Would You Like Weed With That?

I live on Vancouver Island, British Columbia, a locale renowned for the cultivation of a certain recreational herb of which I have been known to partake on occasion. And, while I knew there were a lot of hippies in California, I never imagined there was a place that topped B.C. in terms of marijuana abundance and acceptability until I rode my bicycle through Humboldt County.

Willie

My first hint of the industry driving the area came to light in the tiny town of Orick, just a few miles south of Elk Prairie. I had spent the previous night hanging at the campground with Willie, another solo cycle tourist from Kansas who I had already run into in Oregon.  In the morning, we began talking about possible camping options for the night.  Willie mentioned he had a friend we might be able to crash with in Arcata, about 40 miles down the road. Since I was already ready to go, we decided to meet up in Orick and cycle together from there. As I sat outside the grocery store waiting to flag Willie down, I struck up a conversation with a woman who was helping some teenagers run a bake sale.

I soon found out that this woman and her partner had made the colossal move from the glitzy metropolis of Los Angeles to the nothing town of Orick only a few years back.  Now, I understand the desire to get out life in the fast lane as much as anyone, but Orick hardly embodies the peace and beauty of the countryside - its more like a dying mill town off the highway.

"Do you have family here? Come out for a job?"  I ventured.

"Nope, just wanted to get away from it all, and bought the house on a whim."

Being my curious self, I inquired as to what people in the area do for a living. My friend replied without hesitation that the county was primarily driven by the marijuana industry.  She explained that this occupation was viewed as entirely socially acceptable, since the money it generated funded essential services such as schools. I dared not question my friend's level of personal involvement in this prosperous economy, but if she wasn't in the weed business, I don't know what she was doing out there.

Willie's friends' backyard

The ubiquitousness of the good green was confirmed in Arcata, a town characterized by a bizarre culture of paranoid pot farmers - hippie rednecks as some of Willie's friends like to put it. As Willie and I approached the town on backcountry roads and bike paths (a nice break from the highway), we encountered a boisterous group of local cyclists, who gave us the lowdown on the town.

"It's a little confusing. You see, Arcata was designed by stoners..." the spiel began. Oh boy.

Willie's friend turned out to be a weed trimmer, a common and lucrative job in Arcata. The house she lived in with a revolving line up of five other friends was scattered with the haphazard artifacts of transitive 20-somethings - a comforting throwback to my undergraduate days. I happily set up my tent in their backyard, amidst the ducks, garden, other camping guests and Junkyard Dog, the house rooster.   It felt so good to be welcomed into a house teeming with music, books and good smells that I was tempted to abandon all my goals for the afternoon and just hang out (the stoner mentality was apparently already infiltrating, despite my not having smoked a puff).

But the planning part of my brain prevailed.  For one thing, my pedal had been making a mystery noise all day, and I wanted to take the opportunity to look into it while staying in town.  Laundry was also definitely in order.  I lured myself away from the many jarred varieties of ganja on offer (like water from the faucet, one of the roommates assured me) and headed into town to take care of business.

After passing multiple head shops, I arrived at the recommended bike shop and explained the trouble I was having. I was promptly informed that it would cost almost as much money, and take more time, to service my pedal than to simply buy new ones.  Given this situation, I decided to splurge on a set of multi-purpose pedals, with one flat side and one clipless side.  This was an option I had wanted for a while anyways; wearing bike cleats to go clubbing in Portland was kind of a drag.

Since I was on a spending roll, I proceeded to take myself out for sushi - a special treat after weeks of rice and beans. To polish dinner  off, I hit up the frozen yogurt bar across the street, piling more candy and fruit into my bowl than yogurt to get the most bang for my buck. Satiated, I picked up my laundry from the laundromat and phoned Willie's friend Mulligan (poor girl- her parents did not know about the golf thing when they named her) to get directions to the Redwood Curtain Brewing Company where the roommies were all hanging out.

I listened with uncertainty as Mulligan attempted to describe a beige and brown complex tucked away on the side of a windy road.  It turns out Arcata has a lot of big warehouse-like spaces - surprise, surprise.  Eventually I saw a row of what looked like military barracks, and pulled up to what I was sure was some sort of garage...until I saw the bar, and giant vats of beer.  Between the atmosphere, tasty in-house brews, and unlimited free goldfish crackers, this pub was a winner.

The next morning I was once again affected by the pot smoke in the air. After saying my goodbyes to Willie and his friends, I made my way down the hill upon which they lived towards town.  As I reached the bottom, I thought it might be wise to do a mental double-check that I had everything (why I don't think of this before I leave houses and bike down hills I really don't know).

In my non-cycling life this is a perpetual problem - so much so that I've built losing things into my budget. My record has improved significantly on this trip, since I don't have very many things with me, and the things I have I do have I use on a daily basis. It's also pretty easy to check a patch of grass to make sure you didn't leave anything. But as my mother will tell you, given the opportunity to spread my things out, I will. As such, the shared hippie house in Arcata completely screwed me up, or at least that's my excuse. Needless to say, as I stood at the bottom of the hill I soon realized I had indeed forgotten something - my awesome all-purpose sandals. Back up the hill I went. "Just kidding!" I yelled as I re-entered the house.  There is nothing more awkward than unexpectedly meeting again right after saying a drawn out goodbye.

