You Say Goodbye, I Say Hello

California: a new world. The views of waves crashing into rocky bluffs were quickly replaced by miles of flat farmland as Chris and I rode past the border.  It was our final day of biking together; after running some errands in Crescent City (about 20 miles south of the border) Chris was headed inland, looping back to his home in Portland through the Oregon interior. This was a path less traveled. Chris had traced the route out himself via google mapquest - a series of grueling passes which made the Oregon coast look like a light warm up. The first stretch of the journey, however, remained a bit unknown to Chris, and he was hoping to obtain some more information about it in Crescent City.

Crescent City lighthouse

One would think that the town visitor centre would be the perfect place to go in this situation. Having frequented many a visitor centre on my way down the coast, however, I was considerably more skeptical. Apart from a very helpful spot just across the bridge in Astoria, these brochure-filled booths seemed to be manned mainly by grandmothers with extra time on their hands, but precious little actual knowledge.  One woman in Washington was stumped by the population of her own town, despite having lived there, and worked at the visitors' centre, for 20 years (she did, however, manage to procure a phonebook).   When I asked another information centre attendant about the town community centre, she told me to inquire at the gas station down the street. Camping options 50 miles down the road was usually a long shot.The Crescent City centre proved no better; Chris was unable to glean much useful information from his stop there, relying instead on a map I had purchased, somewhat ironically, in his hometown of Portland.

I planned to end the day at a state park just 6 miles south of the city. This would allow me plenty of time to have lunch, pick up groceries and use the library before leaving town - or so I thought.

After a leisurely patio meal, Chris and I finally said our goodbyes, knowing there would be no further campground reunions this time around. I headed off to the library for some quality blogging time. Emerging from the world wide web two hours later, I decided to make a quick stop at the grocery outlet- a favourite American discovery of mine (who can resist havarti at a quarter of the price?!) - before completing the day's ride. As I roamed the aisles of bizarrely branded tuna cans and knock off candy, I heard a familiar voice behind me: "It's always so nice to run into other cyclists..." Chris.

We chatted for a bit, catching up on the three whole hours we had been apart. Chris told me he had decided to stay in a motel in town for the evening, so that he could finish running his errands and make a plan for the next leg of his trip.  By the time I left the grocery store it was nearing 5:30pm, but I wasn't too worried, figuring I could knock off six miles in well under an hour. What I didn't take into account was that those six miles were straight up one of the highest peaks on the coast... As I approached the hill I saw my first Elk, hanging out on the highway. Not long afterward, I found myself shrouded in fog and surrounded by the magnificent California Redwoods I had heard so much about. Unfortunately, the cold, hill, encroaching darkness and poor visibility made it difficult to fully appreciate the wonders of the forest, instilling more fear of logging trucks than enchantment with nature. Not to mention the fact that I was just about out of water.Where was this campground anyways, and how high was this hill? I was starting to have flashbacks of Mount Constitution.

 

 Finally, the blessed brown sign that indicates a state park came into view. Thank god, I muttered to myself - just another 2 miles down a steep hill off the highway and I'd be at the campground.  As I approached, however, a panel below the sign appeared through the fog, suspiciously like previous panels I'd seen stating that a park was CLOSED.  No, it couldn't be. Not now, after climbing all this way. It's probably nothing. CLOSED. Uh oh.

As you can imagine, I was not a happy camper (or non-camper, as the case was). Before getting into too much of a tizzy, I decided to at least ride over to the gate and investigate. A white truck pulled up on the other side of the gate, and I had a glimmer of hope that it might contain a merciful park ranger who would have take pity on a weary and ill-prepared cyclist such as myself. No such luck. It turned out to be a woman who worked next door and was permitted to take showers at the site.  She duly informed me that the park was closed for the season, and that my best option was probably to head back into town. I tried to play up my distress in hopes that she would offer a little more help; she told me she would give me a ride but that she was prohibited from doing so (by who, I'm not sure).


Had the campsite been just after the gate I may have simply gone around it and tried my luck, but I was not about to ride downhill for two miles only to get booted out by rangers, or to find that the taps had been turned off, especially after my last closed park experience. Stealth camping was also out of the question given my lack of water, and not an option I felt all that comfortable with anyways. Slowly, I began to accept my fate. I was going to have to ride all the way back down this monster of a hill and find a room in Crescent City, only to wake up the next morning and do the whole thing again. Fuck.

I texted Chris to let him know what had happened, and that I was coming back to town, then proceeded to strap on every high visibility item I had with me to undo the last hour of hard work in five thrilling minutes. I arrived at the travelodge where Chris was staying shortly afterwards.  Feeling frustrated and somewhat scatterbrained, I explained my situation to the Taiwanese woman at the counter, who responded with sympathy and assurances that it would be a piece of pie the second time around. I was going to do it twice, within twenty four hours, she exclaimed encouragingly, hinting that this would allow me to show up all the other cyclists. Her kindness and humour helped to lift my spirits. Chris gave me a consolitory hug and helped me to carry my bike up to the room I had paid for. The prospect of vegging in front of the T.V. for the night was starting not to seem so bad. I might even find out a little bit about what was happening in the big old world out there.

After wallowing in bed for a while, I went out in search of apple pie, languishing away the rest of the evening writing in a cafe. The following morning Chris and I went out for a big breakfast, for our umpteenth goodbye.  We said farewell somewhat halfheartedly, finding it difficult to believe that it was the real thing this time (even though it was) or perhaps just tired of going through the same old  routine. I looked up at the hill to come, put my head down, and started pedaling. Here we go again.

Your champion mountain climber,

Dana