In England, the largest highways are designated "A" roads. It's a different story on the Milly course, though, where the A's are little better than logging or Forest Service roads. They may be partially paved, or they may be dusty dirt, but regardless they seem to get where they go via the steepest possible path. And none moreso than dreaded A-25 through Castle Crags from Castella to Coffee Creek. The morning Darryl and I rode A-25, we got off to a pretty late start. We had comfortable rooms in Dunsmuir, and we took our time over campstove bacon and eggs before rolling out around 9 a.m. We stopped at the Belnap fountain, since Belknap is a family name in my clan. This Belnap was a fireman who died in the line of duty. After tanking up and getting a few pictures, I scribbled the incription from the plaque on a postcard and mailed it to my Mom. It was already hot, and we had only just began to sweat. Arriving at Castella, we found a post office where I was pleased to find that Darryl wanted to stop. We asked the clerk about the A-25 road. "A lot of people stop here and ask about it. I don't know why they put it on the AAA map. It's a terrible road. You're better off going down to Highway 36 if you want to go to Trinity Center." "Have you been over it recently?" "No, I've never been on it. It's a terrible road." With this new knowledge, we wrote out some postcards in the Post Office foyer. I wrote on mine that it was over 90 degrees at 9 a.m. and that we were heading into the real California Outback on a backroad of doubtful character. Pretty soon we finished our cards and, after slathering on a little more sunscreen, headed up the road to ask for information at the ranger station. At the Castella office of the Shasta-Trinity National forest we found a couple of nice office ladies dressed in ranger clothes. They couldn't tell us anything about A-25, even though it appeared to be the main road through their station's precinct. Darryl left to fill his water bottles outside. I waited inside while one of the ladies got on the radio to someone, perhaps a fire lookout, to ask about A-25. One by one, she repeated the questions I'd asked of her. "It's paved for the first three miles," came the disembodied voice. After that it's pretty good gravel but the other side gets worse. "They'll need to take a Forest Service map." I already had one of those. Mine was more than ten years old, but the ranger lady assured me there were none more recent. In conclusion, the lookout offered this summary: "They'll be all right as long as they have high vehicle clearance. Otherwise, you could lose an oilpan." "That shouldn't be a problem; they're on bicycles!" "Oh! Well I hope they're triathletes because to tell you the truth, I'm not completely sure the road is open all the way through. There may still be show at the top." I thanked the nice Forest Service people and they wished us luck. I went back outside to pass this new information on to Darryl. Darryl grunted dismissively. We each drank a couple of bottles of water and topped off; then we rode on past the sign warning of pavement's end in three miles. The road, a narrow stripeless ribbon of scrofulous asphalt, rose at a steady six to 10 percent. It wasn't long before I found myself using my 34-tooth "Grand-Pa" chainwheel for the first time. It felt marvelous. I was glad I'd held off using it in the Sierras and on Mt. Lassen, and at the same time felt a little stupid. Proper gears really are a good thing. On we rode. There were two stretches in which the grade rose to about 15 percent. These lasted no more than a mile or two each, however. The surface remained paved. With my lighter bike, I left Darryl in the steeper sections, which enabled me to set up photos of Darryl as he rode past. Once, I scrambled down next to a waterfall to catch him as he rode over a bridge above me. Another time I scrambled up a rock formation to catch him riding in front of the North Fork tributary. Eventually, we stopped near Horse Heaven to finish some leftover Butter Horns and look at the maps before continuing on. We made another stop to take pictures of a clearcut hillside. Once, a logger stopped to ask us where we were going. We we told him, he said with a grin of admiration, "I think you guys are crazy!" The road was punctuated by M.P. (mileage post) markers, and the pavement finally gave way to high-grade gravel just before the summit at M.P. 10. So much for the road signs and information from the lookout. Up top, I took a quick look at the map and somehow came away thinking that we would simply descend along next to the East Fork of the Trinity River until we got to Coffee Creek. Hah! The road was fine, but quite steep -- too steep to enjoy on loaded road bikes. The ten mile climb had taken us well over two hours and it wasn't long before our thoughts began to turn to lunch. Pretty soon we found a driveway leading down to the Trinity, and we rode down to enjoy a picnic next to the river -- deli sandwiches that Darryl got for us the previous evening at the store in Dunsmuir. We ate in the shade next to the river, then I decided to cool off with a lolligag in the stream. It was terrifically cold, but felt good on such a hot day. Climbing out of the steep driveway, Darryl showed proper Rough Stuff form by detaching his panniers and carrying them to the top of hill, then returning for his unladened bike. It wasn't long after lunch when we reached a fork in the road near the confluence of Mumbo Creek with the East Fork. A large green bridge forded Mumbo Creek and enabled the left fork to continue following along next to the Trinity. We found a road sign laying in the dust next to the road, though, which told us to stay right for Coffee Creek; which we did. The road climbed gradually alongside Mumbo Creek for a while before crossing it and pitching up a steep incline. Thus began the haul to Ramshorn summit. Steeper than anything we'd seen yet, the Ramshorn climb continued for about six miles before arriving at an ambigous intersection. When I got there I lay down in some leaves next to the road and fell asleep instantly, though only for a few minutes. Soon Darryl arrived. I gave him a full