Riding the Steens Loop Means a Long Day in the Saddle! Copyright P. Marsh
Late last year, on a Sunday morning with the rain hammering against the window, I decided to hold off on my daily ride and do something else cycling-related. I pulled out a box filled with the bike stories I had saved from the 1990s, hoping to throw out anything that I really didn’t need, That’s never as easy as it sounds! Among the faded reports of forgotten rides and races, including some I had written myself, I came across the story I wrote 20 years ago about my first big climb on a mountain-bike–to the 9,500 foot ridge on Steens Mountain in SE Oregon.
It was called “The Road to the Top–Mountain Biking the Highest Road in the Pacific Northwest,” and appeared in the Bicycle Paper in the summer of 1992. This is how it opened: “The highest road in the Pacific Northwest doesn’t lead to a ski resort or the crest of the Cascades. It’s found in the SE corner of Oregon, in distant Harney County, 250 miles east of the I-5 corridor.
Here, a 50-mile long block fault called Steens Mountain rises a vertical mile out of the sagebrush prairie. This huge wedge of rock angles gradually upwards for 26 miles, then plunges 5,000 vertical feet to the Alvord Desert basin to the east.”
If I made the Steens sound impressive, that’s because it truly is a unique place. After driving for hours across the featureless dry plains east of the Cascades, nothing prepares you for the sight of this towering landmass that dominates the scene, rising out of the prairie like a mirage. I hadn’t read my story or thought about this remote area for many years, and I was soon flashing back to that epic day on the infamous 66-mile Steens circuit.
Besides the high desert terrain, the extreme elevation, and the suspense of not knowing was round the next corner, I was surprised to be there at all, because this was really an “accidental” adventure. When I accepted the invitation to join some friends on this trip, I wasn’t too sure what I was going to do when we got there—and I didn’t even own a mountain bike!
Today, of course, we don’t go anywhere without checking the web first. As soon as I had finsihed the story, I Googled “Cycling the Steens.” curious to see how many ride logs or comments would show up. I found just one–a 2007 story in Adventure Cyclist by Chuck Haney, about a three- day ride with a car shuttle for the camping gear.
It certainly is the type of trip that people enjoy writing about, as can be seen by all the accounts of driving to the top, and I’m sure a few cyclists must make the pilgrimage every year. But as far as I can tell, it’s still as far off the beaten track as it was 20 years ago. I’m planning to go back next summer (when I’ll be 65) and I expect to be alone again on the fearsome Rooster Comb descent.
These days, my bike is a little better equipped with front suspension, a few more gears, and clip-on pedals–but I doubt the ride will be any easier. Back then, I had been training all year for the STP, which I managed to cover in ten hours, so I was planning on some kind of cross-country ride during the tour. When we arrived at the foot of the mountain after the tiring 400-mile drive, all I wanted to do was stretch my legs. But I could easily see from the the gentle slope of the west side that the Steens had to be a uniquely rideable mountain.
Once we had set up our tents, my friends were ready to kick back and enjoy the setting of the primitive camp ground beside a rushing stream, while the 26-mile road to the summit was all I could think about. The only information came from the local office of the Bureau of Land Management, who manage the Steens area. They are not encouraging, warning that the gate to the summit road is normally closed because of snow until early July, that blustery, 100-degree days are common, and snow can fall year-round. And be prepared for sudden lightning storms, snow, rain, and high winds.
So I took a test run on the used steel Fuji I had picked up a couple of weeks before to see how the “primitive” dirt road to the summit felt. I came down confident I was going to give it a try the next day–for no better reason than “because it was there.” We all stayed up late looking at the brilliant star show, so it was 7am the next morning when I rolled out of my sleeping bag. I ate as much breakfast cereal as my growing excitement would allow, while the rest of the campground still slept. With two water bottles in cages and three lashed on my carrier, I set out to do battle with the mountain.
I soon changed down into the small chainring, to make sure I didn’t push too hard—and that was where I stayed for the next 3 hours, The sun rose as I got into a rhythm and began to work my way upward across the lower slopes covered in arid sagebrush. I soon saw what makes this climb such a mental challenge: the grade is so gradual and the mountain so big that the summit is not visible–until around mile 23.
