The Devil Himself: Bike Guiding Pacific Northwest

Olga, Washington, Orcus Island

Up until late afternoon Sunday, I wasn’t certain of any particular moment that I was a part of the devil’s schemes. But I know, without the slightest hesitation of doubt that the cruel ways of a sly and tormenting creature, the overseer of all things evil, was hysterically laughing through every agonizing pedal up a mountain carefully designed and landscaped in the dungeons of hell.

We left Whidbey Island early Sunday morning, caught a ferry to Orcus Island about noontime, where a map to our campsite for the night looked quite similar to an active body’s heart rate chart. The amount of incline we were about to do in the next fifteen miles was equivalent to the amount of inclination we would do on an average 50-mile day ride.

Directly after the ferry station we came down a hill, rounded a corner, and all I could hear up ahead was “Oh no!” “Noo!” And “Oh. My. Gosh.” As I turned the corner, I saw the monster of a hill grimly staring at us with intimidation. It tried to scare us away, but one by one we advanced forward.

​Eventually, we made it. The hammock I write from, hanging between two trees at Moran State Park, lays witness to our planned arrival at camp. But from the misery of the road, camp felt far away, the only desired destination was the peak of each agonizing hill we ascended.

But, the problem with that mindset is, sometimes you can’t see the top, and your moment to catch your breathe, celebrate and move forward almost feels like it’s not there, and may never be there. That is exactly what happened, and that, is when the devil showed his true self. 

It was the last hill before hitting camp for the night, but it was far more intense than anything we had experienced up until this moment.

Forty pounds of camp gear, clothes, food for two days and bike supplies were of no assistance during this trialsome experience. This specific hill I am talking about, or shall I say, series of hills, came without warning. 

It never revealed it’s true face to us, no, we thought it was like any other up and down hill. Instead, this one never had a decline, in fact, I sit here at the peak, with dreadful memories of how I got here. 

We ascended, in our lowest gear, slowly upwards, as we usually do. Then, we turned a corner, thinking the road would level out but, another hill. Surely, after this one, we would have a moment of flat riding, but the corner came, and there was another hill. 

Sweat dripping in my eyes, falling down my face, you could literally feel the pounding of my heart, almost as if it was about to push its way straight out of my chest, propelling itself out into the road with the rest of my hope and self-confidence. 

I started counting pedal strokes in segments of five, anything to keep my mind from wondering what’s around the coming corner. My face must have held the most grueling expression for the cars to witness on their leisurely descent downhill. 

I could see it, that red-horned creature hurling over in uncontrollable laughter. Surely, he created every curve, every turn, he laid the foundation for this concrete path to hell.

“Be careful out there, it’s suppose to be the hottest day of the year up here,” a neighboring camper told us as we left the campsite this morning, was that part of his evil prophesy as well? 

I couldn’t help but laugh out of pain and misery, imagining the creativity behind this sly and tormenting trick. Each turn, I scoffed louder and louder, as I heard the kids in front and behind me shouting something of a similar tune.

Finally, I peaked around the curve as I saw the bike in front of me slowing down. “Is it?” I didn’t want to get my hopes up. “Could it be?” Sure enough, after nearly two miles of exponential ascent, there was a peak, and within 500 feet, there was a biker turnout area, and that my friend, is where God lives.

We shouted, exhaled, laughed, jumped up and down and laid down willing to die. It didn’t matter what was left ahead- this monster was over, and we finished it, surely we could finish anything, literally anything else that came our way.

Biker Turnout at Olga, Washington, Orcus Island

This would seemingly be the place to end a somewhat triumphant story, but I’m apparently not that lucky.

Teaching teenagers who are not used to cooking or shopping for their own food is very difficult when you expect them to shop and cook for twelve hungry and exhausted people. This issue became all the more apparent when we arrived at the park we planned to stay for two days, with not enough food to supplement energy deficient teenagers.

The funny part about this occurrence, was the fact that the nearest grocery store was six miles back, and there was only one way of getting there, back down the devil’s mountain, which meant, of course, coming back up the devil’s mountain, with groceries for twelve people. It was the kids needed day off, which meant the other leader, Tyler and I flipped a coin, and, well... I lost.

So, that is how I spent Monday, my day off. And that is not the story’s ending, but the last remaining credit I wish to give to devil’s mountain.