Date: Mon, 26 Jun 95 12:47:00 PDT From: George Reiswig Subject: Trip Report - Larch Mtn., Oregon (Long) (Hornswaggled into writing this report, George sits down at the keyboard with trembling hands.....) Date: 6/24/95 Club: Portland BushHackers (You guys made me write; I take poetic license. What else would you call a bunch of wheeling geeks?) Vehicles/Participants: Rick Anderson, BRIGHT yellow '77 Chevy Blazer, newly painted, itty bitty 400 cid engine. Bill Lewey, '78 Jeep CJ-5(?), really cool homemade gear rack, little teeny V-8 of unknown (to me) displacement. Newly waterproofed! Guy Hammer, Full-size '79 Ford Bronco, GPS, 351 cid engine George Reiswig, Isuzu Amigo, 156 cubic inches of raw power!!! Rick had selected a set of powerline roads near Mt. Hood as our target. We met in the town of Sandy, then set out in beautiful Oregon weather for our run. It was sunny and warm with no wind all day. We found the entrance to the powerline roads, and were greeted with one of Oregon's most common sights: a large, intimidating gate with a "can't get to me" lock. "So, guys...what's plan B?" After much hemming and hawing, we decided to head down to the old Columbia River Highway, and then head up toward Larch Mountain, where Rick had seen, but not explored, some trails on an earlier visit. On the way to the trailhead, we stopped at a scenic overlook, where Rick assured us that one of the rocks off in the distance was the second largest monolith in the world! "Huh? What about El Cap and Devil's Tower?" "Okay, it's the second largest BASALTIC monolith in the world." "Whatever you say, Rick." "No, really, it's the second largest something-or-other on the entire planet!!!" "Okeedokee, Rick." We left the overlook as dramatically impressed with Rick's geological and historical knowledge as when we had arrived, and turned up Larch Mountain Road. (EDITORS NOTE: Rick later notified us of the following: "Ok, and listen, just to prove no bullshit here: Beacon Rock (848'), is the largest volcanic plug in the United States and the second largest in the world behind the Rock of Gilbralter." SIC) Thanks, Rick. Anyway, the first dirt road we got to forked, and one of the forks had a sign that read (*** indicate holes caused by repeated and earnest gunfire), "***Trespass**! ***will***rosecuted***" Despite our moral obligation to obey the sign and trespass, we decided to head down a different fork. Despite the sunshine, the dirt roads were all quite muddy...sections of firm but slippery mud interspersed with deep puddles and their associated goo. Good clean fun, in other words. With Bill in the lead in his CJ, the rest of us followed. Deep ruts in the trail made steering unnecessary in some sections, and other sections were narrow enough that the broader vehicles had a bit of a challenge on their hands (and side mirrors). The fact that everyone was still running at highway tire pressure didn't make it any easier. The first few puddles are pretty easy, and I'm still in two-wheel drive. Guy has a hard time making it through one puddle in front of me, and has to try pretty hard to get through it. I make it through in two-wheel drive without much difficulty; it is pretty amazing what a difference tires can make. One section had a sharp right turn, while simultaneously dropping over a large rock and avoiding a tree off to the side. Everyone made it, with some slipping and sliding. (Everyone hummed the famous Paul Simon song on the way down, I'm sure.) The downhill afterward was an exercise in restraint, as everyone kept locking their wheels up while attempting to slow down. Isn't it a strange feeling to be going *faster* when the wheels are locked than when they're not? At the bottom of the hill, comments were heard stating hopes that we wouldn't have to go back *up* what we had just come down. Sometime later, the convoy stopped. Exuent all drivers vehicle left, and Bill is probing a big puddle with a long stick. "Looks deep" he comments. Yes it does. He's probing the far end of the puddle, and it looks to be a couple of feet deep there, at what is apparently the deepest part. Bill decides on the route, and Rick and I decide to watch |from high ground near the elbow in the middle of the road/puddle. As soon as his tires hit water, it was apparent that the *start* of the puddle was deceptively deep. In went the bumper, and the water came up