Mountain View Paradise Tent Glamping with Goats & Wine, is music to my ears. During one of our innumerable gravel canal bike training rides, I repeat the title from my Airbnb research for our Oregon bike tour to Joy.

“Oh, can we stay there?” I plea.

Now Joy is safely back from Alaska since Memorial Day weekend, we are blessed to have such an ideal outdoor space to recreate in. It’s safer to be outside, it is summer, and we are in each other’s bubble, so grateful for what we have. Deep in the planning phase for our Oregon bike trip, I am trying to find the most unique lodging I can and there’s a lot out there; silos, barns and treehouses—endless possibilities. Of course, only if it makes sense with the route we’re trying to figure out. We want to keep it at 30-50 miles a day, with as few hills and low traffic roads we can find. We have rules! 

We discuss when we should embark on our trip. I already have the vacation time, but also want to avoid Fourth of July traffic, so we settle on July 6. This is a Monday, and we hope that will give people a chance to get home who are traveling over the holiday.

By June, our route is established, from Coburg to Portland, but not a straight shot. As I say when I park my car, my straight meter is broken. We have the route planned for mostly back roads and scenic routes, of course. We believe we have all our overnights secured, when we get thrown a curveball.

The treehouse we reserved, built in an old oak tree with a nearby big tire swing, located at GeerCrest Farms; a historic homestead with apple orchards first planted in 1848, cancels our reservation. This forces us to change our route and requires more research. Another pivot, and mission accomplished. Although we will have to travel farther east, we book a room at The Oregon Garden. Neither of us has ever been and it is an Oregon bucket list item. It’s meant to be. 

Other preparations are made besides packing, important things like home manicures and pedicures. At home, because like many things are now done at home—school, jobs and haircuts. I paint my fingernails alternating turquoise and dark blue with graffiti on top and my toes sport pink with white polka dots. We always must have fun color in our hair. Joy has me color her ponytail pink and she dyes my hair alternating pink and purple stripes, with some blue sprinkled in.

We finish packing. The most minimalist trip we’ve done. Everything fits within two small packing cubes; three tank tops, one pair of bike shorts, one pair of spandex shorts, one capri-length leggings, one sleep outfit, one off bike outfit (dress and scarf), six pairs of underwear, six pairs of socks, two jog bras, swimsuit, sandals and a down vest. All the necessary bike tools are packed that we need, but don’t adequately know how to use. I know, I know. The items we pack are from the list my sister-in-law made from our bike trip So, it must be important. And in our typical fashion, a giant feed bag—homemade granola (pumpkin and vanilla), jerky, mixed nuts, dried jackfruit and a few Lara bars. In addition, we have the 2020 don’t-leave-home-without-it kit: a gallon Ziploc bag full of masks, hand sanitizer and disinfectant wipes. Such a strange time.

The excitement I feel over our trip is clouded by Covid-19. There’s fear of not being able to go, whether from us getting the virus, or forced cancellations. On July 1, the state of Oregon institutes an indoor mask mandate. We have an encounter at our local Dollar General on this date that leaves us apprehensive.

Many people are so upset about who is and isn’t wearing a mask. We witness one man screaming in the parking lot about needing to wear a mask to someone who isn’t. We question what we’re doing. Not knowing the atmosphere of the towns where we are going, what if the environment is hostile and volatile? Will locals be upset to see two bike tourists? At least one of the perks of being within driving distance of our homes is that we can always call for backup. 

We are dropped off in the small town of Coburg, about 20 miles northwest of our houses. My trusty white hybrid bike, Wicked, because she’s a bit naughty and I feel like the Wicked Witch of the East when I ride her. Joy’s blue mountain bike, Indigo Blue, strong and sturdy, has been with her for 25 years.

We both have our sun hats strapped to the back of our bikes. Joy has a trunk bag. We have rear panniers; I have front panniers too, as Wicked still needs her weight more evenly distributed. Our handlebar bags on the front can each carry two water bottles. Similarly dressed in long sleeves, vests, bike shorts and calf sleeves on a cool, overcast day, we are all smiles. With a high of 69°F, this is ideal biking weather. Reminiscent of our first bike tour together, we did nearly this same route that we’re riding today three years prior with an overnight at the KOA campground. 

Every bike tour always starts with the same feelings when first leaving. Freedom and exhilaration with a touch of fear. As we recount all our memories from the previous adventure, it’s a fun way to begin our ride. The route itself, the Corvallis Farmers Market with fresh peaches and sunflowers for our bikes, and the KOA outdoor pool. But the memory that sticks with us is yoga. Why we ever thought it would be a good idea to sign up for a 90-minute hot yoga session after biking all day, we’ll never know. One of the great mysteries. Neither one of us had ever done hot yoga, which is a whole different beast from the vinyasa yoga we are familiar with. Very regimented. Very hot. Very sweaty. Minimal clothes are worn by the regulars and water is only allowed when instructed. We felt a bit delirious after class, still with eight miles to ride to the KOA campground. The first time I ever made body salt, which was quite shocking to literally be shaking salt out of my shirt at our campsite. No salt today. 