Back down the hill I went, but this time I was slightly smarter; I stopped earlier before realizing I had also forgotten my water bottles. Smoothe, Dana, smoothe. I may have been able to pass off my first reappearance as cute, but the second time around was just painful.  At least I was getting a good warm up.

Once I finally managed to leave town, I got in the zone fast, riding down the highway on a wide flat shoulder. After passing through Eureka, I decided to take a break from the highway by following one of the alternative routes suggested in the guidebook. This brought me to the town of Loleta, best known for dairy farming, as I gathered from the smell in the air and the poop in my cleats. Crap, I should have known that wasn't mud.

I dared not venture off the beaten path again after the manure incident. Luckily, the suggested bike route was about to exit highway 101 for the avenue of the giants, a stunning two-lane corridor through the redwoods, similar to the descent into Elk Prairie. Tiny towns revolving entirely around tree tourism lined the road. Attractions included a cable car ride around the forest, a living tree house, a tree cathedral (trees enclosed in a semi-circle), at least two "big trees" (giants among the giants), an "immortal tree" that had survived axe, fire and flood, and a drive-through tree. Walking through the aisles of a gift shop in a town of 200, I shyly inquired whether there might be a library or internet cafe somewhere along this road.  "Ha," the man at the counter chuckled, "you're in the redwoods. You'd be lucky to find a computer."

In the middle of this quiet beauty lay my campsite, one of my favourites of the trip.  In addition to the wonder of the redwoods, I met some cool people that night, including Ty, a very fit older asian man with a young soul, and Justin, a future cycling companion.

Although California state parks match Oregon in natural beauty, they lose big in the information and services department. Due to a series of recent budget cuts, many of the parks are being cut back or closed early (hence my Crescent City experience).  I could have dealt with the lack of soap in the bathroom and exorbitant amount of quarters needed to take a shower, if only there was some sure way to find out what parks were actually closed.  Unfortunately, park rangers were generally unsure of anything beyond the park they were working at, and when I called california state parks, the unclear wording of the website was simply recited to me over the phone. Other cyclists had conflicting information, depending on the source they had consulted.

As a result of this confusion, I came to believe that Standish Hickey, the next state park on the route, was likely closed (turns out that while most of the park was closed, the hiker biker site was still open).  With this in mind,  I decided to aim for Richardson Grove State Park (under 40 miles away), make it a short cycling day, and use the extra time to catch up on my blog. I got an early start the next morning and hoofed it 30 miles to the town of Garberville, where I spent a whopping $28 to use the internet for a couple of hours. Before leaving town I stopped in at the visitors' centre to ask if I could use their bathroom, as the one at the cafe was out of order. They informed me that there were no public washrooms, but that if I patronized a local business, I could use theirs.  What a joke. I rode back out onto the highway and peed in the bushes.

Garberville had all of the essential
services. 

Just as I was nearing the park I planned to stay at for the evening, I ran into Katie and Brent, on their way to Standish Hickey. I gave them the information I had and they decided to follow me to Richardson Grove, hoping to be able to ask about Standish Hickey when we got there. Of course, when we arrived, there was nobody there to ask.  Not cool, California, not cool. In the end we all decided to stay put.

At the hiker biker site, we ran into Justin, whom I introduced to Katie and Brent. After setting up our tents, we caught up on everything that had happened to us since our last meeting. Katie and Brent easily won the contest with their tale of cycling the Lost Coast, the most undeveloped stretch of coastline in California. According to Katie, it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. This, however, could not compensate for the insanity of the terrain - a series of steep mountains that made mount constitution look like a lunch break.  No wonder this road was not recommended for cycling (never mind cycling with fully loaded bikes).

Justin with his homemade flag

Our friends' willingness to subject their thighs to torture, however, paid off in some unforgettable adventures. I thought I had seen something of the Humboldt County culture in Arcata, but the lost coast was a level beyond. They had their own currency! Before long Katie and Brent hooked up with a friendly dahlia farmer who took them to a local food festival, showered them with dubies, and somewhat sketchily drove them out of the wild mountains and back to civilization.  I have to admit I was a little jealous.

For dinner, the four of us decided to go potluck. This would allow us to have several vegetables in a single meal! It got a little squirrely when Justin dropped the tortellini in the dirt, but he managed to salvage it with some fastidious rinsing. We even found a plastic bottle of jaggermeister in the food cache. Score.

Katie and Brent tucked in early, while I helped Justin to sew a flag for his trailer out of stick and a fluorescent piece of tarp he had found on the road.  It wasn't pretty but it did the trick. At a certain point you stop caring how you look as long as people can see you (hence the dorky orange safety vest I began to don around week three).  We did not stay up late; the dreaded Leggett hill, highest peak on the entire coastal route, was coming up the following day, and everyone was eager to rest up.  It was time to put away the bong and get serious.

Up in Smoke,

Dana

P.S. Just kidding about the bong. Who would carry that on a bike trip?