Rust 2 Dust (Le Tour de Summer Solstice 2023)

It was overcast and chilly when I took off for Rust 2 Dust on a Saturday. Although I knew it would be a challenge, I had no idea it would become such an epic 32-hour bikepacking odyssey across Washington, covering 150 miles from my house in South Tacoma to Mineral Springs just outside Wenatchee. With 10,000+ ft. of climbing, camping in freezing rain, and wildly diverse conditions, it was a remarkable summer adventure I'll never forget.

The Route:

I don't really favor driving to places and then riding. I like to leave my house and envision my trips as an old-school adventure. You map the course but only get into some of the details. You know the cardinal directions and the basic premise, but the endpoint might be elusive. To me, it keeps it fresh. And on the journey, I can get into just what's in front of me. It's like a forced meditation space where the daily anxieties disappear, and you can zone in while floating away. Then, when things go wrong, you snap back into focus to find your way.

And let me tell you, so many things went weird on this trip that my hard-earned mix of serenity and acceptance swirled with anger and regret into a beautiful smoothie of pure determination. This is living life in the present. Which is the key. To live life in an instant. Instantly and consistently, always moving forward.

It was 80 degrees all week before I got my window to leave, and then it dropped to the low 50s as the rain started rolling in. But, you know, let's go. So, I got up, left South Tacoma on my Santa Cruz Stigmata running Apidura bags, and headed to the Cascade Mountains via road, highway, and then the Interurban Bike Trail. This path goes from the South Sound to Seattle and is an oddly hardcore route. If you're not dodging grocery cart pile-ups, you are weaving through fires or ducking out of the way of low-hanging snares. Shadows emerge from camps in the overgrowth, and you never know who is friend or foe. It's a charged landscape and definitely its own ecosystem.

I connected to the I-90 trail to get out toward North Bend for the ascent to the Snoqualmie Tunnel so I could pass through the mountains. There's a tricky section here between Issaquah and Fall City here. First, you must climb a horse trail into an unkempt part of the trail and then cross a closed railroad truss with metal fencing surrounding it. From there, the Ride With GPS route always fails, and you navigate a series of urban hiking trails to pop out into a subdivision. It's not scary. It's just a hassle when you're in a hurry to get to the actual challenges ahead.

When I got to the tunnel, I was slowed down by the bike's weight and constant rain. Cold rain at the start of summer. It's freezing rain, as my Garmin inReach Mini 2 beacon reported a "feels like 31 degrees" reading. I was super stoked about the weight of that bike because in that heft was a Mountain Hardware down jacket, pants, and bootie set. I was warm and loving life camped by the tunnel while I made a nice Backpacker's Pantry lasagna dinner with my MSR stove and Snow Peak mug. As I settled into my OR Helium Bivy and 3-season REI Magma sleeping bag and Flash inflatable pad, I thanked the hotel manager for the setup. Didn't even really notice the cougar battle in the middle of the night in the room next door. It's all good, bro.

I got going after 8 hours of sleep, some oatmeal, a cup of Pretty Great Instant Coffee and set the controls for the heart of the hills. I got through the tunnel with no problem, and when I emerged, it was sunny and starting to warm up, although it was windy. Very windy. Like a tailwind/headwind mix that is so unpredictable, you just have to put the sail out and go with the gusts. I charged hard into Roslyn, looking for food.

Now, I got this far and dare to keep on course and go into the upcoming single-track part of this adventure by calling my wife, Rian, at critical points along the way. I shattered my collarbone in a remote mountain area in 2020 and rode myself out, so that idea of being in it too deep gets to me sometimes. Especially when I feel the cold deep in the titanium screws buried in my shoulder. Call somebody when you are in it or feel like you could be in it. Doing solo missions like this is cool, but don't think you can't feel fear lurking in there. I was headed into about 50 miles of vast wilderness in the upcoming sections, and you better believe I was calling. Without her, "You got this," I wouldn't have done it. Enough said.

I slammed a general store sandwich spread and pointed toward the mountains. Straight up, this next set of sections went really sideways. About 1/4 mile into the first single-track set, my rain-soaked Garmin Edge 830 Touch Screen began to fail, and I had very little battery left in my phone. Even though I ran a Dynamo up front, my charging rhythm was off. I had to alternate between climbing the trail, checking my phone for the route, and switching between charging it or re-charging the battery pack. Good times.

As I ascended the cliffs over the town, the route went from rocky trail to chunky gravel and then sandy path. After blasting down the ridgeline road, I descended this mix into the eastern valley and through the Teanaway Community Forest, wondering if I was on the correct route to Mineral Springs.

This part went fast, very fast. I was on a mission through here. I passed through towering granite formations, icy creeks, burnt landscapes, and towering pines. It was now either windy and freezing or brutally hot, rising into the 90s off and on. The sun tipped over the high point as a pheasant blew into my path. A hawk screamed in the distance while horses ran wild in a clearing. Rabbits darted in and out as gunshots echoed over a broken fence.

What came next will be the most epic hike-a-bike that ever existed. It was the hottest part of the day, and the climb was a very unused gravel road at a 15% grade. This part felt like a 3-day journey, but it was a beautiful challenge full of endless views, humbling steps, and a constant scream/singing of vile curses to ruthless spirits bent on destroying me.

But on this day, they failed. When I could finally ride the bike, I descended the dark side of the mountain on a profoundly rutted fire road at a million miles an hour. I was like, "WTF was all that," and almost ran into a totally rad older couple who were as far out as I was from Roslyn on their mountain bikes. As they were tripping out on me and my setup, they were also amazed I'd gotten that far. But I was equally surprised that they were taking those same trails back that late in the day. Goes to show you never know what people are made of, and you can always flip your perspective at any time.

I rolled into Mineral Springs to meet my wife at about 5:00 p.m. on Sunday, a little over 11 hours of ride time and 32 hours of total trip time. The Garmin and Ride with GPS will tell you the trip was just over 150 miles with over 10,000 ft of climbing, but it was more. At least, esoterically. Even though I've done so much of this type of thing in my life, I did have a lot of trouble getting out the door since I was entering very unfamiliar territory. I knew it would be a lot, a 100% whole damn vibe—but I had no idea it would roll out like it did.

But that's the point. You never do. In the end, you have to face these things while facing you. You stay psyched. You go the distance. You make it happen one pedal push at a time.