Soon we are met with leftover Fourth of July decorations in people’s yards and businesses as we ride north along rural N. Coburg Road. It is heartening to see all the festive creations. Scarecrows, pinwheels, patriotic signs; so much red, white and blue. We’re grateful there isn’t much traffic, but the traffic that we encounter is fast, at least 55 MPH as the speed limit sign indicates, and there isn’t much of a shoulder. We find a quieter country road to explore, directing us west, along Bowers Road, lined with grain fields until we reach Coburg Road and turn north again. We arrive in Harrisburg, which lies along the Willamette River.

Our first order of business in the small town is at a Subway sandwich shop, luckily open for breakfast hours and we take a bathroom and water break. Riverfront Park is straight ahead, and we take a quick detour through it before continuing north, paralleling the river, sometimes in view, but more often not, as we make our way to Corvallis along Peoria Road. The land is flat. Marys Peak, the 11th highest in the state and the highest in the Oregon Coast Range, looms to the west and the Coburg Hills are east of us. We are in the valley. The Willamette Valley. The valley follows the Willamette River from Cottage Grove to Portland and stretches from north to south for about 150 miles.

We are such dedicated yogis, still not into hot yoga, we never do jump on that bandwagon, we even put together a street yoga routine. The goal is to be able to do yoga without our hands or bodies touching the ground. We find a great place to stop, in front of a shoe tree yes, exactly how it sounds—a tree that people throw their shoes in. We have a snack and practice our street yoga. 

We take a small loop through Peoria, turning left down the quiet street absorbing the peacefulness and admiring the location on the bank of the Willamette River. Peoria flourished in the latter half of the 19th century, with four grain warehouses and a school. But, when the Oregon and California Railroad built their line through neighboring towns further east, it marked the beginning of the town’s decline. Now it’s an unincorporated area, with just homes and a park, no stores or services. Joy has fond memories here. We stop at the house where she spent so much time, and the new owners come outside, and we start talking. It’s fun to hear Joy’s memories of the unique layout of the house and its history and what the new owners know and what remodeling they are doing. They take us into the backyard located on a beautiful section of the Willamette River. They have a colorful signpost, with all their kids, in-laws and grandkids’ names on individual signs, pointing the general direction they live in and their distance away in miles. We leave with the possibility of getting invited to their upcoming open house (we never hear from them again).

Already, our apprehension of locals not welcoming us is dissipating the farther we ride—from the couple we just connected with, to the friendly older woman out on a walk who stops to talk to us while we do street yoga, to the friendly harvest combine drivers waving at us from their high perches. 

Our bikes park in front of ‘no parking’ signs, always just a little bit naughty, at the Peoria Road Farm Market. We must remember to wear our masks, and a sign is posted for us to wash our hands before entering. Lots of flowers and many fruits and vegetables in their array of colors exude happiness. We buy radishes, sugar snap peas, obsidian blackberries and iced teas. 

The bridge crossing over the Willamette River, not so cleverly named The Willamette River Bridge, into Corvallis has always been challenging for us to navigate, but today we nail it. I find a hand painted rock, in yellow and orange, with a painted sun that says, “Here Comes the Sun” hidden atop the bridge. It’s a sign! Cruising through town to our hotel, Comfort Suites, finishing with 39.5 miles and just after four o’clock. We are pleased with our spacious room, space for Wicked and Indigo and an open pool!

After showering and dressing in our off-bike dresses, scarves, sun hats and inadvertently matching sandals, we are dressed and ready for dinner. We set out to walk to Old Town Deli two miles away because we see a Reuben on their menu. Neither of us have been there before so it is all a new adventure. Ironically it feels European; with painted ceilings and mismatched chairs; the overall atmosphere feels like exactly where we are supposed to be since we can’t be in Europe. The two men working are super sweet and give us each a free brownie, a bottle of water and seem genuinely happy that we are there. Maybe since we are the only one’s present—minor details. After the initial disappointment of the Reubens not being toasted, the marble rye bread is so good it doesn’t even matter. We rate them high on our Reuben scale. The pickle addition is a nice touch. Yup, we each eat a whole sandwich!

We walk back through the Oregon State University campus. Nostalgic for Joy because that’s where she got her degree and new memories for me because my daughter just finished her first year as a Beaver. Although it ended at home, in her bedroom and online, thanks to Covid. We walk through nice neighborhoods, admiring front yard gardens and bountiful flowers. We even spy a teeny, tiny fairy garden.

Back in our room we open a can of Pinot Noir to share. Still surprised the pool is open, but so excited for a swim, we hurry to it. While soaking in the hot tub a young man with a Russian accent asks to join us. We have a lot of talk about school and getting his GED; he is staying in the hotel while working on a construction job for his uncle. The entire time, in the back of my head I worry about being this close to a stranger and exposure to the virus. 

After the upheaval in all our lives for the past three-and-a-half months of living with the pandemic, and Joy being away in Alaska for the nine months prior, this adventure couldn’t have come at a better time. Although there are little, constant reminders of Covid and the small nagging voice in my head trying not to be paranoid over everything, this is exactly what I need—joy! The feeling and the person.

Ultra relaxed from the pool, and calm from our nighttime tea, it is time for bed. The beginning of all new roads and sights tomorrow, we’re excited for the unknown that lies ahead.