Ozarkin’ Epic

Some say it’s the best stretch of singletrack between Appalachia and the Rockies.  IMBA considers it an Epic.

Berryman Trail.  24 miles long.  Mark Twain National Forest.  16 miles west of Potosi, MO on state route 8.

Feet, of human and horse nature, and knobby tires are welcomed to traverse the rocky path through the northern Ozarks.  I arrived mid-morning local time, greeted by breezes through the pines at the parking area. 

Whispering.

The day was to top out around 70 degrees F.  No one was in the parking lot, and I had a pleasured smile on my face at the thought of riding in remoteness and possibly not seeing another human.

Clothed, and ready to saddle up.

Pedaling a nice spin through leaf covered trail, not knowing where the rocks and roots were, I knew it was going to be a mentally challenging ride.  “Sure, dualie cush will suck up some of the bumps but not all of them,” was in my head.  My arms became suspension as well.

The first 8-10 miles clipped off easy enough.  A few shaky eroded drops and a box turtle shell of stone or three kept me from turning loose, but I was cruising at a rate to be at Brazil Creek campground, 14.5 miles later, in about 1.5 hours.

One of Numerous Stream Crossings

Black arrows set on lime green background showed the way to go.  I climbed up a dirt road and came on to a forest road that rolled through pines across the ridgeline.  Nothing online talked of a forest road. 

2 or so miles later, I decided to turn back.  ”Berryman is 24 miles of singletrack,” is what I thought.

I found the turn-off of the new re-route, and got back on the original trail cut some 70 years ago.

Mistake.

Epic ride in the making.

I was pissed at the time loss.  “Let it go.  Gonna be around 28 miles now.  Later getting back to Saint Louis.  Pedal harder.”

The entire way to Brazil Creek campground was like riding a washed out creek bed strewn with small rocks covered in leaves.  The trail was not in good shape, having scene little traffic of late. 

Clockwise, the Recommended Way to Ride

Counter Clockwise

9.5 miles to go.  I unwrapped an energy bar, knowing I needed some calories, but also knowing that energy bars don’t sit well in my stomach while riding.  Still, I chewed it up and swallowed.

Blah.  Mistake.

“If I puke, I’ll lose hydration.”

 

Monarch butterfly

Mexico is far away

Peaceful death to you

 

I decided to hike-a-bike a longer steady incline.  I crested out and lo and behold, another biker.  He was standing beside a Box Mart bike, school book bag in hand, checking the map in his shorts and t-shirt. 

I was pushing my couple thousand dollar bike, geared out, complete with French-made sunglasses with the orange lenses in for this ride. 

Perspective. 

I turned the cranks and eventually arrived back at my car, near 4 hours and change later.  Berryman, with all its fallen leaves and rocks, put a beating on me. 

Breeding Ground for the Amphibians

A few beers of note from the Gateway City and points “west”:

O’Fallons 5 Day IPA

Trailside Brewing Stout

Boulevard Unfiltered Wheat

If you’re ever in Saint Louis, you might check out The Hill neighborhood, perfect post-ride eating, if not too pricey, but you can regulate it.

 

 

Dancing Man

New Glarus Dancing Man wheat is 2nd to none.  Kinda like the beer line-up in my cellar right now.

Been gettin’ some good mtb in since Nigeria.

 

3rd Time’s a Charm (?)

back to the mother land

and i know you want to be

there with me on this journey

but you’re not able to get

on that plane come wednesday

 

i’ll carry you with me in

my heart and when i get back

i’ll share my stories with you

and we’ll share our love

in the first kiss that will

reconnect us to where we’ve

been going in this journey

 

Easy-going Sunday Morning

The three of us climbed up the ridge, taking our time, en route to arguably Michaux’s best downhill.  Long, winding, and riddled here and there with big rocks and fat log crossings, momentum never really is lost and the hootin’ and hollerin’ of  the internal voice is constant.

We made way back up the ridge via the forest road and on over and up farther to the fire tower before descending down the other side of the ridge on a gradual gradiant back to the car.

2.5 hours of easy-going life.

 

Epic Stormin’ Michaux

Six hundred miles of driving and near 365 days of abstinence had me primed for a rendevous with my beloved.  I was eager for some mind/body/soul action.

The digital red numbers on the clock read 5:13.  I had gone to bed 5 hours before, after driving 9.5 hours from Hoosier-lands to PA-landscape.  Along the way, I received text messages from a friend hiking in the high Sierra above Yosemite.  Could there be any any greater polar opposites than the mechanized flatness of agri-business Indiana/Ohio and the rugged, raw natural beauty of John Muir’s true home?

Subie swung its hind end around the curves of the forest road, easing to a stop at the trailhead by Long Pine Reservoir.  I turned the ignition off, and simultaneously, the rain started falling. 

Damnit.

Omen?

 A non-believer, other than in the possibility of human love, I changed into my riding clothes, took the Scalpel off the roof, shaked and shivered a little from the cold morning rain, and clipped into the pedals.

“Start out on the res…ride it out and go from there.”

Michaux isn’t far from major nuclei of people.  The potential for it to be overrun with recreationalists is high.  However, it might not be urbane enough to attract those needing cell phone signals or hot water showers and toilets that flush and smell like chemical cleaners. 

The rain fell, and I warmed up as I swung around to the spillway and entered the trail.  Is there nirvana beyond riding singletrack on a rainy morning through pines where the only sound is your bike slicing through trees and your breathing?

Two boats were on the water, fisher people out early as well.  Lightning flashed across the sky and thunder rolled around the mountains.  A storm was upon me, and smiled in the fore-knowledge that I was not going back to the car.

Beaver Trail was a little overgrown with rhodos, and with the torrential downpour, already making for an epic ride.  Somehow the tires locked up on the rocks, giving me more confidence, despite the gnarley, slimey roots that skidded out my back tire.

On I went, determined to join Mother Nature in her offering of cleansing.

North on Birch Run and east on Ridge Road, up the hump and the down on to one of my favorite little downhills.  The trail was a rivulet, feeding feeder streams that drained into the reservoir, or the Chesapeake via the Potomac. 

Everything on my body was soaked, and my shoes swished with water.  I grinned from ear to ear.  Why had I not ventured in the mad rain in the past? 

Michaux is remote enough for wet, soggy mountain biking without worry of messing up trails like at park trail systems.  If you ride Michaux, you’re expecting an ass-kicking, which keeps many riders away.

I made way back to my car and kept going.  Twenty minutes later I was at the powerline cut and climbed up it.  Then on to an intense rocky downhill on a trail that became a mountain stream.  I then bottomed out and climbed up on to the ridge on the backside of the reservoir. No dabs on the climb made my ride for the day.

Meandering on, I heard voices in my head as turtle shell and shark fin rocks tried to break my spirit…

“This is the best Michaux ride you’ve ever had.”

“Michaux is epic all the time, but EPIC in a storm.”

More lightning and the thunder rolled closer.  I came to one of my favorite drops, one that requires leaning way back, holding on and finding faith in the Lefty.  

Cleaned it.

I eventually dropped out back at the reservoir, hearing the rush of water over the spillway while strong-arming  it through the rocks and boulders above.  I took the same trail as 2.5 hours previously, Subie sitting with 203,000 miles on her waiting patiently for my return.

Covered in Appalachian sandstone grit, I walked over to the stream, found my way to a secluded spot, stripped down and washed my clothes and body in post-ride bliss.

Cleansed.