The Canton quad ride isn't something that's treated lightly. Your bike is your last resort. The liquid courage you keep in the cooler mounted to the front rack helps a bit too. But when all else fails, just hope it's not your CV joint, or the carb, or a bad bearing, or some other small piece of metal that's capable of both breaking and ruining a long weekend in the middle of the woods.
My good friend Kyle invited me to the quad ride this year back in February. He notified me a month ahead of time and assured me that if I couldn't get that weekend off from work, the ride was worth losing a job over. That's some promise, and luckily my boss was lenient with the two days of abscense.
The land we rode is managed and leased through an organization known as the Timbertop Hunting Club. As a guest myself, I appreciated the opportunity to enjoy this large slice of hardwood forest in Bradford County. Big country, blue skies and 25 guys crammed into a 350-square foot cabin with nothing but spicy food, cheap beer, hard whiskey and one mean All Terrain Vehicle growling between your legs all day and most of the night is a great recipe for one heck of a weekend.
Friday night we arrived at the cabin a bit late and missed the majority of the riders leaving for the kick-off night ride--a sort of christening of the forest floor in order to make mother nature aware that the boys were back in town. As if she wasn't expecting us. Once we unloaded our truck and grabbed a bunk inside the cabin, we saddled up and headed out on to the trail.
The first morning everyone was up bright and early for a hardy breakfast accompanied by lots of morning gas and a few pickled string-beans (I assumed they were good for the heart--soul food in a sense). A few pots of coffee were quickly drained and soon after followed the longest day of riding.
This shot illustrates what's known as "an official." It happens rather often, maybe every mile or so. All quads come to a hault, all riders dismount, and all hands wrap around a cold beer. Then you know it's official. Officially cold. Officially a good buzz going.
Mud.
Another official.
More mud.
A little more mud.
After the second day came to a close, we decided to go out for another night on the town after dinner. There was deep snow, and at night the temperature almost shattered it was so frigid, so we had to keep the bikes running hot to stay warm. Some whiskey doesn't hurt either.
Whatta ya know, some more mud.
On the third morning, everyone mounted up for one last ride to the top of the mountain, obviously for the view, partly for an excuse to start drinking beer again at 7:30 in the morning, and definately to extend an unbelievable weekend just a few more hours.
This is one of the last officials we took, and there's no better place for that than at nearly 2,000 feet above sea level. It was an awesome view, blurry maybe, but no doubt unforgettable.
Uncle Donny decided to take the long way home. So I followed him, hoping that he might just decide on one more official before loading up and hauling out. Since I can't officially remember if we stopped or not, there's a good chance we did. You can always count on Uncle Donny.
Let the good times roll.
