It’s a dilemma we seem to face in the spring: Do we ski and snowboard or seek low elevation areas where it’s dry and warm enough to get our motorsports fix. This year, we chose to get our fix.
Having had a lackluster winter with less snow than normal, the mountains are still buried under feet of snow in most places, leaving the elevated areas where we ride our dirt bikes still stuck in winter mode. So, with lingering snowdrifts, freak storms and deep mud facing any trek into our local mountains, a warmer place to the west began to call us.
We decided to head to a place that rarely sees snow and has become a winter and spring riding destination. That place is called Saddle Mountain, which lies smack dab in the Washington Palouse in the middle of Washington State. To the passerby, or someone perusing satellite imagery, the area looks like a vast wasteland of scrub brush, rocks and the occasional sand dune. To some, the area’s only redeeming feature is the mighty Columbia River that carves its way through the expansive desert on its way to the Pacific Ocean; or the rolling hills blanketed with apple orchards.
However, to us dirt bikers, this area — with its sunshine and mild temperatures — is an escape from the bipolar weather of Idaho. While generally quite rocky, there is something for everyone here. From tight single tracks through basalt-lined canyons to flowing ridgeline trails and massive 750-foot tall sand dune hill climbs. The views over the sprawling scablands and adjacent Columbia River are nothing to complain about either.
Early March had arrived. I, along with my dad Dave Celentano and friends Ben Farnsworth and Ben Read, loaded the truck and headed west from our homes in North Idaho to the arid desert where Saddle Mountain lies.
Once we dropped down to the Columbia River and passed under the Vantage Bridge, we knew we were getting close. A short drive through the quiet agricultural town of Mattawa led us through a couple miles of apple orchards and then into the desert scrubland and mountains.
Getting out of the truck, we were greeted with sunshine and pleasant 55-degree temperatures; a far cry from the 20-degree temps and clouds almost 200 miles back home. Another surprising discovery was the presence of tens of thousands of honeybees buzzing about, investigating every surface they could get to on the truck, trailer, bikes and gear. It was a clear sign winter was over in the area. We quickly unloaded the bikes, started them, warmed them up, and got changed into our riding gear.
As the air filled with the sounds and smells of two and four stroke engines waking from their winter slumbers, I was reminded of my long and storied history with this incredible sport.
It was 1992 or 1993. I was 4 years old, and my dad came home with a 1979 Honda Z50 that he had purchased from a friend. I hadn’t been riding a bicycle without training wheels for long, but somehow he knew I was ready to start down the path into the motorsports world. To this day, I can still remember one of my earliest memories of riding up and down the sidewalk in front of our house on a cold, rainy day, putting ever so slowly on that mini-bike afraid to shift into a taller gear and increase my speed outside of my newly formed comfort zone.
From that point forward though, I was hooked. I ate, slept and breathed dirt biking. Many of my school projects as a child centered on my participation in this incredible sport. I started racing enduros and Hare Scrambles, which are off-road races on long courses through technical terrain, when I was about 7 years old. I continued racing, often alongside my dad, until I was a teenager.
My dad started riding dirt bikes when he was very young as well, sometime back in the late 60’s. It’s fair to say that for my dad, and for me, dirt biking has shaped who we are and how we view the world. This is, in part, due to access to some of the most wild, beautiful and remote places imaginable. With a little determination and a lot of practice, dirt bikes can be used to propel a rider through incredibly challenging terrain to places that simply must be seen to be appreciated. We have said many times that our trips into the mountains on these machines could easily be equated to a religious experience.
I remember as a child following my dad wherever he led me, deep into the mountains to what I now can remember as some of the most awe-inspiring views I have ever witnessed. With that came plenty of tears and frustration as he challenged me, sometimes mercilessly, to tackle and conquer the terrain that would one day become easy for me. At the same time that he was training me to become a proficient and competitive rider, he was also teaching me that hard work and determination does pay off, no matter how frustrating it can be.
I remember several occasions where he would make me climb and then descend an extremely steep hill on my bike repeatedly; if I sat down and took my feet off of the foot pegs needlessly, he would threaten to take the seat off of my bike and make me ride the rest of the day without it. Years ago, I dreaded hearing those words. That training quickly paid off, and I was soon able to ride at an expert level even as a child.
