Brews, Birds, and Bikes: The 48 Hour Portland Express, Part II

Some folks entertain themselves with dinner and a movie. Portlanders do things a little differently.  After all, why pay for Hollywood when you can see birds roosting for free!

Our next stop after the spectacle of the swifts was the Deschutes brewery.  I had already sampled a few Deschutes brews on Whidbey (and while bird-watching) and all had been excellent. Between the three of us, we ticked about 5 more off the menu. My favourite was the Conflux 2, which sounded like an operating system and tasted like a pine tree. The Wozenback with notes of sour cherry and bubble gum was also delicious.

Erik and Sasha getting married at the 24-hour Elvis wedding machine

It was around this time that I got drunk. Perhaps not a noteworthy event for some, but I'm a pretty sober girl these days, what with the biking down highways and all. Luckily I had excellent company, who were also rapidly losing their inhibitions. Inebriation loves company.

In my previous post, I listed some of the tempting eats Portland has to offer. But no culinary tour of the city would be complete without a food cart stop. When Erik first proposed this for dinner, I heard "food court" and was immediately overcome by a wave of bad mall memories.  He laughed, and I soon realized that this was an entirely different animal. Turns out Portland is teeming with chip-truck style food vendors which dish up everything from burgers to sushi and thai.  Now that's my kind of dining!

Sasha was really feeling the cage

Despite the fact that we'd already had beer for dinner, the boys and I stopped at the gyro stand (no Dad, I didn't join the dark side - I had falafel) for a little refreshment. Then began the club tour, during which Erik and Sasha showed me the city's top booty shaking establishments while I did my best to avoid consuming the various spirits Erik kept handing me, with mixed success (pun intended).  The rest of the evening was a blur, of which I will spare you the details, mostly because I can't remember them. I will only say that Erik may or may  not have gotten us kicked out of the gay bar for dancing three to a cage, and that he may or may not have been told off by a red-headed stripper.

 I slept until noon the next morning and woke up feeling great, thanks in large part to all the biking and the provolone grilled cheese Erik made us to top off the evening (we were, tragically, 10 minutes too late for the grilled cheese grill on Alberta). There's nothing like a healthy night of mayhem, topped with grease, to renew the spirit for those long miles ahead.

"Aw man! That fountain was wetter than I thought" -Erik

The heat was still in full force on Sunday, and I could have happily hunkered down with netflix for the afternoon, but time in a new city is precious and I was determined to explore. Besides, I would have felt pretty lazy next to my hosts had I spent the day watching TV. While Sara was studying for a nursing exam, Erik was spending long days renovating their basement, with the goals of making the entire house into a triplex rental unit.  This allowed Erik to put his training in custom furniture design to practical use, and cemented my future plan to move in permanently :)

Portland loves bikes!  On the way to the greyhound station there was actually bike commuter traffic.

   I decided to head downtown as I wanted to pick up a t-shirt and a new book. As soon as I said the world "book," Erik and Sara knew where to send me. Seems like Powell's books is something on an institution in Portland.  This new and used bookstore takes up an entire block, with several floors and rooms colour coded by genre. Now, those of you who know me know that I absolutely love bookstores -  I really am like a kid in a candy store amongst all those worlds of words. You can imagine how dazzled I was. Having to pick just one was a bit torturous, but I had a lot of fun browsing (and I'm sure my folks are glad that I wasn't able to add to my homeless library which they are currently storing).

After picking up a t-shirt at the thrift store across the street, I spent the rest of the afternoon walking randomly around downtown, mostly chasing food carts. When I got home, I caught the tail end of a BBQ hosted by Erik's neighbours and reluctantly began to prepare for an early departure the next morn. Sad though it was to leave my new friends (and soft bed!) I had the whole Oregon Coast ahead of me. A new chapter of adventure.

See you again soon, Portland. Save some mac n' cheese for me!




