I ride so much at Muenster that I get spoiled, so it’s nice to get out and do some real extreme riding now and again. That’s what Gene and I did in the Kiamichi Mountains Saturday, with Harley and five of his crazy friends. It was a real adventure, and it sure wasn’t Muenster.
Muenster is full of fun, easy trails, where you can get into a nice flow and swoosh around the banked turns like a sleigh run. Yes, there are some rugged hills and rock sections, if you go looking for them, but most of the enduro trail, while fun, is pretty easy. And you never get too far from the truck, so if you have a problem your buddy can run back to the truck for tools, parts, gas, cigarettes, dancing girls, whatever you need. So I don’t usually even carry tools or water. I ride an hour, hit the truck for a drink, and head out again.
The Kiamichi, on the other hand, is different. We were planning to ride 30 miles from Talimena State Park near Talihina, Oklahoma, to the little town of Muse for lunch. You have a problem 30 miles from the truck, and you’re in trouble. And there’s not much help in Muse—it’s just a little gas station and a café. No chains or brake pads or spark plugs there. So preparation is important. I packed a large tool belt with my regular tools, plus tire irons, a spare 21-inch tube (which will work front or rear, in a pinch), three CO2 cartridges and a tire inflator, zip ties, duct tape, safety wire, spare nuts and bolts, master links and chain links and a tiny chain breaker. I also filled a Camelbak with Gatorade and carried a combination GPS/radio unit, and I had another radio for Gene to use.
Gene picked me up at 5:30 a.m. Saturday, and we loaded my 400SX on his trailer, threw my gear in the back of the pickup, under the canopy, and headed north. I should have eaten breakfast before we left, to let my stomach settle down before riding. I don’t do well when I ride soon after eating. But I didn’t think of it until we hit Atoka, Okla., about an hour from the park. We stopped and had a McDonald’s breakfast, and I paid a high price for it later. You see, I knew we were riding with a large group, and I assumed there would be at least a couple of slow guys in the group, and I wouldn’t have to work very hard, so I could just stroll along until I worked through breakfast. I was wrong.
We hit Talimena State Park at about 9 a.m. Harley and his pals were there, having camped out the night before. There were Jared and Jody, both on XR400s, Mike (a former pro enduro rider) on a hybrid KTM—an ’03 125SX with an ’01 200E/XC engine, Corey on a KTM 125, and Byrd on a ’00 VOR 503. Gene, of course, rode his black CR250. We geared up and got going at about 9:45.
It had rained the night before, and the weather was still cool, with a bit of fog lying in the low areas. It felt great to be out riding in such beautiful country. Talimena State Park is a great staging area. It has hookups for RVs, nice bathrooms with flushing toilets and showers, and you can ride right out of camp into the woods.
The trails were still a little wet, some water in the mudholes, and the rocks were wet. Did I mention rocks? The Kiamichi trails are rocky. Not impossibly rocky, but there are plenty of rocks—mostly planted rocks, but some loose, too. Square-edged rocks, round rocks, big rocks, little rocks, rocks on top of rocks next to rocks beside other rocks. There are also occasional creek crossings with pretty good-sized boulders. There is almost nowhere to rest. Reminds me of the story about a noted scientist who gave a lecture on the structure of the universe, with solar systems, galaxies, galaxy clusters, and so on. Afterward, an old woman came up to the scientist and said that he was wrong. In her religion, the world sat atop a giant turtle. All right, he asked her, what holds the turtle up? A bigger turtle, she replied. And what holds that turtle up? he asked. Another turtle, she replied. Sensing that he had her, the scientist said, and what hold that turtle up? But before he could finish, the old woman raised her hand and said, “Don’t waste your time, sonny. It’s turtles all the way down.” The Kiamich is like that. It’s rocks all the way down.
We hammered the rocky trails at a pretty good clip all morning. I was suffering from a sour stomach, and didn’t feel well at all. And there really weren’t any slow riders to hold up the group, so I had to struggle to keep up. The Indian Nations Trail is true single track, and in places it’s pretty faint, so we took a number of false paths and had to turn around or go overland in search of the trail. At one point Harley and Jody got separated from the rest of the group, and we couldn’t raise them on the radio, so the rest of us continued toward Muse, figuring that those two knew how to hook up with the trail further down.
