“Lost Girls in Oahu Afraid of Wild Pigs”
My girlfriend and I were riding this killer mountain on the North Shore of Oahu one evening, and after a grueling 2 hour climb just to get off the pavement, dusk was sure to settle soon. Since Kim is into adventure, and I am her willing accomplice, we decided to go for it and find the end of the trail on the other side of the mountain. Not that I’d ever seen it, but what the hey.
‘Pig Hunting Allowed’ signs dotted the trail for a few minutes, then all signs of humanity disappeared. I saw one of those pigs in back of a pickup recently, shot dead but still looking mean. Had to be 400 or 500 pounds, including tusks. The guys who’d shot it were dirty and exhausted, their pit bulls lying motionless in the truck bed with the pig. Probably took all night to get that big boy.
Ah, the lovely trail dips and sways, if we fall off our bikes and go boom no one will save us. Climbing more and more, we reached the ridges with the 1000 foot drop offs on either side. The rains had washed 4 foot gullies into the trail so we precariously perched atop the ridges, hoping we wouldn’t slip off into the great green abyss on the lava slick soil.
I had just remodeled my old American Breezer and replaced the WTB drop bars with straights and bar ends, replaced all brake and derailleur cables and put new mounts on for my XT top shifters, so this was a test ride. I figured 3 hours, tops. Darkness approached, but my buddy Kim, who took the World’s Amateur Racer 1st place in Honolulu recently, rode on with confidence. We hit some grass, and the trail kinda petered out. We headed down, down, down toward the parachuter’s drop zone on Farmington Highway. “I see cars!” I yelled out. Ten minutes to total darkness, and we’re on a cliff overlooking civilization. Kim parked her Kona and headed toward the cliff. All right–I can smell the cold beer already.
“Trail’s supposed to be right here,” she said. I looked and saw a real bad drop off. Being a former EMT firefighter, I wasn’t happy with visions of our broken bodies flying through the air. I’ve seen pain, and it’s not my favorite thing.
“Kim, I think the trail’s not there anymore.” We had some BIG rain recently here on Oahu. Maybe the trail disappeared along with the top soil and a few houses.
“No, it’s gotta be here!” She kinda sounded anxious. Uh oh.
“Dude, surely there’s another trail,” I said. No answer. “Kim! Don’t go down there!” I heard a faint reply. “What did you say?” O’dark thirty had arrived, and I couldn’t see shit. Gnarly mountain sounds began to get louder. Snuffles or something. Hooves pawing the dirt. We have very large mean pigs here in Oahu, and most of them live on this mountain.
“But we gotta,” she finally answered,” climbing back to where I stood trying to see. “It’s the only way down from here.”
“I think we gotta bail and retrace our steps,” I replied. Since I’m older and supposedly wiser, someone had to decide something, and it wasn’t gonna involve any cliffs at night. Kim agreed, so we began the long, lonely dark trudge back up the hill, over the mountain, down the other side, and back to the pavement. Which then wound downhill for like, 5 miles. Suddenly, pitch darkness surrounded us. “Where’s that full moon, anyway?” I wondered. I didn’t bring my trusty Night Rider, or my trusty Maglite, or my little red flasher. I had, like, 7 matches. We had descended into a deep, black hole which used to look like pine trees with a trail. Kim stopped. I stopped.
“I think we go this way,” she said. “I’ll check.” Kim crawled over to the big, black hole, and tried to peer in, with no luck. She scuttled back. “Sorry. We may be sleeping here tonight,” she said. It was a werewolf type full moon, if the moon would ever come up. Clouds rolled in, obscuring the view. Ocean waves crashed far, far below. I was a little nervous. We had a long hike ahead in the dark with 1,000 foot drop offs. I whipped out a match. It sputtered and went out. I whipped out another, close to the ground. It died too. Hmmm. I produced yet another, which barely enabled us to catch a brief glimpse of trail. “It’s this way!” yelled Kim, the trailmeister. I’m a haole, new to Hawaii, and don’t even know the way. We forged forth into the hole, hoping for salvation. Thwap, thump, thwap, thump.
“I hear helicopters!” I said excitedly. “Maybe they are looking for us.”