Dana

Brews, Birds and Bikes: The 48 Hour Portland Express

 Portland is a city with a reputation. A place where bicycle commuters are thoughtfully accommodated rather than run down for points. Where being out of style makes you all the more trendy (this usually involves ugly vintage clothing).  Where people think progressively (lots of lesbians). A place where the young go to retire...or to work on that album.This is how the hipster diaspora imagines its homeland (for Portland is the birthplace of the hipster).  When I told a girl from Olympia that I'd heard good things about her city, she smiled in delight and divulged that she liked to think of it as a little piece of Portland.

My Portland hosts - Erik and Sara

Needless to say, Portland had a lot to live up to as I arrived on the greyhound bus from Astoria to spend the weekend. I was not disappointed. This was due, in large part, to my amazing hosts - Erik and his fiance Sara - who not only opened their home to me but also their city.

Saturday alone was epic. Erik and I had barely stepped out the door before we were asked to be extras in "Portlandia" - a local TV show making fun of all things Portland - which just happened to be filming around the corner. I must confess I was initially drawn in by the offer, but Erik knew better. Once we found out that we'd basically just be standing in line for an hour, the glamour of the role quickly dissipated.  Besides, why wait around when Star Trek in the Park was taking place just across the street.

Star Trek in the park!

We joined the large audience, and I soon saw what all the fuss was about. It was Trek with all its trappings: Captain Kirk, Spock, the bridge, the tasers, those tight leotard suits. The production even had live intergalactic sound effects.  Screw Shakespeare, this was outdoor entertainment!  My Mom (a longstanding trekkie) would have loved it.


Unfortunately we could not stay to find out if Kirk and the crew ever escaped from the parallel universe in which they were entrapped; we had plans to drive out to Sandee River with friends to get some relief from the heat, which still had not abated.

Sasha, Erik, Sara, Ramman and I at the river

The river was refreshing, and everyone seemed to appreciate the break from busy city life. After lunching on some delicious (and massive!) burritos from a favourite local Mexican place, I went off to do some solo exploring along Alberta street. As I walked this strip of trendy hippy (as opposed to trendy yuppie) restaurants, shops and food carts, I felt for the first time since I'd started my trip that my capacity for eating was not great enough. Within five minutes, I had picked out at least 3 places that I absolutely had to try before leaving - including a baked macaroni and cheese joint and an ice cream shop serving flavours such as "pear and gorgonzola," "almond brittle with salty ganache," and "brown ale and bacon." (Umm...I think I can actually recite the entire menu...)

Portlanders like to get creative with their vehicles...

The dazzling array of comestibles was matched by an equally impressing selection of microbrewed beer. Standing in front of the IPA section (yes, that's right, section) in one store, I was at a loss. Luckily each variety came with a poetic narrative describing the origin of the brew along with its many subtle flavours. I could have easily been lost forever in this mecca of delicious, but Erik had other adventures in store, and I knew I needed to get home.

The swifts circling the school chimney

A little before dusk, Erik, his friend Sasha, and I set out towards downtown on our bikes. Our initial destination was a school with a large chimney that served as a roosting spot for thousands of swifts each September. The birds arrived at dusk, swirling en masse around the chimney until they were gradually drawn inwards for the night. It was quite a sight to see. Perhaps more impressive were the flocks of people. Couples cuddled on blankets, teenagers snapped photos on their phones, Moms and Dads opened snacks from little plastic baggies, and kids slid down the grassy slope on giant pieces of cardboard, running, laughing and crying all the way (guess that's what you do when you don't get snow).  We sipped cold beers while looking through Sasha's binoculars for signs of the hawk that sometimes hits the chimney for an easy meal.

Right before we almost hit the toddler

The audience oohed and aahed as the swifts changed flight patterns, their numbers shrinking and swelling incomprehensibly.  Finally, they all filtered into the chimney like a great bird vortex, to the clapping and cheering of the crowd.  Erik was disappointed that the hawk didn't make an appearance, so we did a few runs down the hill on a borrowed piece of cardboard to cheer him up. I laughed and then screamed as we nearly ran over a small toddler walking up the hill. But the fun had only begun...

Alas, my internet time is nearly gone. I will have to save the rest of the Portland extravaganza (and pictures!) for a sequel post!  Until then,

Dana

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!!