About 1 o’clock I started feeling better and began riding better. By the time we hit Muse with our depleted group, I was fine. Harley and Jody showed up right after we did. Turns out they got stopped by a couple of deer hunters who told them they were on private property and made them go back. Jody almost came to blows with one of the belligerent hunters, but seeing that the hunters were armed with rifles while Jody had only dirty looks and irony, he backed off. They had to ride the long way around to hook back up with the trail.
Everybody ate lunch in Muse except me. I was just beginning to feel well, and I wasn’t about to take a chance on more problems, though the café in Muse makes a good jalapeno burger and onion rings. We left Muse at about 3 p.m. after gassing up, and we headed back into the woods. Jared led most of the time, because he knows the trails well and rides pretty fast. He led us into a section where the trail was very overgrown; looked like it hadn’t been used for a year or more. The trail was faint and downright invisible at times, and there were many fallen trees, so we stopped frequently to move trees or find a way around, and to check out possible routes to find the trail again. I left the 400 idling too long, being too lazy to kick it every time we stopped, and it eventually boiled over. After letting it cool a bit, I got rolling again, and tried not to stop. When somebody stopped ahead of me, I just went around, finding a way through the trees. The 400 finally cooled off.
After about nine miles of this, we popped out of the woods at the highway. We took a break in the shade along the highway, pondering our next move. Byrd said he was done, and he left for camp, taking the highway back. I suggested we ride some easier trails to cool off, then duck back into the tough trails for a while, and alternate easy and hard until we made it back. Jared apparently disagreed, because he led us instead down a hiking trail on Winding Stair Mountain. I didn’t notice as we entered the trail that it said motorized vehicles were prohibited, but it soon became pretty apparent. First, the trail was really nasty, steep, and rocky. Second, we were passing hikers in khaki shorts and Timberland boots with walking sticks and packs, and while we tried to be polite, stopping and shutting down the motors while they went by us coming up the trail, or going by very slowly if they were going down, we still got some funny looks. They were all nice, but I felt wrong about it. One woman said, “I hope you guys know what you’re getting into down there. It’s pretty nasty all the way down.” I assured her I had no idea what we were getting into; I was just following those maniacs ahead of me.
I was getting pretty tired, and my legs were starting to cramp up, and I slowed to a halt. Everybody else continued on. After a while, Harley called on the radio. Harley said that there were 20 more miles of that stuff, so I said that I was heading back. Gene came back and met me, and the rest of the group continued on down the mountain. The problem was that I wasn’t sure we could make it back up the trail. They call it Winding Stair for a reason—it was very narrow, steep, and strewn with rocks that form steps. It was bad enough going down, but going up would be a real struggle, especially as tired as we were.
The trail had wound down the mountain, taking a circuitous route, but as I looked straight up the hill, I thought I saw a decent path through the trees. By my reckoning, which has never been worth spit, it would take us almost directly to the trailhead. It was steeper than the trail, but it looked softer, cushioned with pine needles and oak leaf litter, and there didn’t appear to be many rocks. I thought that if we could get enough momentum going, we could make it, even though there was no trail. Gene agreed to give it a try, and we set out straight up. It took us an hour to go 300 yards up that hill. The soft soil didn't offer much traction, and there were rocks hidden beneath those leaves. We spent that hour trying to ride, falling, cursing, throttle walking, cursing, pushing, pulling with both of us on one bike, cursing, falling again, cursing, stalling, cursing some more, and finally hitting daylight at the top.
Miracle of miracles, we were just below the trailhead. There was only one more obstacle, a pair of stair-steps up the rocks to the grassy trail to the parking lot. We managed to climb the rocks and finally got out of that hole. Nothing ever looked better than that parking lot and the highway. We rode the highway and dirt roads the 25 miles back to the campground. When we got there, Harley and the others were arriving. Corey had gotten a flat tire, and they had ridden the highway back, too. They said that if Gene and I had just gone a mile farther, we would have been out of the worst part of the trail. Live and learn.
Gene and I loaded up and drove home, stopping only for Mexican food in Atoka. When I arrived home at about 9:30 p.m., I was too tired to wash the bike, and left it for Sunday.
It was an exhausting ride, frustrating at times, horrible at times, and absolutely a great time all day long. I can’t wait to go back. Thanks to Harley, Jared, and Jody for their trail leadership, and to Gene for hauling me there and back. It's nice to have a little adventure once in a while, though too much of a good thing can just about kill a guy.