“Nah,” Kim relied. “It’s still too early yet. Besides, no one knows we’re here.” We trudged, or rather crawled on, steadily climbing. I lit a match, here and there. My hams hurt, I was outta water, Kim was hungry, but we sang songs and prayed to God and Krishna. The night thickened while we slipped and fell into gullies, waiting for the full moon to rise so we could see.
Two hours later, the trail became a fireroad. ‘Pig Hunting Allowed’ signs began to dot the landscape. Our night vision had improved but we still couldn’t ride our bikes (and Kim can ride anything) because the trail was too wicked to risk it. We were traipsing along, chattering about how happy we were to be alive, thanking the spirit of the mountain for having us, etc. when suddenly the bushes moved and loud thrashing and snuffling could be heard. Right next to us. I pulled out my little Cold Steel folding knife and handed my even smaller pepper spray cannister to Kim, wishing I had a .357 Magnum instead. “If the pigs attack, we’ll shield ourselves with the bikes, and I’ll cut their throats,” I bravely told her. (The pigs would probably eat my bike) Kim kinda mumbled something, finally fearful. She stood stock still. “Let’s keep going!” I insisted. We stumbled on, waiting for imminent pig attack.
I never mentioned the even meaner pig hunters and marahoochie growers that dot this third world landscape, but if we let out a scream, no one would hear us. People really did die up here. Our bodies could rot for months in some ravine, waiting for discovery. Nah, we weren’t afraid–we were terrified! The pig sounds finally faded, along with my heart beat, and we did make it out of there alive, late that night. I was too tired to even crack a beer tab. On a ride two days later, Kim and I discussed this matter at great length, sort of debriefing ourselves. All of the locals had informed us to never, ever go up on that mountain without a gun, period. Oh.
The lesson here is to always carry lots of gear if you ride with people like Kim, including an escape helicopter for when the going gets rough. I am convinced that a .357 would be handy, too. As far as the mountain goes, we rode past it Thanksgiving day, and chatted up some guys who were waiting for their friends to come off the mountain. They had started at 9:00 a.m., it was now 11:00 a.m.. We rode back by at 3:00 p.m. and they were still up there, looking for that trail that used to go down to the parachute jumper’s field, probably backtracking like we did.
Unless the wild pigs got them.
Julie Cruiser
November 1996
Oahu, Hawaii
Then there’s the illegal trails, Northern California ride:
Misty Forest Home
They call me Cruiser cos I like to ride. Singletrack, that is. I reach the state of zen after entering each miniature virgin redwood forest, damp with rain. Deja-vu sings shadow songs as I recall my dreams of long ago, lost in an ancient revery of deepest emerald green woods. I remember, I remember another life, a world of silent padding feet and furry bodies, a world of more singletrack through virgin forest–shh, we must be quiet as the redwood needles drop. Fog smells like forest breath, deeply green. Lazy redwoods sway in late October morning sun as we come into this rich land, noiselessly riding our camoflaged mountain bikes. Four directions call us, four winds blow into our wildest consciousness as we touch heaven, dankest forest sucked into each flared nostril.
What could it be, this feeling? It is autumn as amber coloured leaves fall in Loren, and my friends are warming up for night rides in the ancient forest. Dusty trails are calmed as fog rolls in and misty skies open up, dampening our shoulders and dripping off our helmets. Still, we ride our mountain bikes. Tourists no longer clog the arteries of our ocean homes; we wait for them to disappear entirely as thick fog covers us, hiding us in the trees.
We wait for enlightenment, we listen as the Earth Keepers send their animal helpers to speak new mysteries of forgotten times. We ride the trails and feel the warm, damp Earth as she sighs and moans, and sometimes sings. Messages permeate our collective subconscious, our collective unconscious minds join as one mind, and we revere our mountains with all heart and soul. Purple flowers and yellow herbs dot the trailside while little bells of blue softly tinkle and we hear this song.
Saturday morning arrives and we meet on our mountain bikes, ready to ride at dawn. Rain drizzles, a cold breeze blows, rainbows billow just barely out of eyesight. We meet, my friends and I, all eight of us at morningtime we meet to ride together and greet the forest this new day. Young animals we shake dew and rainy wetness off our furs, steam coming from each nostril. Wet wool is our attire.