The Olympia Connection

When visiting a new city, first impressions can be very important. The first thing I encountered on my arrival to Olympia was a bike path :) The second was a hipster on a bike saying "Way to go! You made it!"

I looked at him, puzzled.

"I see you're bike touring," he explained. "I've been there. Is there anything you need or anything I can help you with?" 

"Actually yeah. I'm looking for a map of the city."

"Well I don't have a bike map on me, but there's one at this house I'm headed to. It's also a bike shop, if that's useful."

Another befuddled look.

The free store beside the food co-op in West Olympia

"Well, it's where all the bike mechanics live," he explained. I soon found out that my new friend Alexander was at the hub (no pun intended) of the Olympia bike community. He'd also done a fair bit of touring, including a trip to San Fran. He asked me where I was staying and I told him the name of the hostel I'd booked that morning.

"Oh, I helped start that hostel! It's right near here. I'll show you."

Somehow, within an hour of arrival, I had acquired my own personal Olympia bike guru guide. Not too shabby Olympia, not too shabby.

We took a detour so Alexander could show me where the hostel was before arriving at his friends' house. Alexander warned me it was kind of a "dude" house, which I soon discovered meant lots of weed and video games. When I mentioned I was from Victoria, one of the guys asked "How's Luke?"

At first I took this to be a typical instance of American ignorance, and was in the process of explaining that Victoria had 250,000 people and that I didn't even know a Luke when I realized that I did know a Luke - the guy from Recyclistas. Oh. I explained how he had helped me fix up my bike as they nodded knowingly. Apparently bike geeks know no borders.

All of this was fortuitous, since I had come to Olympia mainly to get my bike fixed. The city was not on the prescribed guidebook route, so I decided to stop in the town of Shelton (still on my route) to ask about the best bike route into the city. As it was the labour day holiday Monday I wasn't expecting to find much. Luckily there was a very friendly cafe and bookstore open. The man inside just happened to ride his motorbike into Olympia on a regular basis, and gave me very detailed direcions on how to avoid the worst part of highway 101 (which I somehow failed to follow, but still, worth a try).  He also encouraged me to use the public cafe computer to book a hostel. This was a classic example of the small town friendliness I've encountered time and again on this trip. I am consistently amazed at how much energy people in small communities will invest to help a perfect stranger find their way. 

In addition to fixing my bike, I'd always heard that Olympia was a pretty cool town, and wanted to check it out. Unfortunately, I spent most of my time there taking care of business - laundry, internet, supplies and bike repair. As it turned out there were a couple of bike shops open on the holdiay (the dude house seemed a bit too engrossed in video games...) As I pulled up to the first one and rounded the corner, I noticed a line of homeless people against the back wall. I later learned that this was a popular hangout due to the presence of Olympia's famous artesian well, which is reputed to spout the tastiest water in the land (the theory behind the homeless presence being that the police can't bug you for collecting public water).

Inside the bike shop, I met a single harried mechanic with more work to do than he had time to do it in. He did, however, point me to "Bike & Bike," a volunteer-run bike shop across the street which did repairs by donation. Now that's my kind of bike shop.  And, lo and behold, the volunteer there had been learning under the tutelage of none other than my good friend Alexander. Well colour me charmed. This town felt like just the right size, with a healthy helping of granola.

After getting the bike work done, I sweated up the giant hill leading from downtown to West Olympia in order to finally check into the hostel. Not surprisingly, the place was cute as can be and had everything a girl on tour could want, from laundry, to world map shower curtains, to dried herbs grown right on the premises. There were also chickens in the backyard, though I didn't get any offers for fresh eggs :(

At the hostel, I met another woman named Li Anne who was also cycling solo (and blogging!). She had just spent the last 5 weeks exploring Puget Sound, and was on her way home in a few days. She gave me plenty of cycling tips, and we exchanged blog links, vowing to follow each other's adventures.

Li Anne and I in front of our hostel, "Chez Cascadia"

I would have liked to stay a day in Olympia to explore the city, but the road was calling me. I knew I wanted to spend a few days in Portland, and was anxious to get to the Oregon border.  Guess I'll just have to take another trip!

