Before I continue, I think it’s important to make it known that I myself am not a mountain biker. During the summer you’ll find me with a fly rod in hand most days, wading rivers and searching for trout. I reached out to learn more about Mountain Bike Oregon (known as MBO by frequent attendees) in hopes of creating a story and was warmly invited by the owners of the event, Daniella and Elliott Crowder, to personally attend and document what I saw. I accepted and packed my bags for a long weekend in Westfir. I went into the event expecting to find a regular outdoor festival full of demo bikes, a little beer, and some food trucks—but what I found was much more than that. This three-day gathering has created a close-knit community of mountain bikers who love Westfir and the surrounding area enough to come back here every year to reconnect and enjoy the outdoor opportunities they find in the region. What makes this event particularly interesting, however, is the fact that the party doesn’t end once the sun goes down. One part mountain bike adventure and one part Burning Man festival, it’s an experience unlike any other in the region.

Mountain Bike Oregon began in earnest 20 years ago. What started as a small group of mountain bikers descending upon Westfir has evolved into something much larger than was probably imagined in the beginning. For a while, the event was more of a bro-fest than a festival, but as each year passed, the shape of MBO began to slowly but surely form. When Daniella and Elliott purchased the event in 2016, they aimed to hone it in even further. “It was definitely a dudes’ event,” Daniella told me later, but as the original attendees grew up and began having families, the focus changed a little.

The Crowders understood the mission given to them from a diehard pack of MBO fans and have been working hard to make the ride-fest more inclusive to riders of all ages, families, and genders. This focus in particular is what inspired Daniella to create the women’s ride clinics, which have quickly become an important piece of what happens at MBO. These clinics were created to provide a space for women to feel comfortable while they learn new skills in the company of other women. They found almost immediate success, and attendance to the clinics is growing every year. The goal was to eventually be able to fill one of the school buses used to shuttle riders with women attendees, and in 2024 they achieved it. As MBO continues to grow and pick up big-name sponsors like The People’s Coast, who are coming up on their second year of sponsorship, the fun for riders of all ages, shapes, and sizes is going to grow exponentially. That’s the vibe I arrived at as I researched what I was getting myself into, anyway. And as I drove from Eugene to Westfir, I had a feeling I was in for a treat.

I arrived at MBO on Friday. As I made my way across the covered bridge, I was directed to pull into the field where another handful of cars were parked. When I stepped out onto the already yellow grass, the heat pressed against my face immediately. This year, the transition to warmer weather had arrived early, and temperatures were expected to hover in the high 80s for the duration of the event. The drier weather arriving early isn’t a new problem at MBO. The event used to take place in August, but after a blaze engulfed large sections of local mountain biking trails just days after they wrapped up, it was moved to June to try and reduce the risk of fire to guests. The heat didn’t seem to be bothering a group of women taking part in a women’s clinic near the cars. They were practicing moving their bikes over a step-up, simulating pedaling through a rocky piece of trail.

A group of women take part in one of the women’s skill camp courses

MBO offers shuttle services twice each day, once in the morning and again after lunch. I had worked a half-day at my regular job before heading to Westfir, and when I arrived, most of the bikers were still gone on their morning adventures. I made my way to the guest services table to say hello and try to find Daniella and her then-communications director, Melanie Fisher. They were radioed over and showed up on their bikes. They had been taking a quick break while there was a lull in the activities but were happy to come over and say hello. Daniella and Melanie both wore brightly colored clothing and were all smiles after having a moment to ride. They ran the event, but they were still mountain bikers at heart too, after all. As they showed me around the rattle of the bridge caught my attention, and I realized the biker shuttles were coming back. School buses, mini buses, vans, and trucks all made their way into Portal Park, and in a matter of minutes, the whole place was filled with hoots, hollers, and a plethora of multicolored bikes, helmets, and gear as riders unloaded.

As people offloaded the buses, I watched some of the riders make their way towards one of the large awnings that had been taped off specifically for MBO guides. These guides form the backbone of MBO and come from all over the country, volunteering their time to show other people around the world-class trail systems that have been created in the area. Becoming a full-fledged guide for MBO takes time; if you’re going to be leading people around in the woods, you have to know your stuff. The process isn’t easy, but it guarantees attendees of every skill level will have a great time getting shown around. Most of the guides are there nearly every year, and have become a large family of over 70 riders who use MBO as a way to reconnect with one another.

