Coast or Bust

It took me 3 days to bike from Olympia out to the Pacific Coast.  What I remember most is the sweat.  Running down my face, sticking to my back, stinging in my eyes. Whoever thought of plucking eyebrows never went cycling in 40 degree heat, or else they would have understood what those bushy babies are good for.

 Needless to say it was hot. Not that I am complaining. As many of you know, I am a sun lover.  Given Victoria's recent pathetic excuse for a summer, it is especially gratifying to finally broil a bit.  Still, it's not always easy baking in mother nature's oven.

Statue of a logger in Raymond

For one thing, I have to wear sunscreen. Normally I would rely on my olive skin tone to save me from burns, while brashly ignoring the scientific fact that I am still at risk for skin cancer.  However, when it comes to sun exposure, 5 hours on the highway is significantly more intense than an hour on the beach.   This was confirmed when I finally saw myself naked in the mirror the other day, and thought that I still had clothes on.  I guess this means I have to put sunscreen on my legs too, huh? And here I thought I was doing the responsible thing by covering my face and shoulders.  Not that the extra application would  make a difference anyways - after all, the sunglasses tan (which actually just looked like I had dirt smeared on my nose) was just as bad as the bike short border.

Applying sunscreen is kind of a pain, but it would not be so bad if it weren't for the layer of sweat-sunscreen grime that inevitably ensues.  All you Ontarians know what I'm talking about. You go into an air-conditioned building on a hot day, and all of sudden you notice that you are covered by a sticky substance that feels like a pie crust and smells like a pina colada. As you move from hot to cold spaces multiple times, the crust layers actually build on top of each other until you can no longer tell where your skin ends and your crust begins.  In other words, you are gross.

Cape Disappointment Lighthouse

The flip side to the crust is how good it feels to finally wash it off at the end of the day.  One little habit that I have developed along this trip is to go swimming at the end of the day whenever I can.  The temperatures may be a little on the chilly side but nothing feels better after a full day of grime-building than a dip in the ocean (or river or lake!).


Unfortunately, apart from the less-than-pristine Lake Sylvia, the road out to the Coast did not abound with water sources, or any other signs of civilization for that matter (unless you count people who own RVs but don't know how to drive them).  What settlement there was was entirely based upon the timber industry.  The ride from Montesano to Raymond was particularly dominated by cut blocks and logging trucks.  Not to mention the loggers themselves, staring at me and my bike in total bewilderment from cafe windows. At one point I actually stared back and waved, thinking this would cause them to blush in embarassment. They just kept staring.

On the plus side, the lack of sights to see on this stretch of my journey led to significant progress in mileage. When your only resting option is at the side of the highway, it seems to make sense to just keep going.  Before I knew it, I had done 23 miles without stopping in a single morning.

Finally, as I rolled into Ilwaco on my third day, I began to smell the fishy sea mist and see the canneries appearing along the road.  That night I stayed at Cape Disappointment State Park, so named by Lewis and Clark, two pioneers of the Pacific Northwest who apparently did not enjoy their stay in the area.  In my opinion, however, disappointment,  is entirely the wrong word for the place.  Dripping in fog, shipwrecks and death, this park would be better described as sublimely eerie (as nature so often is).

In the morning, I woke up early and hiked down to one of the two lighthouses located in the park to help ships navigate the dangerous mouth of the Columbia River.  The forest was shrouded in thick fog.  As I walked the narrow path, it felt like it was raining all around me.  The fog eventually burned off and the views of the ocean were breathtaking. I was reminded of the magnificent temperate rainforest near Tofino on Vancouver Island.

My first tunnel

Around lunchtime, I packed up my gear and prepared for the final push to the Oregon border.  The ride was short, but two big challenges loomed: my first tunnel and the 5-mile-long bridge connecting the Coast of Washington to Astoria, Oregon.  Just in case I wasn't already sweating enough.

The tunnel was quick but utterly terrifying. Despite having pushed the button to let motorists know there was a bicycle in there, I pedaled my little heart out, vowing to buy the highest wattage rear light I could find should I survive.  On the other side, I stopped to recover only to catch my first glimpse of the notorious Astoria bridge.

 At this point I was enveloped by paranoia. "What was that wooshing noise my bike was making? Was my wheel going to blow? What if I got a flat tire on the bridge?  Holy god, that thing looks long.  I must be crazy."

Astoria Bridge

Trying not to hyperventilate, I approached the bridge.  Just as I was about to turn onto it, I noticed a sign warning of construction up ahead. So much for staying calm. As it turned out, however, the construction was a blessing in disguise. Near the side I started on, the bridge was down to one lane, which meant that cars from each side of the road had to slow down and take turns crossing over the part under construction.  As cars waited on my side, the person directing traffic let me go ahead, advising me to ride as fast as possible before he had to let my side go. No pressure.

Steep street in Astoria. A premonition of things to come?

The only thing to do was focus and pedal.  The construction workers cheered, the wind blew, a big-ass hill appeared out of nowhere 4 miles in, but my eye did not stray from that blessed white shoulder line nor my legs from their rhythm.  As I made my way across I thought of little Erik, who cried the entire way when he and his father biked over the bridge so many years ago. If a nine year old could do it, so could I.

To all the seamen who speak of how perilous it is to cross Columbia, I say this: if you think a ship is hard, try it on a bicycle.



Stickily Yours,

Dana

P.S.  Please note that I made a few corrections in my post about Whidbey Island (because I'm anal like that). For one thing, Veronika and Erik both spell their names with a "k" rather than a "c." Also, the surprise party was for Veronika's niece, not her sister.

P.P.S. My camera is being stupid, so no pictures this time.  Will add them as soon as I am able!!