The First Flat

Necessity is the mother of learning to fix your bike. I got my first flat tire only a few miles after landing on the Washington mainland. So much for my dream of riding miraculously flat free all the way to San Francisco.

Arriving in Port Townsend from Whidbey

Luckily it was still early in the day, the sun was shining and there was a turnout nearby where I could work.  A quick look at the tire revealed the source of the flat - a sharp piece of wood poking through the tire. I found the hole in the tube, patched it, replaced the tube in the tire, pumped it up and was starting to feel a little bit proud of myself when I picked up the tire and noticed it appeared to have lost some air. For a second I actually debated ignoring this rather obvious sign that my patch job had failed - ignorance, after all, is bliss.  I soon realized, however, that ignorance in this instance was just a tire still flat. Since I didn't want to spend too long on the side of the road (and I knew I would soon lose my patience) I used my spare tube the second time around, with success. I may have looked like a coal miner (another cyclist actually said this to me!) but I was back on the road.

If only life were so simple. Once again, I was faced with post-tire-removal brake trouble. Apparently brakes without a tire between them are like body piercings without studs - the hole quickly fills in. Okay it's probably me and not the brakes, but nevertheless, I noticed that my back brakes were rubbing against my tire. I decided to give a little more slack in the cable, which led me to the unfortunate discovery that there was hardly any slack to give, and what there was was frayed like my hair first thing in them morning.

At this point I ran into another cyclist from Sweden, who very helpfully told me I should probably get that fixed, and to avoid using my brake. Never mind the fact that we were ten miles from biking over a mountain.

Another 15 miles down the road and I arrived in the town of Quilcene. I had planned to go over the mountain and into a state park, but it was getting late, and after some debate I decided to stay at the campground in town. This turned out to be a good decision. I happened to catch a pretty decent show at the annual Quilcene Shindig, got myself organized, and was able to think much more clearly about my bike situation in the morning.

Locus Street Taxi put on a really fun show

First, I noticed that my brake pad had popped out - hence the rubbing. I did my best to jam it back in and also trued the wheel to ensure it fully cleared the brakes (I'm slow enough without my brakes dragging on my wheel, thank you very much). I also discovered that my original patch job didn't work because there was actually a second hole. Another patch plus a few more minor adjustments and I was in pretty good shape. The back brake cable still needed replacing, but would hold out for the time being.  Maybe I would take a side trip to Olympia to get it fixed as I've always wanted to go there...


Lesson learned: the most important resource for solving a problem is a clear head. It's amazing what a good night's sleep will do. 

hello highway! we are going to be spending a lot of time together...

Until next time (or "a hui hou," as my new friend Li Anne - a one-time Hawaiian local - says),

Dana

P.S. I added pictures to all of my previous posts. Check it out!!

The Sirens of Whidbey

I crossed this bridge on my bicycle! Holy crap.

Thursday morning was chilly and gray. I biked across Fidalgo Island, over the high bridge spanning Deception Pass and onto Whidbey Island. When I arrived in the town of Coupeville halfway down the island, Jerry and Veronika came to pick me up in their van.  My timing was excellent; the clouds that had been ominously looming all day finally gave way to rain just as they pulled up. I must have smelled like I'd been biking all day, because they immediately offered to drop me off for a shower at the nearby state park. 

On our way back to Jerry and Veronika's, I learned that over 20 friends and family members were on their way to the property for a holiday weekend which would be part reunion and part surprise birthday party for Veronika's niece. When I was invited to join the festivities, I knew diversions were on the horizon. This would not have been a problem, except that at my pace thus far, I was scheduled to arrive in San Francisco just in time for my flight back to Ontario.  I obviously forgot to plan for fun along the way...

In the end Veronika convinced me that I would only get stronger and faster, and I figured my quadraceps could use a day of rest. I decided to stay for a day (just long enough to spend Friday night with Erik's friends from Portland, but unfortunately missing the big birthday bash), promising myself to be on the road again on Saturday morning.