At the center of that family is a man named Tacoma. Tacoma had been underneath the awning with a few other people who were performing all sorts of mountain biking logistics when I first arrived. Sporting a long beard, a metal band t-shirt, and a handful of radios, he’s the all-seeing eye who watches over the guides and their guests during their rides. He’s been making the trip to attend MBO since 2011, and after several years as both an attendee and guide, he took on the role of trail guide team director. It’s no small responsibility managing the huge pool of guides; that day, he was in communication with 72 of them, all at different points on different trails. “The guide team is my family, and getting to make sure everyone gets back here safely is great,” he told me. He’s an integral part of the festival now, even helping to design the trail packages that attendees choose from. He’s been around so long he even has a swimming hole named after him in Portal Park. In the words of the man himself: “if you’ve been to ‘Tacoma’s Hole,’ you’ll know!”

While Tacoma directed the returning guides onto their next assignments, the buses began filling with bikers heading out for their afternoon rides. Others lined up at a lunch cart that was passing out food. Even more rode off to their camping spot in the field to relax, grab a beer, and dip their feet in the river. Riders on the bus cheered as they rolled out, and before long, the park was quiet once again. It wouldn’t be that way for long, though. As the sun began to dip lower in the sky, the riders returned to mill around the large event tent located in the center of the camping area. The riding was over, but the fun was only beginning; tonight, there was going to be a silent disco.

Silent discos have always been hit or miss with me. To be honest, I almost didn’t attend. However, the DJ was in a local band that my brother loved, and he had encouraged me to check it out. As I walked up to where the disco party was going to take place, I passed by a group of kids, some small and some not so small, launching themselves off a series of ramps and landing softly on some sort of airbag system I had never seen before. Their parents and friends hooped and hollered as I walked into the warm night air past them toward the tent.

I arrived at the communal tent space, which was already occupied with people handing out headsets to others dressed in green wigs, light-up clothing, and go-go boots. The DJ arrived at his booth and let us know that there would be three channels of music to choose from: a channel dedicated to classic yacht rock jam tunes, one for rap and hip-hop, and another that featured a live set being performed right in front of us. I grabbed my headphones and tuned into the DJ set, a wild mix of earthy electronic music; something truly unique.

I made my way through bobbing heads to the beer station, which was manned by volunteers from a local mountain bike club and nonprofit named Disciples of Dirt. For attendees, beer is free, and tipping is highly encouraged. Why tip? Well, for one, it’s the right thing to do in these United States of America. But additionally, the entire tip jar goes to whatever volunteer outdoor group is manning the station that night. This puts your cash right back into the local outdoor communities of Westfir and Oakridge.

The night got longer, the music got deeper, and after a few beverages, I found myself bouncing up and down with a hundred other like-minded folks having a good time. People spun light sticks, and their outfits shimmered and glowed under the lights from the DJ booth that projected out into the space. At some point I heard a loud thumping over the music. I turned around just in time to see Tacoma, shirtless except for a metallic sequined blazer, riding in the back of a 4x4 blasting his own entry music from two man-sized speakers along for the ride.

The next day, I crawled out of my tent and into the heat in search of breakfast. I was hungry (and maybe a little hungover), and I could smell the sausage and eggs from where I stood. MBO attendees get a free breakfast and lunch each day as part of the ticket purchase, and it felt good knowing I wasn’t going to be searching for food long that morning. As I made my way up to the food cart that was cooking up the grub, I passed the same group of kids from the night before, already practicing jumps on the airbags with their coach. Those dedicated kids, who probably already have more experience than some of the adult riders I met, are the next mountain bike pros. I’m sure I’ll see them in some killer mountain bike edit one day doing things I couldn’t dream of.

Today, I was told, I was in for a treat. I would be accompanying Melanie to the Alpine Trail to get a firsthand look at the mountain bikers and have the opportunity to snap some photos in the woods. Getting some photographs of mountain bikers in their natural habitat was on my shortlist of things I wanted to accomplish while I was there, so I was excited to finally see where the riders had been shuttling to.

Each day at MBO, riders choose from eight different “packages” that determine where they’ll be riding in the morning and afternoon. Alpine is a flowy piece of singletrack trail that many people choose to ride, and a classic in the Oakridge-Westfir area. It meanders from up high in the West Cascades downward over loamy soil and through thick groves of Douglas fir. It’s also one of the closer trails to the festival, and was an easy access point for us.

I offered to drive, so Melanie hopped into the passenger seat of my Subaru, and we rattled over the bridge and into the woods. The car continued to rattle as we drove the eight miles up graded Forest Service roads until we finally arrived near a midway point on Alpine that offered some good opportunities for photos. We made chit-chat for a while as we waited, interrupted by some distant shouting.

The riders appeared in groups of one and two, flowing out of the woods above to reconvene on the road before diving back in. The piece of singletrack they arrived on ripped through the woods and offered the chance to air out onto the road. Watching the bikers tear down the mountain and seeing how much fun they were having suddenly made me understand the appeal of what I was seeing. I wondered how long it would take me to ride down Alpine with any style. As the groups paused along the road, I got a small look at how the guides managed their guests. Everyone was checked in on, minor injuries were addressed, and once everyone was ready, they took a deep breath and dove back into the forest.