Muenster is full of fun, easy trails, where you can get into a nice flow and swoosh around the banked turns like a sleigh run. Yes, there are some rugged hills and rock sections, if you go looking for them, but most of the enduro trail, while fun, is pretty easy. And you never get too far from the truck, so if you have a problem your buddy can run back to the truck for tools, parts, gas, cigarettes, dancing girls, whatever you need. So I don’t usually even carry tools or water. I ride an hour, hit the truck for a drink, and head out again.
The Kiamichi, on the other hand, is different. We were planning to ride 30 miles from Talimena State Park near Talihina, Oklahoma, to the little town of Muse for lunch. You have a problem 30 miles from the truck, and you’re in trouble. And there’s not much help in Muse—it’s just a little gas station and a café. No chains or brake pads or spark plugs there. So preparation is important. I packed a large tool belt with my regular tools, plus tire irons, a spare 21-inch tube (which will work front or rear, in a pinch), three CO2 cartridges and a tire inflator, zip ties, duct tape, safety wire, spare nuts and bolts, master links and chain links and a tiny chain breaker. I also filled a Camelbak with Gatorade and carried a combination GPS/radio unit, and I had another radio for Gene to use.
Gene picked me up at 5:30 a.m. Saturday, and we loaded my 400SX on his trailer, threw my gear in the back of the pickup, under the canopy, and headed north. I should have eaten breakfast before we left, to let my stomach settle down before riding. I don’t do well when I ride soon after eating. But I didn’t think of it until we hit Atoka, Okla., about an hour from the park. We stopped and had a McDonald’s breakfast, and I paid a high price for it later. You see, I knew we were riding with a large group, and I assumed there would be at least a couple of slow guys in the group, and I wouldn’t have to work very hard, so I could just stroll along until I worked through breakfast. I was wrong.
We hit Talimena State Park at about 9 a.m. Harley and his pals were there, having camped out the night before. There were Jared and Jody, both on XR400s, Mike (a former pro enduro rider) on a hybrid KTM—an ’03 125SX with an ’01 200E/XC engine, Corey on a KTM 125, and Byrd on a ’00 VOR 503. Gene, of course, rode his black CR250. We geared up and got going at about 9:45.
It had rained the night before, and the weather was still cool, with a bit of fog lying in the low areas. It felt great to be out riding in such beautiful country. Talimena State Park is a great staging area. It has hookups for RVs, nice bathrooms with flushing toilets and showers, and you can ride right out of camp into the woods.
The trails were still a little wet, some water in the mudholes, and the rocks were wet. Did I mention rocks? The Kiamichi trails are rocky. Not impossibly rocky, but there are plenty of rocks—mostly planted rocks, but some loose, too. Square-edged rocks, round rocks, big rocks, little rocks, rocks on top of rocks next to rocks beside other rocks. There are also occasional creek crossings with pretty good-sized boulders. There is almost nowhere to rest. Reminds me of the story about a noted scientist who gave a lecture on the structure of the universe, with solar systems, galaxies, galaxy clusters, and so on. Afterward, an old woman came up to the scientist and said that he was wrong. In her religion, the world sat atop a giant turtle. All right, he asked her, what holds the turtle up? A bigger turtle, she replied. And what holds that turtle up? he asked. Another turtle, she replied. Sensing that he had her, the scientist said, and what hold that turtle up? But before he could finish, the old woman raised her hand and said, “Don’t waste your time, sonny. It’s turtles all the way down.” The Kiamich is like that. It’s rocks all the way down.
We hammered the rocky trails at a pretty good clip all morning. I was suffering from a sour stomach, and didn’t feel well at all. And there really weren’t any slow riders to hold up the group, so I had to struggle to keep up. The Indian Nations Trail is true single track, and in places it’s pretty faint, so we took a number of false paths and had to turn around or go overland in search of the trail. At one point Harley and Jody got separated from the rest of the group, and we couldn’t raise them on the radio, so the rest of us continued toward Muse, figuring that those two knew how to hook up with the trail further down.