water bottle when I noticed what a small drink he took. My 100oz Camelbak was long gone, but I still had two large bottles full. We weren't stopped long when an immense logging truck arrived. We recognized the driver, a young fellow who'd stopped to chat that morning. "I think you guys are crazy," he'd said with a friendly grin when we told him where we were headed. Darryl jumped up on the running board to ask directions, and the logger confirmed my guess that to the right lay the main road; the left fork, from the Forest Service map, appeared to simply loop down into the river canyon and back. The driver also told us that three trucks were coming out empty behind him, and that they'd have to back up the road for a ways before arriving at a wide spot where they would be able to turn around. Darryl hopped down and he immediately roared off backwards up the hill in a cloud of swirling dust. His three comrades each followed soonafter. Each one roared up next to us from the left fork, then reversed up the hill on the fork to the right. Whether going backwards or forwards, the speed was the same -- fast. Maybe they were showing off. It was impressive, though. The drivers could usually be seen talking and laughing on the radio as they jockeyed their huge vehicles deftly along the narrow forest road. After the third truck had passed and the dust settled a little, we continued. Within a few miles we reached the turnaround spot and the top of the hill. The descent from Ramshorn summit was much too steep to enjoy on loaded touring bikes. We edged warily down the loose rocky track, which by now had also become rutted. I glanced over at Darryl and wondered how he managed with the ancient centerpull brakes on his Raleigh International. On rough dirt roads, it is almost always possible to outrun local traffic; however, our caution was such that a couple in a white pickup truck soon caught up to us. They were the first and only non-commercial vehicle we saw on the wonderful A25. I felt obliged to put up a little bit of a race, so I let go of the brakes for a mile or two. But, I soon felt better of it and, in consideration for the many miles left and the importance of getting back in time for work on Monday, stopped to let the truck pass and wait for Darryl to catch up. I had a drink of water, adjusted my shoes, stretched... and still no Darryl. An uneasy feeling began to take hold. I turned around and began walking back up the steep, rutted track. I glanced to my right, over the shoulder, which fell away a hundred feet or so to the river below. "I'll never find him if he went over that side," I thought to myself. That released enough adrenaline that I quickly hopped onto the bike and began riding speedily upwards. Thankfully I didn't have to go too far -- neither up the hill nor in my dire fears of the worst -- before passing a turnout to find Darryl tinkering with his bike. "You missed a miracle," he said cryptically, a slow trickle of blood dripping through the dust covering his left leg. One of Darryl's rear carrier bolts had rattled out, causing his rack to suddenly become loose. Miraculously, he had wandered back up the trail a ways and found the tiny bolt sitting there in the dust. The blood was from prior misadventure. "I ran off the road twice back there." Darryl had not taken extra rack bolts, so the miracle was also good fortune. I had a single spare, but it turned out that later I would need it when my light bracket failed. Feeling fortunate, we rode within sight of each other the rest of the way to where the pavement resumed a mile or two short of Hwy 36. It was now 5 p.m. It had taken us eight hours -- five of them on the bike -- to cover the 37 miles from Castella to Coffee Creek on A-25. Not an English A road by any stretch of the imagination. We rolled along Hwy 36. Darryl encouraged me to ride on to Hayfork, a notion I found more amusing than appealing. While Darryl stopped at Trinity River Camp to see about fresh water, I continued to Coffee Creek to find a store. Inside the store, I found some very large bottles of good porter billed as "working man's brew." I figured we qualified, at least on that particular day, and grabbed one for each of us. Then I downed a quart of ice tea and a quart of Gatorade before beginning to feel a little more human. I had biker's glaze, the dreaded condition in which you can wander around a store staring dumbly at all of the food for oh, maybe a half hour before figuring out what to buy. There at the Coffee Creek store, Darryl and I had our first experience with the singing fish. These kitschy items appear to be taxidermied fish from a distance, but if you push a small button on the plaque the fish begins to sing. Selections include "Take me to the River," and "Don't worry, be happy." The kind of thing that goes instantly from hilarious, the first time, to tiresome the next and thereafter, without passing go. Back at Trinity River -- last camp on the mighty Trinity before it is so mercilessly coerced into a speedboat reservoir -- Darryl and I went in for a swim. Darryl was by far the more stylish of us, with his proper swimming trunks and Zorrie sandals. I half expected a light wool bathrobe to emerge from those bottomless panniers of his, but was alas disappointed, at least in that regard. Then, ablutions over with, he donned a dapper pair of plaid light wool pants that looked enviably comfortable and mosquito-proof, as well as a nice shirt of similar material. I began dinner preparations only to find my stove damaged, perhaps by the terrific rattling it must have taken coming down Ramshorn Road. I poked and pried at it with bike tools while Darryl wasted little time getting a fire going with kindling gathered from the grounds nearby. Soon, however, I'd managed to effect repairs by reaming the tiny gas jet with a single strand of wire borrowed from a frayed brake cable, a feat I felt fairly proud of until Darryl, a machinist and instrument maker by trade, informed me that bronze or another soft metal was the more appropriate material for a reamer. I decided to feed him anyway. Spinach fried in olive oil with garlic and tuna fish over gallons of instant potatoes.