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Outdoors
Getting Muddy:
Spectacular wipe-outs, or a pretty stroll on Goodman Creek Trail.
Wine
Rowdy Reds:
America's wine beckons.
Getting Muddy
Spectacular rolling
wipe-outs, or a pretty stroll on Goodman Creek Trail.
By James
Johnston
December means rain and rain means mud -- ideal habitat for mountain
bikers. The Goodman Creek trail, rich in waterlogged dirt during the winter months,
is a paradise for off-road types located just 30 minutes outside of Eugene.
Easy access, fabulous scenery and a relatively gentle climb also attract
plenty of normal people. The normals will mosey happily through a rainforest of gurgling
streams and giant Douglas fir, red cedar and moss-draped maple. Bikers tend to ignore
the scenery and concentrate on surviving the trench warfare that is mountain biking
in December.
Directions: Take I-5 south from Eugene/Springfield for approximately
3 miles. Take the Oakridge/Klamath Falls exit (Exit 188A). Stay to the left onto
Hwy. 58. Take 58 east through Pleasant Hill and along the south shore of Lookout
Point Reservoir. Just before milepost 21, park in the large gravel parking lot on
the right. The trailhead is on the east side of the lot.
After about a quarter of a mile the trail splits. The trail to
the left gains more than 3,000 feet in 5 miles to the summit of Hardesty Mountain
-- no place for amateur mountain bikers. Stay to the right for the Goodman Creek
trail.
The first 2 miles of the trail are fairly flat and smooth and take
you through a forest of giant old-growth Douglas firs, one of which has fallen across
the trail a mile from the trailhead. It's the first of many obstacles my friends
Jeff and Nan and I encounter.
At the 2-mile mark you'll find yourself in a small clearing next
to Goodman Creek. The trail continues on your right. There's a small waterfall and
deep pool at the end of a short use trail to your left. It's a good excuse to stop
and rest a second.
Past Goodman Creek, the trail gets rougher. There are plenty of
branches and small logs across the trail, and lots of opportunities to wipe out.
My buddies and I wipe out about once every 15 minutes from here on out. You have
to work at it to crash a mountain bike in the city; but in the mountains, in the
mud, it's easy. You crash when the front wheel comes down on a slick branch and slides
off the trail. You crash when you hit a muddy root or a log. You crash going downhill
when your brakes lock up in the mud and you can't stop. You crash going uphill when
you spin your wheels in the mud and lose your balance.
If you don't have toe clips your feet will slip off the pedals
and you'll crash. If you have toe clips you won't be able to get out of the clips
when you start to crash and you'll be shackled to the bike as it tumbles downhill.
My most spectacular wreck happens this way -- my front wheel hits a hole and when
I can't get out of my toe clips the back wheel comes over my head and the bike and
I cartwheel off the trail down a steep bank. The mud softens the impact.
A mile past Goodman Creek the trail begins to climb steadily for
another mile before it intersects Goodman Creek Road. If you only want to bike downhill,
you can shuttle from the highway to the Goodman Creek Road trailhead (take the right
turn just before the parking lot).
Or maybe you just want to walk.
Back to Top
Rowdy Reds
America's wine beckons.
By Lance
Sparks
I was rolling up the McKenzie Highway through a pogonip, ancient
Washoe word for a freezing fog, a weather phenom unique to the mountain valleys of
the American West. Beautiful: Ice crystals grow on every surface like diamonds. Every
tree branch, leaf, stem, blade of grass transforms into shards of glass. Sometimes
I take my magnifying glass outside and move from plant to plant, eyeballing the prismatic
play of light through the quartz-like coatings. Today, I drove through a mist like
veiled spirits, the forest a temple of glitter.
I had no time for dallying in natural wonders. I was responding
to a frantic call from Molly, Mole's lovely wife. I had been idly lolling around
the office, fighting post-holiday ennui, flipping cards into my fedora. The phone
rang. I picked up to a sweet voice, strained by anxiety: "Oh, Sleuth, you have
to come out right away. Anthony has spent the whole lovely morning ranting about
terrorists and war and pulling bottles out of the wine cellar. He's in a frenzy about
attacks on American values. I'm afraid he might do something dangerous." Molly
is among the sweetest, gentlest creatures on Earth, but there's steel under her soft
exterior. If she felt a threat, it was time to get my gat.
