Welcome to Issue 16.4
Is there a quicker, more efficient way to access adventure than simply hopping aboard a bicycle? We don’t think so. This issue of Freehub is dedicated to uncovering the depths of adventure, fun, experience—whatever you want to call it—that mountain bikers seek when they pedal out for a ride, whether it’s around the block for some fresh air or on a multi-day expedition across trails rarely visited by anyone at all. With deep reports from the Balkans, Philadelphia, and Powell River, as well as personal explorations of the psyche behind the pursuit of meaning on two wheels, this collection of stories scratches at the persistent mystery that lies under the surface of our sport’s most ambitious endeavors. We howl with laughter, struggle up horrendous climbs, launch from stomach-wrenching heights, and grind out miles. We have no idea what will happen next.
It was the summer of 2019. Britain was trying to leave the European Union, a former comedian named Volodymyr Zelensky had just been elected president of Ukraine, and the pandemic was but a twinkle in a pangolin’s eye. For my part, I was two miles into what was supposed to be a week-long bikepacking trip in a remote corner of British Columbia’s Chilcotin Mountains.
I’d sewn myself in with a salty crew that had the habit of approaching from the north, along an old Indigenous hunting and trading trail that traced the shores of Taseko Lakes. And, oh, would it be grand. We’d haul BOB trailers filled with our provisions and tools (to clear the seldom-used trail) all the way to Graveyard Valley, make camp, and then spend days riding divine ridgelines in an obscure corner of the range before scooching back out the way we’d come.
Words by Matt Coté
There are few feelings more exciting than hitting the open road, midsummer, with some best friends and your bikes—backseat stuffed to the brim with camping gear, helmets, coolers, and most importantly, snacks.
We live for these trips, planning them out in detail and dreaming about them to get through mundane daily tasks. The anticipation to get to the fun can be heavy at times, and the irony is that these trips rarely go as planned. But, what if that’s the whole point? Why do we cast ourselves out into the unknown? Are we optimists looking for a beautiful experience or are we masochists looking for a good adventure? After a recent trip to Revelstoke that ended with a mangled wrist, I’m still pondering these questions.
Words by Blake Hansen
Beneath a canopy of oak and maple trees, it is easy to forget that we are smack dab in the middle of a city of 1.5 million residents. The dense woodlands hush the chaos of Center City and Interstate 76. Philadelphia may not top a trendy list of outdoorsy towns to live in but the City of Brotherly Love offers escapes for those who know where to look.
Everything from mountain biking, trail running, fishing, rock climbing, and even horseback riding is there to enjoy within the city’s parks. A distant volley of fireworks breaks through the silence reminding us that it is the Fourth of July holiday weekend, but the calm of the forest is palpable. The breeze drifts through the branches, and all is seemingly serene as Kelly Roberson and I wait for her friend Quinn McGunnigle inside Wissahickon Valley Park. At a little more than 2,000 acres, the woodlands surrounding Wissahickon Creek are home to some of Philadelphia’s more progressive singletrack. The steep slopes of the creek gorge have provided a palette for Philadelphia’s more ambitious trailbuilders. They’ve carved paths in the dirt here since the 1990s. The “Wiss,” as it is affectionately referred to by locals, is home to more than 50 miles of trail. From walking paths to some spicy black diamond chutes, there’s a little something for everyone.
Words by Brett Rothmeyer
It’s 5 a.m. on the longest day of the year in Powell River, a remote town wedged between mountains and sea on British Columbia’s coast. Matt McDowell and two other members of the self-proclaimed “Dawn Patrol” ride group, Wes Oram and Dean Piccinin, grind up a steep and loose logging road toward a sub-peak of Mount Mahony where the trail Civil Disobedience begins.
Carter, McDowell’s teenage son, was reluctantly jolted awake and forced to join this venture. Chatter is minimal. Breathing is heavy. Getting to this remote trail normally requires an hour of laborious climbing that only gets steeper as the elevation increases. The sting in the tail is a 20-minute hike-a-bike through thick blueberry bushes. It’s not everyone’s idea of a casual morning spin. Thankfully, yesterday afternoon, we had met Fraser Newton, a bike mechanic at Taw’s Bike Garage. “It’s my birthday tomorrow. I’m in. We can shuttle in my truck,” Newton says, generously rescuing us from a 4 a.m. departure.
Words by Andrew Findlay
Our small group sits down for a 9 p.m. meal, a part of the evening that, after several lengthy days of riding, we’ve now affectionately coined “dirtbag dinner.” This now-familiar ritual has yet to happen in anything other than our mud-stained bike garb, the dust on our faces an added accessory from the day.
They say you haven’t experienced the Balkans until you’ve sipped raki with someone who’s made it themselves. I look to my left as I hear the familiar sound of glass clinking glass. I watch as the liquid of Albania’s traditional spirit, made of fruit brandy, is poured into thimble-sized cups and strategically placed around a table that’s already overflowing with food. Our host, a local music teacher and guesthouse owner, moves with the grace of someone who has done this thousands of times before.
Words by Caroline McCarley
I’ve always been a rider who couldn’t sit still. My career was a mix of “What’s next?” and “Why choose one?” Rather than focus on one discipline, I’ve relished exploring many styles of racing.
BMX took me to the Olympics, giving me laser focus, structure, and world titles that still make my heart race. Mountain biking, and Crankworx specifically, gave me something else entirely.
Words by Caroline Buchanan
Mill City, Oregon, rarely appears as a major point on maps. Incorporated in 1941, the town remains a small logging outpost of just under 2,000 residents, nestled an hour south of Portland along the North Santiam River.
The town still hosts two lumber mills along the river, both surrounded by an evergreen forest of Douglas fir, juniper, and maple trees divided into checkerboarded parcels owned by the state, U.S. Forest Service (USFS), and the Weyerhaeuser Company—one of the largest timber companies in North America. Gabriel Amadeus has made this small community his home, tending a cabin chock-full of maps of varying vintages that depict more than 100 years of changes at the western edge of the North American continent. The maps that blanket the walls of his office, and the excess that live in cardboard tubes filling the corners of the room, tell the story of land in the West through trails, roads, settlements, and geomorphology. It’s a story deeply intertwined with logging, conservation, and recreation—much the same as Amadeus’ and that of his colossal, ambitious, and now, nearly complete Orogenesis trail project.
Words by Dillon Osleger
Jagadol Ridge descends from the thick jungled slopes of Shivapuri National Park, dissecting the urban sprawl of Kathmandu like a gigantic green tail of a sleeping dragon. Along its dusty spine, racers battled through oppressive humidity for two-wheeled national supremacy.
A tired but elated Usha Khanal walked to the top step of the podium for the second time during the 2023 event. Earning commanding victories in both XCO cross-country and DHI downhill, she made Nepalese history but also international history as the only athlete to ever sweep the podium in a single national championship event. Becoming national champion was a career goal for Khanal but also bittersweet as the reigning national champion was absent from the event and Khanal, a true competitor, yearned to beat the best to prove that the years of training, sacrifice, and dedication were worth the fight.
Words by Ben Haggar