After about an hour, the vegetation was gradually changing to low juniper bushes and pines. A series of small lakes dot the broad slope of the Steens and give a brief break from the climbing. When I reached Fish Lake, the only campground on the mountain, I came to a halt beside a lone water pump. I topped off my bottles, washed my face, and stayed a few minutes to admire the alpine setting including a grove of aspen trees. Then it was back to work.
The temperature was now rising, rapidly turning the cool morning into a warm summer day. By 9 am, I had peeled another layer of clothing. It was just me, the wilderness on either side, and the road winding its way up and over the skyline. I lost track of time and my thoughts began to wander from the sublime to the ridiculous: could there be a Lost World on top with dinosaurs running wild?
Towards the end of the second hour, the monotony was broken by colorful signs and banners in the juniper trees. Three days later I found a local paper and learned that these were from along the course of the annual Steens Rim Run 10K–“the highest run in the state” from mile 17 to mile 23 . (It must be quite a spectacle, but entrants have been known to experience mild frostbite and altitude sickness!)
By the start of the third hour I was into the sub-alpine meadow zone. I finally reached a memorable landmark: the first of the perfectly U-shaped gorges that look like textbook illustrations of the Ice Age. These valleys are so long and so wide, it seemed as if entire towns could be sited in the depths. By now, the tourists were awake and bumping uphill over the ruts in all manner of vehicles. Most annoying were the sporty couples in shiny new Land Cruisers with equally shiny mountain bikes on their roofs. No one so much as nodded in my direction.
Down to my lowest (granny) gear, I pushed on to reach the summit plateau. Two and a half hours, 23 miles and 5,000 feet from the base I arrived on the ridge top. I spent another half hour traversing the hogback on a track so rutted I could keep up with the occasional car. From here, I had a view east down onto the desert floor where the Alvord (dry) Lake sits a mile below at the foot of the escarpment. It is so flat, it has been used for land-speed record attempts including the fastest woman on wheels at 500+mph.
I sat down for a snack, enjoying the cool wind and the exhilaration of having ridden so close to the 9,733′ highpoint. I finished off a water-bottle and set it down only to watch it blow over the edge and bounce slowly into the depths. Further on, there is a fine viewpoint and parking area–with a sign that ominously warns drivers not to continue unless they have a real off-road vehicle. At least, this reduced the chance that anyone would pass me on the way down, I thought.
Now I plunged into the harrowing 14-mile downhill part of the route, descending past the rocky spine called the Rooster Comb. If I thought the ascent was brutal, the descent left my arms limp and my hands aching from hauling on my standard-issue cantilever brakes. There were fabulous run-outs through fields of grass, followed by spells of desperate rock-dodging, but always the descent continued on….and on, until I was weary of the thrill of it all.
My hands began to cramp up from squeezing so hard, so I alternated front, then rear braking as the slalom continued. I was clearly learning why suspension forks, bars and seats (you name it!) were becoming popular. Another dramatic, deep valley named Big Indian Gorge is the main feature on this side of the mountain. The road kept on dropping down to the crossing of the Blitzen River, where some people were fishing peacefully.
I relaxed a little and began to think of journey’s end, but there was another surprise ahead. it appeared that a local politician had enough influence to recently have a layer of pea gravel laid down. For the next 17 miles I would have to plow a rut through the loose mess. Wherever it widened, I steered to the edge of the road to look for some good fresh dirt!
It was mid-afternoon now and the sun was overhead, no shade, and no relief in sight. The warm water remaining in my last bottle was scarcely drinkable. The gravel marathon began to rival the climb as it sucked any remaining energy out of my legs. Mercifully, the last ten miles back to the settlement of Frenchglen was tarmac, but it still took all my strength to keep the pedals turning.
In a little less than an hour I reached the edge of the plateau and swooped down the escarpment to the rustic hotel/general store. I remembered that I wasn’t carrying any money before I started shopping and drinking. On the porch, I had a lucky break—one of my party just happened to be there, eating ice cream in the shade.
With the loan of a dollar I had my choice of frozen delights, and reluctantly returned to the fray for the last four miles back to the camp
. I was back on gravel again, but this section had been well packed. After 66 miles and one very long day I had completed the loop, as hard a one-day ride as any middle-aged cycle-tourist could wish for.