#somehow has like fifty snacks stuffed into my backpack | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gravelcruiser · 5 years

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I am hunched over my sons bike in a way that must look like I am trying to put it in a head lock and give it a nuggie. With his twenty inch bike’s seat pinched between my knees, I’ve got one of my bikebacking seat bag cinch straps pulled taught and held in place with my teeth while I use my two free hands to pull another strap as tight as humanly possible while pushing the contents as mush together as it will allow. This is a big bag on a little bike, cue Chris Farley and his coat, and the tolerances are tight. I am already reminding myself to keep my shit together when trying to do this in the dark and cold the following morning. He has been carrying a backpack containing his sleeping pad and bag for years on our families backpacking trips and I don’t know why that would change just because we are going out on bikes. Only a mile or two of bumpy gravel will prove if the bag will actually work on this little bike.

The last two times we’ve headed out to camp after school he has been a passenger of sorts. Although, both on his trail-a-long bike and the tandem, his pedaling assists me, this would be the first time he makes it to camp by bike on his own. I know giving him some of his own stuff makes the accomplishment so much more powerful. Using Dad’s big bike gear takes an adventurous bike ride and turns it into something bigger. It is a weeknight again, just he and I, and our aim is to ride the Iron Horse Trail up the I-90 corridor five or six miles to a back country camp, pitch our tent and be back to school in the morning.

We have spent enough time sleeping outside at this point that all of the specifics surrounding camp are almost a given. Our tent and bags will be warm and comfortable overnight. The dinner and breakfast routine is solid enough that it only takes a few minutes to throw all the gear together. The things I am stressing about all lay on the peripheral and end up being the things he really remembers. I absolutely can not forget the card games for after dark tent time and hot cocoa for a warm morning pick me up. I waffle between places to park and the route to take almost all the way to the exit I need to get off at. Will he be super disappointed if we don’t ride through the tunnel? Will the giant decommissioned trestles be enough entertainment? How cold is he going to be on our ride back to the car in the morning? Is he going to be able to handle waking up in the dark? How early do we need to leave to get him to school on time? Hot Damn, I hope he has fun. What if he never wants to do this again with me?

Riding up the pass on the old railroad grade is gentle, but also constant. I get to show him first hand what a false flat is on the bike. And spinning along with one hand on my handlebars and the other on his back I assure him it will be easier in the morning. The ride isn’t fast, but the time flies by. We stop frequently. First at an overlook where the railroad wrapped around the mountain side cutting right into its’ face. We stop again to investigate a fallen telegraph pole, hoping to maybe find one of the old glass insulators. And yet again to see how far above the creek we are. The rushing water is audible, but the enormous fill embankment created by the railroad must be one hundred feet tall. Each time we stop I fight the urge to rush him on. I know setting up the tent will only take a minute and if it gets too cold, we can escape to eat in our sleeping bags.

We roll into the deserted campsite and make quick work of dropping gear and pitching the tent. Our goal is one mile further on to the Tinkham Creek Trestle before dinner and dark. It is a giant, curved trestle what the Milwaukee Road Railroad built a hundred years ago towering above the creek valley. We stop to take pictures, look over the side and throw pebbles down into the latticework of steel uprights. The plink and clank as the stones ricochet from one support to the other fades to silence after what seems like an endless fall through space. I pull freeze dried ice cream from my pocket, dessert before dinner as we eek out every last minute of light before returning to camp.

Our eyes adjust to the fading light as we ride the smooth path back to camp. I beg him to take the last rocky, dark, fifty feet into camp slowly, but am rebuked. There is a certain amount of speed NEEDED to lay down a proper skid. Water is boiled for dinner and then tea before locking up the bikes and tucking into the tent for card games, stories and finally sleep.

Sleep comes easily for him (his favorite place to sleep is with us in a tent), but always hard for me as I churn over the exit strategy for the morning. I will get up and pack everything except for him in his sleeping bag. Make breakfast before waking him up and dressing him into the clothes and jacket we stuffed into his sleeping bag the night before to keep warm. He will munch on hot cereal and hot cocoa while I take care of the rest of camp and drink my coffee. So as he finishes his breakfast, we are ready to roll out.

Riding away from camp I am surprised at how fully engaged he is after the cold, early start. He wants to affix his headlight himself, convinced he can somehow get it to attach to his bike in the same way I put small blinky lights on for urban visibility. I help him strap it on, showing him how placement is important today because we actually need to light the path ahead of us. I look up and think about how we won’t need them for long, dawn already has the sky brightening from purple to pink. We cruise down the trail, talking about what animals we might see when he interrupts. “You know what the best part of this trip has been Dad? Being with you.” I float back to the car.

It would seem that all the fussing and worrying paid off with a nearly perfect trip as I look back over the past dozen hours. I remember as we were getting ready to ride away from the car, that he was pedaling circles near the gate waiting on me to be ready. When we rode past a picnic table half way into the ride to camp, he pulled over to snack on the bar he had stuffed into his jacket pocket. When we rode into camp, he ran through all the sites to pick the one with easiest access to water. He isn’t the one worried when he walks off into the dark on his own to go to the bathroom, number two, in a pit toilet. When I went to ask him if he wanted gloves for the morning ride, he already had them on. He is only eight, but when I turn around from putting my bike on the rack and he is standing there holding his to give to me, I realize that I am quickly giving up the role of adventure guide and becoming his adventure partner.

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