I wrenched the wheel at Mole's driveway, turned and twisted 'til
I pulled up to the golden log cabin nestled beside the silvered river. Molly met
me at the door, wringing her hands. I bussed her soft cheek and she led me into the
warm interior. In the dining room, we found Mole pulling corks on a line of wine
bottles. He wore a dark blue shirt with big white stars and red-and-white-striped
pants, a huge white cowboy hat with a small flag in the band. He heard us, whipped
around, swept off the hat and whooped, "Howdy, Podna! Yer jes' in tahm fer real
American wahn!"
"Mole, what's with the flag gear and all the yak about terrorists?
Have you gone nuts or just turned Republican?"
"Neither one, amigo," he grinned, his bottle-thick glasses
throwing glints, "I really love this country 'n I'm fed up with phony, Bush-league
patriots who either hide behind the flag or use it as a blindfold, in the woids of
Jerome Garger. 'N I'm hot 'bout terroirists." He pronounced the French term
as ter-wahr-ists. I knew he meant the folks who rave about wine, particularly Pinot
noir, tasting like the soil it's grown in. "All dat fussin' 'bout Pinot, then
dey go 'n do crimes to a real 'merican wine like -- ta-da! -- Zinfandel!" Mole
gestured to the table array. I looked: all Zins and big balloon glasses. My mouth
watered. Mole knows I've got a jones for Zins, knows I think they're our country's
most distinctive varietal. Cackling, he began to pour. Molly sighed audibly, slipped
into the kitchen.
In his classic book, The Wines of America, Leon Adams pretty
much settled the issue of the origin of Zinfandel, tracing its lineage back to the
Italian Primitivo grape, probably related to a Dalmatian grape called Plavac Mali,
but it's only in America, particularly California, that Zinfandel emerged as a popular
wine. Of course, most Americans know Zin in the form of pink wine marketed as "white"
Zinfandel, usually sweet, low quality rosé, entry-level wine. But the genuine
article is deep red, almost black, and when treated right -- grown carefully and
oak aged -- this wine really feels and tastes of the American West: it's cowboy wine,
bold, blocky, a bit brash and awkward but awshucks honest. It's big wine, often hot
with alcohol (I've tasted lush Zins with almost 18 percent alcohol, barely legal),
perfect for wet, windy days and icy nights. This red calls for barbecued ribs, steaks,
venison, grilled portabellos, chipotle burritos, food with spice and flavor.
Crimes committed to Zinfandel include making insipid white Zinfandel,
trying to turn it into something soft as Merlot, and pricing the good Zins outasight
of normal people. 'Nuff said about the first: some people love the pink stuff; no
arguing with taste. Turning Zin into Bordeaux? Somebody should be whupped. Pricing?
Mole Raved: "Lookadis! Zins at 25, 38, 48 bux. Ravenswood 1999 Old Hill Sonoma,
great stuff, but $54? Who gets ta drink dis? Zin's been wine fer r'glar folks; now
it's fer tipplers. But mebbe I found some bargains." We went to work.
Standard advice in the past was, if you want good Zin, buy a name
that starts with R: Ridge, Rafanelli, Ravenswood, Renwood, Rosenbloom. Still a good
guideline, but add Cline, Briggs, Hendry, Terraces, but keep an open mind and brace
for sticker shock. Report follows:
Peachy Canyon 1999 Incredible Red ($11.50), medium body,
lightly spicy, flavors like raspberry candy. Tame but tasty. Kenwood 1999 Vintage
Red ($8.50), a blend of Zin and Carignane, dark, smoky, flavors of blackberry,
dried currants, toasty oak, quite quaffable. Rancho Zabaco 1999 Sonoma Heritage
($10), lush, smooth, well balanced, rich with flavors of dark fruit, very good. Bogle
1999 Old Vine Cuvee ($12), deeply extracted, packed with mouthsful of blackberry,
raspberry, black pepper; old-style powerhouse. Yum! Eola Hills 1998 Zinfandel
Lodi ($10), an Oregon surprise, California grapes given medium body and carrying
juicy flavors of black raspberry, touch of spice, good stuff. Troon Vineyard 1998
Winemaker's Reserve ($15), also Oregon, Applegate Valley, deep, dark and delicious
blackberry, black currant fruit, loads of spice. Troon's been making Zin for over
20 years, a pro. May be hard to find. Call Dick Troon, a great gentlemen, at (541)
846-6562.
When the weather turns cold and nasty, cuddle up with your love
and a bottle of rowdy red, ice-melting Zinfandel, an all-American classic. It'll
wave your flag.
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