the other. In spite of that it's pretty remarkable, two Okies standing in this specific spot in a massive chairlift line in central Oregon. I wish the line speed increased with improbability of coincidences.
I finally load up, shouting a "pistols firin'!" back to OSU alumna Melissa. The ride down is silky smooth, a nice easy coast down the groomies. When I reach the bottom I joylessly come to terms that it was my last run of the day. The line hasn't shortened and the time it will take to ride up & back down will put us behind schedule to Portland. A classic two run Saturday.
We lumber back to the car & hit the road to Bend to pick up Mikey. He shuffles out of Adam & McKenzie's house looking like he tied one on last night himself. He confirms as much, chronicling their whiskey soaked nocturnal escapades. On the way out of town we decide to grab lunch at the new Chick-fil-A. It's the talk of the town - I can recall at least a half dozen conversations with folks regarding the Chick-fil-A. It's a peculiar topic to obsess over given Bend's plethora of enjoyable activities both in and out of doors. And boy are they obsessed - the line for the chicken shack is across the parking lot and down the street. It's so long that it's disrupting traffic for the shopping center surrounding it.
We call an audible and pivot to Chipotle, a risky proposition for three guys on a road trip. Thankfully the only Chipotle stains I receive are on the outside of my clothes. And we're still on schedule. A minor miracle.
As we drive out of Bend and into the Oregon High Desert the conversation begins the slow process of communication atrophy. The answers grow shorter. The gaps between topics grow longer. The consciousness of the group melds with the tranquility of the vast plateau. A particularly pregnant conversational hiatus is interrupted by my observation that Mt Jefferson is majestically rising above the plain out the left side of the car. An observation that is acknowledged by nary a "hmmm", "ahh", "ohhh", or otherwise guttural emanation. I look over at Landon, then at Michael in my rearview.
Both are sound asleep.
I guess they just expect me to captain this ship by myself.
My ensigns sporadically rouse themselves as we approach the Mt Hood National Forest. I ask if they'd like to check out Timberline, which should only be a 20 minute detour. They are interested so we make the turn off the highway up a few miles of switchbacks to the lodge.
The parking lot is substantially fuller than my journey here last year. Thankfully the lodge is open for us to poke around. I show them some highlights of the vaulted wood and stone lodge and hit them with a few fun facts that I gleaned from my stay last year. After a short perusal of the building we head back to the car for our final descent into Portland.
I am chagrined to say goodbye to my old friend Mt. Hood. We shall meet again, ol chap.
Our schooner pulls into Portland just after 4 o'clock, plenty of time for Michael to hobnob with some jewelers. Of the myriad jewelry stores that call Portland home, Michael has found but two that might fit his brand. He only wants to work with merchants whose vibe matches the sui generis aesthetic that defines his approach to design.
To his mild surprise, both stores exceed his modest expectations. They are keenly receptive to his pitch and look forward to the launch of his website with great eagerness. Michael is happy. He trusts the process.
⬤ ⬤ ⬤
Landon got us a deal on a hotel by the water. If we had any energy I'd wish it were closer to the downtown bar district. As it stands I'm happy for a 4 star hotel at a 2 star price. After checking in we walk next door to the generically named Portland Sports Bar & Grill for the Packers-49ers game. We arrive just as AJ Dillon caps an opening drive TD for the Pack. This should be a blowout, there's no way that Jimmy G keep up with ARdog.
But that's.. why.. they play.. the game.
Inexplicably, the Packers can only muster another 3 points the rest of the night. Completely explicably, the Packers commit a special teams blunder. A blocked punt TD breathes life into the listless 49ers, who seal the W with a last second FG from the ageless Robby Gould. 13-10 '9ers.
After the game we settle up and head back to the accommodation. Landon has a flight first thing in the morning so we say our goodbyes before hitting the sack.
With that we've reached the end of the Oregon Trail. The Emerald State beckons in the morn'.
But first, about that Blockbuster thing....