Night Ride

What -- A night-time bicycle road ride through Mount Rainier National Park. Total distance of about 75 miles; 6,000 feet of climbing.

Who -- Mark Vande Kamp aboard a custom steel all-'rounder (lighting system: Schmidt hub/Lumotec and a Cateye HL500II backup); Andy Fuller, riding a steel LeMond (lighting system: three Cateye HL500IIs -- the primary with an external battery pack).

Where -- Start at Sunshine Point Campground, just inside the Nisqually entrance to the park (SW corner). Ride up to Paradise, descend through Stevens Canyon, head South to Packwood, return to Nisqually entrance via Skate Creek Road.

When -- Friday, Sept. 15, 2000 at about 9:00 PM, to Saturday, Sep. 16 at about 2:30 AM.

Why -- Setting out in the darkness, the road I have traveled many times by car and bicycle looks different. Our headlights shine in narrow beams that light the road but leave the old-growth forest alongside in darkness. The pavement curves to skirt Douglas Firs and Western Hemlocks. The largest trunks aren't quite wide enough to drive a car through, but a bike path would fit easily. Some are so close to the road that I could reach out with my right arm and brush my fingertips along the rough bark, but I don't.

We warm quickly on the gentle grade and stop to take off our jackets before the grade gets steeper at Longmire. Under a streetlight at the oldest tourist site on the mountain I tell Andy about the mineral springs in the meadow across the road, and point out the trees that are retaking the area now that the age-old Native American practice of periodically setting fire to the grass has stopped. We set off and in a single curve of the road we have left civilization and reentered the forest. The two-lane blacktop seems a thin sliver of technology, overwhelmed by the organic richness of the living landscape that flanks the pavement and towers overhead.

The road has straightened and we can look ahead and upward to see the sky. I picked this night to ride because of the moon that was full only two nights ago. There are clouds around the mountain, but the moon is now visible through a filmy break. The whiteness of the slightly dented circle brings to mind Galen Rowell's photographic advice that, "the moon is a sunlit object." At times the moonlight is bright enough on the road ahead that I think a car must be approaching, but almost always the light has come shining downward from a break in the clouds.

We are climbing steadily up the side of the Nisqually Valley and the ground drops off sharply on the right side of the road. I can see up and across the valley to the ridgeline that is swathed in cloud. We are headed up there and I'm nervous about the cold, wetness, and poor visibility that might lie ahead. Andy and I can always turn back, but I hope that won't be necessary. I decide not to think about what we should do if the clouds get thicker as we descend on the other side of Paradise.

Clouds have a smell. The fog turns out to be relatively thin, and our lights are still effective (although angular patterns of stray beams radiate from the edge of my Lumotec when the fog is at its thickest). The road is dry and the coolness is only slightly clammy on my face. However, riding into the fog still feels like a transition to another world due to the semi-metallic tang of the clouds in my nostrils. Perhaps the darkness increases my awareness of smell. I think of ozone, and ions, and the contrast with the complex richness of the smells in the lower altitude forest. I climb into the cloud -- the cloud flows into me.

We decide to stop at Paradise before descending. Andy has never been to the Paradise Inn and he's impressed by the rustic log lobby with two huge hearths and a piano player noodling out tasteful tunes. I feel like a creature from the netherworld, with my black lycra tights and reflective helmet as I walk through chatting groups of lodge guests to visit the restroom. Eyeballs follow us out the door and we mount up laughing about what the conversations inside must sound like. Much like at Longmire, the lights and warmth are gone after the first curve and we are once again alone on the road.

Descending Stevens Canyon in the dark is not as much fun as in daylight. My earlier nerves prove unfounded and we are quickly below the clouds. Still, I know that rocks have a tendency to fall onto this stretch of road and I'm straining to see if any will appear at the front limit of my headlight. I try not to ride the brakes too much and I periodically check my mirror to see Andy's headlights behind me. Halfway down the valley I stop for a moment to wait for Andy and look out over the scene in the moonlight. The upper portion of the valley is lost in the clouds, as is Mount Rainier, which would loom like a monstrous white mushroom on a clearer night. Still, the moon is bright through the broken mist that blows across it. I can see the sweep of the valley wall opposite me and pick out the bare areas where black basalt defies the greenery. Far below I can clearly hear Stevens Creek. I know where it runs at the bottom of the v-shaped canyon, but tonight the water is heard but not seen. Andy stops and we stand and look for a few moments before rolling ahead.

We are climbing Backbone Ridge after losing enough elevation to reenter the forest. From our left we hear the classic hoot -- a Great-Horned Owl. Andy and I glance at each other, then we hear a different owl call from ahead on the left, and a third from ahead on the right. We ride slowly on, but we have apparently left the disputed territory. I don't know enough about owls to know whether all three calls came from a single species, or whether the second and third call might have come from the much rarer and more controversial spotted owl. It really doesn't matter much at the moment. The owls called, and we ride through the darkness listening.

The descent from Backbone Ridge to the Grove of the Patriarchs is my favorite stretch of road in the park. The pavement is smooth, the grade is moderate, and there are big sweeping switchbacks that can be ridden at speed. I find myself grinning as I take a curve. I'm riding the inside edge of my headlight beam, weight balanced on my outside pedal, carving a smooth arc through the still air of the night. Normally a cautious descender, I ride slightly outside my comfort zone, unwilling to brake, rushing forward to stretch the moment.

Again we are climbing, spinning alongside the white noise of Skate Creek. The second-growth forest here is dominated by Alders whose limbs span the road, creating a dark tunnel that blocks the moonlight. The world has contracted as the sound of water on rocks and the black shadows block out the environment. Although we have talked about many things during the earlier climbs, Andy and I are silent as we spin upward, periodically up-shifting to stand, matching our rhythms. There are campsites along the road, but it's after midnight and most are silent. A campfire is briefly visible on our right, but we glide past like ghosts and I wonder if our presence has been noticed at all.

Bear Prairie Summit is a weak climax to this final climb of the night. I notice the open area on our left and tell Andy that I think we will start descending again. In an unspoken agreement we maintain a moderately high effort level, pushing big gears down the gentle grades, riding alongside each other and pooling headlights. My legs feel strong and the pace is refreshing, but the effort is spurred partly by the thought of my sleeping bag. Back home in Iowa they would say that we are smelling the barn.

The Copper Creek Cafe stands dark, about two miles outside the park entrance. I stop to call home from the outside pay phone so my wife doesn't wake up and wonder if things have gone awry. She is sleepy but asks about the ride. "It's been great," I say, but it's both too soon and too late to offer much more. Andy and I set off to spin easily back to the car and campsite. We see a deer walking alongside the road but it is behind us almost before we can comment.

I lay down and my body feels warm in the sleeping bag as I look for a star or two while settling in. I close my eyes and see the faint after-image of my headlight beam. My inner ear leans left and right through the curves of the road into sleep. My body has not let go of the impressions of the night, but I know that they will fade quickly.