Erik hard at work

The seaside plot on Whidbey was a little piece of paradise. The area was all set up for camping in style, with a small cabin (think shed with bunkbeds) for shelter to boot. To my Ontarian amazement (I should be used to perpetual clouds by now, but my deepest Eastern instincts continue to scream "downpoor"), the rain clouds blew through the area with little more than a spit, leaving a breathtaking sunset in their wake. I fell asleep soon after to the sound of crashing waves.

Veronika doing the dishes

 Friday morning was clear blue sky.  Erik and his parents were up early. In order to create some flat tenting spots on the sloped land, they had decided to rent a machine to cut the soil, and then level it out by hand. The strips of sod could then be rolled back in to place like carpeting. I would have let my guests sleep on a hill, but this family takes hospitality to the next level (I think Jerry and Erik also like to make projects for themselves...).

cutest kittens ever

      Erik joked that I didn't realize I was being taken to labour camp, but when I offered to help I was  encouraged to rest and relax. I spent the morning stalking the newborn kittens living in the woodpile and reading my book in the sun. I could see the ferry I'd be catching Saturday morning, heading from Keystone over to Port Townsend on the mainland and back. Erik kept pointing out seals and osprey but I was always a second late, and ended up staring aimlessly into the big blue.

   After watching everybody work for a while, I felt like a slacker and decided to go for a walk along the beach.  This took me past a home owned by the C.E.O. of Microsoft, though I mostly just saw the beachhouse (about 4 times the size of Jerry and Veronika's cabin, but far less loved I'm sure).  On my way back I got pulled in by the blackberries. One handful is never enough. Before long I was filling my cloth purse up with the juicy berries, not caring that they were staining my diary purple. I arrived back home and helped everybody lay down the remainder of the sod before guests began to arrive.


For dinner we ate salad and delicious baked beans that Veronika cooked over the fire. I grilled stuffed mushrooms. Erik's friends arrived just in time for the spectacular sunset. Chatting around the fire, Erik bet that I wouldn't leave the following morning. Between Erik's taunts and Veronika's repeated offers to drive me to Portland with them, temptation was mounting. It was not easy, but I stood firm. After morning crepes cooked over the fire, I left in a flurry of hugs and farewells, hoping I would have the time to take a side trip to Portland and see my new friends once again.

Tour de Lopez

Despite hearing over and over again about how Lopez is "the flat island," I was greeted at the ferry terminal by the usual monstrous hill. The terrain, however, did level out, and there was hardly any traffic on the backroads. Adam and Sarah had passed along a great local map called the "Tour de Lopez," which showed the best route to cycle around the island. As it was already mid-afternoon, I figured I'd make camp early and catch up on my laundry, then head out on the tour the following day.

On my way out to the campground, I rolled past a beautiful beach lined with figures made out of driftwood. Some were shaped like animals with carved out eyes, while others seemed more open to interpretation. The figures were decorated with baseball caps and buoys. I rode on through open farmlands into the forested park for a quiety, if mosquito-filled, evening.

I bought a summer squash at this farm stand

The next morning I set out to tour the island, and soon discovered why Lopez is haled as a cyclist's paradise. The gently rolling hills, uber-friendly residents and lack of cars made for a really pleasant ride - a nice break after nervewracking Orcas.

My lunch destination was Iceberg Point, a must-see according to travelers and locals alike. It's a little off the beaten path in what looks like private land, but the point is public and well worth the trek, they told me.  With their encouragement I brushed brazenly down the trail past a dozen "private property" and "no trespassing" until I spotted the  rusty saw with the words "Iceberg Point" etched in tiny yellow letters above a closed gate with a "no parking" warning.  Lopez Islanders know how to keep a place special. The path soon branched into trails of tall matted grass leading up to several rock cliffs. The view was, as usual, astounding. I made myself a sandwhich, cracked a bottle of Washington microbrew and took in the massive expanse of ocean, while a group of seals sunbathed on a rock below.

Iceberg Point

Lopez is a pretty small island, and before long I was back in town, blogging away.  Time was a little short, but I managed to pack up my campsite, wet clothes and all (the sun apparently missed the memo about my laundry), and catch the ferry over to Fidalgo Island.  One mile downhill on the other side and I was in Washington Park, home for the night.