Arriving in Portland		Clackamas River camp		Clackamas River

I boarded the Amtrak with my bike on August 3, 2025, headed north to Portland with a familiar mix of excitement and nerves. There’s something comforting about letting a train do the first miles for you, watching the landscape slide by while knowing that soon enough every inch will be earned the hard way. I stayed the night at my friend’s place in Portland, and at first light the next morning I rolled out, officially beginning a southbound ride to Klamath Falls.

By the end of the week I would cover 428 miles and just over 30,000 feet of elevation gain, roughly following the Oregon Cascades Volcanic Arc (OCVA) route. The OCVA traces the volcanic backbone of the Cascade Range, linking forests, rivers, and high lava plateaus through a web of dirt roads, trails, and quiet pavement. It’s a route that favors elevation and remoteness over efficiency, and it quickly makes you earn your miles.

	Clearlake		Crater Lake rim		Fire outside Oakridge

That first day carried me out of the city and into familiar Oregon green. I camped along the Clackamas River, surrounded by thick brush and endless blackberry patches. They were impossible to ignore. Every stop turned into a handful of stained fingers and a short delay, the kind that feels justified when you’re living entirely by daylight and hunger.

	Mount Hood		Klamath Basin camping

The next day brought a big climb toward Detroit, Oregon. It was steady, patient work, the kind of climb where you settle into a rhythm and accept that the miles will come slowly. Along the way, I was treated to sweeping views of Mount Hood and Mount Jefferson, their snowy peaks standing out against the deep green of the valleys below. When I finally rolled into town, I sat outside the gas station eating snacks, staring at the hotel next door. It looked absurdly inviting. I tried to talk myself out of it, but eventually gave in, and was grateful I did when rain arrived the following morning.

	Fire weed		Bike Oregon, high views		Lake of the Woods Trail

My goal the next day was the McKenzie River. The riding was beautiful but slow, with more berry patches breaking my focus and my pace. I wasn’t going to make Diamond Lake yet, and by afternoon that was clear. When I reached Clear Lake Resort, all I could think about was a cheeseburger. I pedaled frantically, half-worried they’d be closed, and felt genuine relief when I saw they were still open. It tasted exactly as good as I hoped it would.

From there, pavement gave way to dirt as I ducked onto the McKenzie River Trail. Within minutes I found what felt like the perfect campsite. Massive Douglas firs formed a thick canopy overhead, shielding me from the rain that fell softly through the night. It was quiet, protected, and deeply restful.

The next day carried me toward Oakridge. Hours of climbing eventually delivered me into Westfir, where I stopped at the Westfir Lodge for food. While I was there, a car with California plates pulled in. I struck up a conversation with the California couple inside and learned they were mountain biking in the area, visiting from Marin County. Within ten minutes, they invited me to stay at their Airbnb campsite. It felt almost unreal: Suddenly I had company, conversation, and the luxury of a warm breakfast the next morning.

	Loaded bike		Maidenhair fern		McKenzie River camp

	McKenzie River Creek bridge		McKenzie River Creek		McKenzie River Trail

As I rode out of town, I noticed a thick mushroom-shaped plume rising just east of Oakridge. A wildfire had ignited there and, for a time, closed the Willamette Highway. I was fortunate that my route turned south and climbed away from the closure, but the smoke was a constant reminder of how quickly plans can unravel out here. The fire stayed off my route, lingering more as a presence than an obstacle.

By midweek, Diamond Lake became the next major goal. Progress was slow, interrupted again and again by berry breaks that I pretended were accidental but absolutely weren’t. Near sunset, I crossed into Klamath County, feeling a surge of confidence. I descended toward Lemolo Reservoir and found a flat spot among the lodgepole pines to camp for the night. Crossing the county line felt symbolic - surely Klamath Falls was close now. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Klamath County is enormous, a fact I had completely forgotten. I set off the next morning at 4 a.m., riding in the dark, only to realize quickly that my fingers were going numb. I glanced down at my GPS: 31 degrees Fahrenheit. That was enough. I pulled over and waited for the sun, watching the cold slowly loosen its grip.

	McKenzie River Trail		Mt. Jefferson Road view		Mt. Thielson

After sunrise, I finally reached Diamond Lake Lodge and demolished a huge breakfast. Only then did Diamond Lake feel truly earned. From there, the next objective loomed large: Crater Lake. Cars rushed past me on the National Park Service road as I kept my pedal strokes steady, watching the rim draw closer one slow mile at a time. By noon, I reached the top.

Crater Lake in mid-summer is a circus, and I became part of it - tourists, traffic, and cameras everywhere. Still, the skies were perfectly clear, and the view stretched endlessly. To the south, Mount Shasta stood tall on the horizon, a quiet reminder of how far I had already traveled. I snapped a quick photo and began the long descent toward the Wood River Valley.

Dropping into the valley, I eventually connected with Westside Road, completely spent. I knew of a great camping spot along Cherry Creek and stopped there for the night. I slept deeply, snacking on thimbleberries and listening to the quiet that only comes when exhaustion has fully set in.

	Oval leaf blueberry		Road outside Oakridge		Trailside blackberries

The final day was simple in theory: Lake of the Woods, then Klamath Falls. I packed up early and headed south on Westside Road. The climb to Lake of the Woods was short but relentless, the kind that forces you out of the saddle and tests what’s left in your legs. At the top, burgers were waiting, and I didn’t hesitate.
From there, I descended Clover Creek Road into Klamath Falls, rolling back into the Sunshine City under clear skies. I stopped briefly at the community garden, then continued on to my home. The ending was quiet, almost anticlimactic.

The strange thing about long trips like this - there’s no parade. No one is waiting to pat you on the back. The next day, there’s just work again. But the ride stays with you, the cold mornings, the berry-stained hands, the distant smoke, the kindness of strangers, and the steady certainty that moving through the world under your own power still matters.

About the author:

Ryan Bart is a fisheries biologist and full-time adventurer, combining a love of science with a passion for the outdoors. He grew up in central Minnesota exploring rivers and lakes, and his career has taken him across the country, from the Midwest to the Southeast, where he earned his M.S. from Auburn University. Now based in southern Oregon, Ryan balances his research and conservation work with a life spent exploring wild places. He thrives on bikepacking, backpacking, fly fishing, birding, mountaineering, and wandering through remote wildernesses, always seeking new landscapes to discover and challenges to embrace.