As the last groups of riders departed from the road, we made our way back to the car and to our weekend home across the bridge. It was lunch time when we arrived back, so I grabbed my brown bag and wandered around watching groups of guides and bikers eat and recount their epic morning rides. I also took the opportunity to head to the Westfir Lodge and grab something cold from their store. The rooms were booked solid that weekend, but the owner was nice enough to shoot the breeze with me while I cooled off inside the store for a moment. The weather outside had not let up from the day before; it was just as hot, if not hotter, than when I had arrived.

I crept back out into the noonday sun and watched the shuttle buses head out for afternoon rides. After they departed, I made the decision to head up to Oakridge and find some shade at another event happening that weekend: The Bus Fair. Each year, people who have built out buses big and small travel from all over to come together in Oakridge and show off their rides (or homes). Although it wasn’t the reason I was there that weekend, I can tell you it’s an experience that’s deserving of a story unto itself, and you, the reader, should plug “Bus Fair Oakridge, Oregon” into your phone to find out more. Ultimately, I stayed in Oakridge long enough to cool off, but after the silent disco the night before, I knew I had to get back before the festivities began that evening to see what I could get up to.

When the sun began to sink low in the sky on Saturday, people started to congregate once more around the communal tent. The first event of the evening was a raffle, where mountain biking equipment, swag, and tools for trail clearing were doled out among the attendees. The raffle was a nice start to the evening and also served another purpose: to fuel the stoke for what came next. Once the last gift was given, groups of men, women, and children donned their helmets and prepared to take on the roughest and rowdiest event of MBO: the mini-bike race.

Minis are small bikes. Really small bikes. Meant for children, the ones I saw here had a higher calling that destined them to be part of this annual MBO tradition. While everyone had been away during the day, a course made of red tape had been set up that veered in and out of the tent. Names were called, waivers were signed, and the first round of full-grown adults positioned themselves for takeoff at the starting line. The signal was given, and the racers took off, bravely pedaling their mini-bikes into the cheering crowds. Knees knocked, shoulders bumped, and traction of the mini-bike tires gave way to the weight of the riders, sending many sliding out around the hairpin turns. Round after round of racers lined up to take on the perilous course in the heat of the late evening, each vying for bragging rights for the night to come. Eventually, after several heats, a winner in each division—men, women, and children—was crowned and anointed by the crowd as the year’s mini-bike champions. It was a set of races for the ages, and the winners had the bruises to prove it.

The sun finally dipped behind the West Cascades, and the champions returned to the crowd and the beer cart to enjoy the company of their friends and bounce along to the tunes of the band that was playing that night. Donned in fruit costumes, the local trio played with a funky jam sound that rang all throughout the campground and the mountains above into the late hours of the night. The bikers danced to the music and howled at the moon above, thankful for the cool of the night, the free brews, and for another day of riding through the forests of the West Cascades.

The next morning, Sunday, was my planned exit from MBO, along with most of the riders. The weekend was drawing to a close, and so was the festival. The fun had to end at some point, I supposed. Stepping out of my tent into the predawn air, I saw my breath as I exhaled. It almost made me forget that we were in the middle of a heatwave. I had woken up earlier than most to try and get some fly fishing in a little further north on the Aufderheide Scenic Byway before the weekend ended, and most of the riders were still asleep. The hum of the generator from the breakfast cart was the only sound I heard while I folded up my tent. I walked up hoping some of the food was ready, and they were kind enough to gift me my breakfast before I left. I will be forever grateful for those who cook in the early hours of the morning for the rest of us. I finished packing up, took another big breath of the cool air, and slowly made my way across the covered bridge one last time.

While I was standing in the water of the North Fork, I thought about what I had just witnessed. The weekend had flown by, but so much happened. There’s no way I caught it all. Then I thought of the people who come back year after year, and the wonderful community that MBO has nurtured for over two decades. How many years does it take to see everything there is to see at an event like that? I’m unsure. For me, it was an amazing experience, the likes of which I might not have again, and one that I did my best to document. For those who attend year after year, it’s a family reunion, a return to their roots for the love of their sport, and a chance to see something they might have missed the year before. For people like Tacoma, it’s a life’s work; seeing the event grow and change, taking part in it at every level, and serving as an ambassador of a truly unique group of outdoorspeople. I cast my line, and wonder what MBO will be like next year.

Mountain Bike Oregon: WestFir’s Burning Man

The Oakridge Trails Alliance: A Legacy of Stewardship and Resilience