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?

Into the Woods

The foggy mist of the previous evening had burned off into morning sunshine as I made my second foray out of Crescent City. A big day of climbing lay ahead - first the triple summit of the Crescent City Hills, then another two-stage climb back up to 900 ft.

The day was hot and arduous, but it was all worthwhile when I got to the top of the final summit. Often after climbing a big hill it is all I can do not to fall over as I speed down the other side, balancing against the wind and steering around obstacles with video-game-like  focus.  While exciting, these descents tend to be somewhat stressful and far too short-lived to pay off the long and grueling grind to the top.  On this particular day, however, the road and I both decided to go slow.

At the peak of the hills was an interpretive trail into the redwoods - the perfect opportunity to take a closer look at the wondrous trees I had been zipping past.  I took my time wandering along, reading about the forest restoration project by which the old logging road I was on had become a narrow nature trail, taking pictures of enormous tree trunks (how do you capture the size of a thousand year old tree on camera?)  and just listening to the stillness of the forest.  As I sat gazing up at these ancient pillars of life, shafts of sunlight filtered through the canopy, and for the first time in a long time there was no human sound to be heard.  I felt like a stranger in a world with its own mysterious and magical rhythm.

Finally, it was time to head back down the hill. I threw on the customary extra layer and braced my hands over my brakes (I am a bit of a wuss when it comes to the downhills, being more of a dallier than a speed-seeker).  They soon slackened. Unlike most of the other descents I had come across, this one was extremely gradual -  sort of like the imperceptible uphill climb in reverse. Memorialized groves of redwoods lined the narrow two-lane road as I wound my way slowly down through Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park to Elk Prairie Campground, my final destination for the day.

At the campground I ran into Wayne. We shared a picnic table, and he told me all about his 5-month hiking trip from Mexico to Canada along the Pacific Crest Trail. His stories of the community that formed along the trail as people who were doing the trip got to know each other reminded me of our biking adventure along the coast, times ten. Wayne loved the experience so much he even tried to do it a second time. Next trip potential? The seed has been planted.

Elk Prairie Campground

I decided to stay at the campground for two nights - a nature day-off rather than a town day was in order. The campsite was very pretty, and the park was full of trails to explore. I spent the morning playing in the forest, and wasted away the rest of the day reading in the sun - the ultimate relaxation. It would have been even more enjoyable if there hadn't been a crew of workers hacking away at the prairie brush with chainsaws until 4pm (apparently in preparation for a burn). Such is life. The first set of California hills was behind me and the majesty of redwoods was in my soul - renewing me for the next leg of my journey.

Peacefully Yours,

Dana

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

Miles n' Miles

It's hard to believe that only a month ago a 50 km ride on a flat bike path to the Sooke Potholes was enough to thoroughly exhaust me. I made the trip from my house in Victoria a few days before leaving for the real thing in order to test my gear and bike, fully loaded. The ride only took three hours but it seemed to go on and on - all the way to the end of the Galloping Goose trail. When I finally got there, I sat on the rocks along the Sooke River, brimming with excitement for the adventure to come, and trying not to worry too much about the somewhat daunting daily mileages recommended in my guidebook.  It was hard to imagine switching those kilometres for miles, over what was sure to be hillier terrain, but I knew somehow that I would work my way up to it. Sure enough, a month has passed and I am now riding up to 60 miles a day, with plenty of photo-ops along the way.  Yesterday I climbed two mountains, including the highest peak on the coast, and still managed to log 58 miles. How did I get here?

It wasn't always so easy. Back on the San Juans, 30 miles was plenty to keep me busy, with pit stops at all the lovely island bakeries along the way.   As I got onto the mainland, a greater sense of purpose (now I was actually headed towards my destination) and fewer deliciously distracting eateries led me to push further, increasing my daily distances squarely over the 40 mile mark.   By the time I hit the Oregon coast, some of the days mapped out in my guidebook actually seemed feasible, though I had to break a few of them up to make time for all the enthralling sights along the way.  Soon I had ridden three days over 50 miles in a row. Maybe I would actually get to see San Francisco after all.

You may have noticed that my posts have dwindled in frequency throughout my trip. Unfortunately, more miles covered in the day means less time for blogging. Combined with nightly social gatherings with various members of the coastal bike posse, hitting the library on a regular basis has been a challenge. I may have to  enter the 21st century and buy a smart phone for my next tour.

Still, I have been really enjoying the blog project, and am thus determined to keep it up as best I can.  Back in Oregon, I started waking up earlier in hopes of leaving more time for biking and writing before sunset (my increasingly efficient packing routine was also a help - all of those who are acquainted with my scatterbrained tendencies would be proud!) The day after cycling with Rose, I sped through mile after hot, flat mile along the 101, hoping to leave myself enough time to stop at the library in Port Orford, the last town before camp.  Along the way I passed through the friendly town of Langlois, where the woman at the market thoroughly scrubbed the appled I bought with soap and water, despite the fact that she had five other customers waiting (sometimes it's the little things).  Just down the road, I ran into Katie and Brent, in their usual lemon and lime outfits, on their way to the same park as me for the night.