to near the top of his tires. Rick and I had fun dodging (unsuccessfully) the compression wave which preceded him, and watched as Bill barely made the turn and... Stopped. (Imagine the sounds here of gratuitous tire spin, much mud flinging, and no progress.) Bill waded out of his vehicle to look the situation over, and quickly reached the inescapable conclusion that he was stuck. I had already proven that my tires (BFG Mud Terrains) probably did better than any of the others' did, and my limited-slip front and ARB rear were added insurance, so I volunteered to try to get through and maneuver around Bill to get him unstuck. No problem. I really like my Amigo. The only hard part was trying to get out and stay out of the ruts in the road, since Bill was parked there. I didn't think I could drive over him, so the plan was to go around. Like I said, no problem. Once I got my truck planted on solid ground again, we hooked up the snap strap between the vehicles. This is where those four cylinders of RAW POWER in my Isuzu really shine! Okay, it only died once, and I didn't even slip the clutch that much. Once Bill got through, it was Guy's turn. Sure enough, he made it almost as far as Bill, then got stuck. Out come the straps, and Bill pulls him out. As Guy reached the end of the puddle, a loud, sharp noise is heard. Wondering what broke, we see that the strap has been pulled across the Bronco's front bumper, bending it and exposing a sharp edge at the same time. Since sharp edges and snap straps don't mix, nix one snap strap. Lesson learned. Rick goes through the pit next, and decides on the momentum approach. The result is a tidal bore across the puddle which rivals that of Nova Scotia in size, and.... Stuck. So much for the shiny new yellow paint. If Bill's tire spin was gratuitous, Rick's was "the Mother of all Tire Spins!" Animals and humans alike ran for cover as the 400 cid engine forced the tires to spew mud and water everywhere, while moving the truck back and forth over a one-foot circuit. Trees were coated to their tops with mud, and at one point, an entire flock of birds was shot out of the air by flying debris! Maimed and killed birds littered the muddy ground! (Okay, maybe this is a slight exaggeration.) Seriously, he coated his hood with the mud flung up from his tires. This was a good stuck. (Bronco pulls out Blazer using remaining, intact snap straps.) After some litter cleanup, we explored around some more. we ended up going back up the same road we had come down, albeit avoiding the big puddle. Remember that hill that everyone was complaining about? Well... "I'm not going to try it." "You gonna try it?" et cetera "I wanna try it." So, I climb into my Amigo, and set out. I like the finesse approach, which is all my engine can handle anyway, so off I go slowly. I make it all the way up the hill without spinning a wheel, then get to that big rock in the middle. The truck won't go over it. Spinning the wheels doesn't help, the ARB doesn't help, and neither does praying. So, to prove a point mostly to myself, I hop out and air the tires down to 17 psi from their current 30 psi. Back up a little, move forward, and I'm over. I did have to engage the ARB, though. Bill decides to give it a go in the CJ. "Take my picture when I get up here." Okay, Bill. I plan to stand exactly where Bill had, right in the middle of the trail near the rock, so that I can catch that part of the action as he crawls gracefully up and over the obstacle. Bill seems to have the power:weight ratio of an F-15, and favors the approach you might expect. Bill's approach leaves me with an extremely limited amount of time to a) realize he's on the way up, heralded by the roar of his engine, b) jump around to get out of his way, and c) take a picture, and d) jump down, turn around, pick a bale of cotton. Needless to say, I forgot about the camera he'd left me as I danced around like a barefooted hairdresser on hot pavement in an attempt to get out of his way. He made it up and over, although how he made it would probably require a physics analysis and slow-motion playback. We left the Columbia Gorge with some great memories, good friends, excess pounds from the mud on the trucks, and a lot of litter we picked up and bagged on the trails. Oh, and some pictures, which Rick Anderson has graciously made available at the following web site. Ciao!