We were the only guests that weekend at Buckhorn Springs, and when we walked our bikes around the gate spanning the driveway, it felt like we were entering a private garden. The drainage narrowed as we followed Emigrant Creek up toward Soda Mountain, and there was a wonderful sense of enclosure that I miss in the wide Bear Creek Valley.
Beyond Emigrant Lake, we turned off the pavement and climbed into the foothills. After we ate, the Central Ashland Bike Path carried us smoothly through town.
Any meal is better when it's refueling a recent effort. By the time we reached Ashland, we were ready for lunch, and we found an open table by Ashland Creek on the first warm Saturday of the year. The orchards were pink and white, and Bear Creek was flowing fast and clear. We got a leisurely start on a Saturday morning, riding the Greenway south through the valley. The reminder I needed came in the form of a brief and perfect weekend trip my wife planned to Buckhorn Springs. It's felt like a long winter and I've been pretty pragmatic about my bike. That's changed substantially in the years since, and despite my own long-standing affection for all things two-wheeled, I recently needed a reminder from my wife that bikes, before all else, are fun. She meant that she viewed it as a form of transportation, and nothing more. "I think of my bike as a very small bus," my wife told me shortly after we met.
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