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Fast-forward 20 to 25 years, we are older, wiser and still highly competitive. My dad is now a 62-year-old cancer survivor, and yet somehow he still dominates guys half his age on a dirt bike. It blows my mind that a guy missing half a lung can go out and ride with so much speed and skill. As a father myself now, I also have a growing family. With that has come much less time to ride, but dirt biking is still a major part of who I am. I cherish the times my dad and I get to ride together, and we are making a push to make even more time to ride like we used to.
The anticipation and excitement for the day’s adventures was palpable. Dad, Ben F., Ben R. and I hurriedly readied ourselves and, with nearly limitless options, chatted about which direction to head first.
We decided to warm up toward the eastern side of Saddle Mountain and make a general beeline for the summit of Sentinel Peak. After a few miles of riding along at a comfortable pace, and multiple mild hill climbs, we arrived at the top. We rode to the edge of a sharp precipice that dropped 1,000 feet down to the Beverly Dunes and the Columbia River.
The views are endless and absolutely awe-inspiring. It felt like we were sitting on the edge of the world. Despite what some would call desolate and ugly, the desert has its own unique beauty and can certainly be appreciated. Where else can a person ride a dirt bike to the top of a mountain in the middle of the desert, look down on the largest river west of the Mississippi, and spot looming Mt. Rainier in the distance?
After taking in the expansive views of the valley below us, we decided to find our way down to the base so we could ride the dunes that make up the northwest edge of the Saddle Mountain Recreation Area. The trail down was extremely technical and rocky; I was quickly reminded of my dad’s lessons to me as a kid and his threats to remove my seat if I sat down. I laughed to myself inside my helmet and throttled the bike down the boulder-strewn trail toward the bottom, floating over the rocks and rough terrain with the guys quickly following behind. Once we reached the bottom, we were greeted by a vast expanse of sand dunes and massive sand hills.
The games were on as we all pushed our bikes to the limit riding through the seemingly bottomless dry sand and up the impossibly steep hills. After at least an hour of playing around in the sand, we decided it was time to head back up to the truck to refuel and have lunch.
In my dad’s classic style, he claimed he was going to take it easy on the daunting trail back up; I should have known better. Almost immediately upon getting onto the trail from the dunes, he was in his element and took off, climbing the rocky trail with effortless speed and style. There was nothing we could do to catch him and he left us in the dust. I will still argue that he only beat me because I had a 40-pound pack full of camera equipment on my back all day.
By the time we reached the top, he was already off his bike and sitting in the shade wearing an ear-to-ear grin. We all caught our breath and laughed about how he just dominated a bunch of 30-somethings at our own game. From the top, we picked our way back across the numerous ridgelines and canyons toward the staging area where food and fuel waited. On the way, I couldn’t help but get my revenge for him expertly “yarding” us on the big climb. On one particularly long and steep downhill, I flew past my dad knowing that he would be laughing at me “getting froggy,” as he always put it, and challenging him. I raced to the bottom of the hill with him in hot pursuit, this time holding him off until the end.
When we reached the bottom of the hill, we were connected to the beginning of one of Saddle Mountain’s famous single-track canyons. We raced down the narrow, rock-filled canyon until it terminated at two very large hill climbs that would take us up to the road. Ben R. and Ben F. took off in a cloud of dust and sand. My dad and I charged up the hill next, reaching the top on adjacent trails simultaneously. Seconds later and back at the trucks, we sat eating lunch with the honeybees and swapping stories.
Many of my fondest memories have come from the time I have spent with my dad, and friends in the mountains on dirt bikes. This day was certainly one to add to the memory bank. Riding somewhere new just made the experience that much more memorable. While Dad and I do not race competitively any longer, we still maintain that inner competitiveness between the two of us. I hope that with my dad’s help and that freshly restored 1979 Honda Z50, some of those same powerful lessons he taught me can be instilled in my daughter when she turns 4 in a couple of years. After all, the torch must be passed. n
Story & Photography By Chris Celentano
As Featured In Summer/Fall 2021