Suddenly, the leader of our pack bolts and we all follow at top speed, hauling ass up some gnarly singletrack full of tree roots and dirt oh joy! The chase is on and I’m last but not least cos the day is young and my name is Cruiser. I gotta keep up, I’m sweating and my legs are burning but the seven guys are out of sight I don’t care they’ll wait for me. Giant redwood trees rush by, gently scraping their branches together as we climb the mountain; I duck under large limbs, narrowly avoiding the fifty foot drop to my left and hugging the cliff face to my right. We sweat and struggle –ah– adrenaline flows. I see the dudsters up ahead.
“Yo bros,” I quietly whisper. Dangle sees me and gives the nod. “Thanks for hanging and waiting for me.” I pant great gasps, choking for air, joining the circle who are my tribe of menfriends and brothers. They watch, appreciatively. (I also carry all the bike tools.)
“Cruiserbabe,” Dangle breathes, “can ya ride this little root system yet?” He looks meaningfully at a spot well-known for its victims who tried and almost died.
“Yeah, a hundred percent ridable,” Peter assures me. He’s another brawny man with green eyes and curly black hair. He just said no to neon, too. Pure stealth attire for this bro, including a black Klein with old Deore and dropped handlebars. I shrug and blow some snot from my left nostril, holding down my right. Took me years to get gross enough to do that, but I got tired of choking and besides, it’s bikie behavior more socially acceptable than farting. Do the other nostril and give Dangle and the other guys my sweetest, most innocent under the lashes demure look.
“Why dudesters, of course I’ll try the trap.” I cough with gusto and pick a bug out of my muddied mouth. “After you, of course.” The guys kinda grunt and blow snot, waiting for volunteers. We’ll all end up riding the trap, but I know the game and the deal is, I go last for a reason.
“Hey Cruise, you can always go first, ladies choice,” spake my good friend Weasel the sleazel. He was eating as usual. Probably someone else’s food. Rain drip-dropped and the fog rolled in even closer to treetops. Branches moaned and scraped together as we breathed in the forest scent. Ah, O2 my love, my savior, my lifegiving friend how I adore you.
“Oh, you know how slow I am, Sleaze, I’ll just get in the way of you hammerheads,” I replied, calmly watching the dudes get more nervous. They knew I knew the deal.
“Fine, I’ll go,” said Brave Dangle, and it was a rare occasion that he wrecked. Dangle pointed his trusty American Breezer downstream into the abyss, and let go his brakes. Man and bicycle disappeared down the ravine without a sound. Poof! with a tad bit of bent leaf to mark his passage.
“Where’d he go?” asked Daniel, another strong silent type with huge calves. He put his bike down and wandered over to the edge of the trap, looking down into darkness. Fog rolled in even thicker than ever, and even though it was daylight, we had trouble seeing far. Kind of spooky down there. Pretty dank, too.
“Hmmm,” I murmured, “I wonder if he’s found the key…”
“Huh?” asked an agitated Weasel, “what did you say?” Some of the other dudes were by this time tired of waiting and said their good-byes, hammering off into the distance. Daniel, Weasel, Peter, and I were the only remaining people on this section of the mountain, wondering what happened to our friend Dangle. I didn’t wonder too much.Well, Dangle told me he learned how to disappear into another dimension, I wanted to tell them, but didn’t.
“Dangle probably found some secret shortcut and he’s playing the game with us,” I said in real life.
“Oh yeah, the game,” said Daniel. “He pulls this shit on me all the time.” Daniel laughed and got on his trusty steed, a sweet Gary Fisher with all XTR and shocks. Killer machine, I must say. “Are we off?” Weasel followed Daniel’s lead, getting ready to split down the trail in search of Dangle. Peter spoke up, taking a sip off his nasty water bottle.
“Ya think he left us some kind of little sign to give us a hint, or is it follow the tracks as usual?” We all exchanged looks and shrugged. “That’s what I thought,” he said, getting his helmet ready for action. I checked my brakes, scraping mud off the pads with a branch. “Let’s cruise round the trap, okay?”
Ya Mon,” I agreed. Forget the trap, this trail was crazy enough. “Shall we, dudesters?” I asked, hopping on my favorite toy in the whole world. Skin was exchanged all around, and they took off in a flash, leaving me to hang behind and finish last. As the sounds of crashing foilage and yelps reached my ears, I thought back to a conversation Dangle and I had had recently about certain energy pockets in the Earth. Some indigenous people used to say they even existed right here on the sacred mountain, and that one only had to be humble enough to enter the shaman’s place.
The question was, would we?