About 1 o’clock I started feeling better and began riding better. By the time we hit Muse with our depleted group, I was fine. Harley and Jody showed up right after we did. Turns out they got stopped by a couple of deer hunters who told them they were on private property and made them go back. Jody almost came to blows with one of the belligerent hunters, but seeing that the hunters were armed with rifles while Jody had only dirty looks and irony, he backed off. They had to ride the long way around to hook back up with the trail.
Everybody ate lunch in Muse except me. I was just beginning to feel well, and I wasn’t about to take a chance on more problems, though the café in Muse makes a good jalapeno burger and onion rings. We left Muse at about 3 p.m. after gassing up, and we headed back into the woods. Jared led most of the time, because he knows the trails well and rides pretty fast. He led us into a section where the trail was very overgrown; looked like it hadn’t been used for a year or more. The trail was faint and downright invisible at times, and there were many fallen trees, so we stopped frequently to move trees or find a way around, and to check out possible routes to find the trail again. I left the 400 idling too long, being too lazy to kick it every time we stopped, and it eventually boiled over. After letting it cool a bit, I got rolling again, and tried not to stop. When somebody stopped ahead of me, I just went around, finding a way through the trees. The 400 finally cooled off.
After about nine miles of this, we popped out of the woods at the highway. We took a break in the shade along the highway, pondering our next move. Byrd said he was done, and he left for camp, taking the highway back. I suggested we ride some easier trails to cool off, then duck back into the tough trails for a while, and alternate easy and hard until we made it back. Jared apparently disagreed, because he led us instead down a hiking trail on Winding Stair Mountain. I didn’t notice as we entered the trail that it said motorized vehicles were prohibited, but it soon became pretty apparent. First, the trail was really nasty, steep, and rocky. Second, we were passing hikers in khaki shorts and Timberland boots with walking sticks and packs, and while we tried to be polite, stopping and shutting down the motors while they went by us coming up the trail, or going by very slowly if they were going down, we still got some funny looks. They were all nice, but I felt wrong about it. One woman said, “I hope you guys know what you’re getting into down there. It’s pretty nasty all the way down.” I assured her I had no idea what we were getting into; I was just following those maniacs ahead of me.
I was getting pretty tired, and my legs were starting to cramp up, and I slowed to a halt. Everybody else continued on. After a while, Harley called on the radio. Harley said that there were 20 more miles of that stuff, so I said that I was heading back. Gene came back and met me, and the rest of the group continued on down the mountain. The problem was that I wasn’t sure we could make it back up the trail. They call it Winding Stair for a reason—it was very narrow, steep, and strewn with rocks that form steps. It was bad enough going down, but going up would be a real struggle, especially as tired as we were.
The trail had wound down the mountain, taking a circuitous route, but as I looked straight up the hill, I thought I saw a decent path through the trees. By my reckoning, which has never been worth spit, it would take us almost directly to the trailhead. It was steeper than the trail, but it looked softer, cushioned with pine needles and oak leaf litter, and there didn’t appear to be many rocks. I thought that if we could get enough momentum going, we could make it, even though there was no trail. Gene agreed to give it a try, and we set out straight up. It took us an hour to go 300 yards up that hill. The soft soil didn't offer much traction, and there were rocks hidden beneath those leaves. We spent that hour trying to ride, falling, cursing, throttle walking, cursing, pushing, pulling with both of us on one bike, cursing, falling again, cursing, stalling, cursing some more, and finally hitting daylight at the top.
Miracle of miracles, we were just below the trailhead. There was only one more obstacle, a pair of stair-steps up the rocks to the grassy trail to the parking lot. We managed to climb the rocks and finally got out of that hole. Nothing ever looked better than that parking lot and the highway. We rode the highway and dirt roads the 25 miles back to the campground. When we got there, Harley and the others were arriving. Corey had gotten a flat tire, and they had ridden the highway back, too. They said that if Gene and I had just gone a mile farther, we would have been out of the worst part of the trail. Live and learn.
Gene and I loaded up and drove home, stopping only for Mexican food in Atoka. When I arrived home at about 9:30 p.m., I was too tired to wash the bike, and left it for Sunday.
It was an exhausting ride, frustrating at times, horrible at times, and absolutely a great time all day long. I can’t wait to go back. Thanks to Harley, Jared, and Jody for their trail leadership, and to Gene for hauling me there and back. It's nice to have a little adventure once in a while, though too much of a good thing can just about kill a guy.