Katie and Brent

After a quick chat, I zoomed ahead, managing to make it to town a precious half hour before library closing time. It was enough to get in a brief post, abating my blogging guilt without cutting it too close to nightfall. On my way out of Port Orford, I stopped to take in one last phenomenal view of the ocean before heading towards camp.  As I stood leaning on the railing, a woman asked me whether I had seen the whales. "Umm, no." To me, the ocean is full of nothing but indistinguishable blobs. I stood there beside her for awhile, listening to her squeal in delight and point to spouts I kept missing, until I finally saw one. My first West Coast whale, or at least proof of its presence (note to self: next time bring binoculaurs).

A few miles later, I arrived in camp to find my old friend Chris standing at the registration booth in his Sponge Bob Square Pants jersey (an online discount purchase that has apprently become quite a hit on the road).  We hugged and talked excitedly as we caught up on the last few days. As we discussed our plans for the following day, we realized we were both aiming for the same campground, and decided to cycle together.

Chris' spongebob pose

I wish I could fly overhead and watch all of the overlapping routes of my biking buddies along the coast.  A happy little community of cycle tourists has started to form as we all head south, running into each other sporadically and catching up on our latest adventures. Perhaps an excel spreadsheet is in order (that one's for you, Rachelle ;) ) One of the fun things about this is watching how everybody goes about their daily routine just a little differently - especially how they eat.  Katie and Brent, for instance, like to take their time in the morning savouring a cup of gourmet coffee made from their french press.  In the evening, they make delicious concoctions filled with vegetables and fresh herbs. Wayne, another solo cyclist from Nanaimo, aims to hit as many fast food joints as he can along the way, in hopes of consuming enough calories to offset his raging metabolism (some guys have all the luck).

The secret to Chris' cycle success lies in chocolate milk. As he explained to me with impressively minimal usage of biochemistry jargon, it contains all the nutrients essential to muscle recovery, including a ton of protein.  The amount of potassium alone is seriously impressive. He drinks at least two a day.

Gary's power lies in beer, an extra of which he is always toting in his shirt pocket. While Chris and I agree that alcohol generally does not motivate us to cycle harder,  on our second sunny day of cycling together, we decided to indulge. After a beautiful morning ride off the highway (thanks to Chris' American Cycling Association map) Chris checked his phone in Gold Beach to see what restaurants were around (oh god, I am being beat in the technology department by a middle-aged neo-luddite) We decided on the Barnacle Bistro - a good choice.  I.P.A. has never tasted so good, nor a mushroom burger so delicous.
\

Chris admiring his chocolate milk. "600 mg of potassium!!"

As we rolled into camp that evening, I had a feeling that Brent and Katie were close behind. Despite their leisurely mornings, this power couple always seems to catch up to me by the end of the day. Sure enough, about five minutes after our arrival, they strode in to greet us, looking as though they had barely broken a sweat. Life is so unfair.

The hill was worth it!!

Chris and I decided we wanted to cross the California border together. We were six miles away. We set out the following morning singing "California dreamin'" by the Beach Boys and "California" by Joni Mitchell. It was not long before we saw the sign welcoming us to the sunshine state - a moment of pure exuberance.  Chris lived in San Diego for many years, and said he felt strangely like he was coming home. I just couldn't believe I had made it all the way from Victoria. A man in his car pulled over on the other side of the road just to take a picture of us, smiling and laughing. We had arrived.

Enduringly Yours,

Dana

Rolling Solo

When I meet people on the road, the first thing they ask me is where I'm from and where I'm headed.

"Victoria, BC to San Francisco," I inform them.

Their amazement is usually followed by a further shock newsflash: I am traveling alone.

"All by yourself??" they exclaim, sizing me up in consternation.  The whole universe has become my mother.

"Yep."

At this point they either commend me for my bravery, or tell me I'm crazy.  One middle-aged woman simply asked "why?" Her friend answered for me: "Probably couldn't find anybody crazy enough to go with you!"

True, in part.  I will admit that when I first dreamed up this trip, a part of me thought it would be nice to have some company.  But I also knew that I wanted the ride to be for myself. I needed some thinking time, and while traveling with a friend would be easier (and make certain family members feel better), it would not give me the space I needed to really clear my head. It would also not require me to be fully independent.  For instance, there was no way I was going to actually learn how to fix my own bike (a skill that does not come naturally to me, as you may have gleaned from my pride at changing a tube) if I wasn't faced with the possibility of being stuck out in the boondocks with a bum break or flat tire, all by my lonesome.

All of this, combined with the fact that none of my friends were, in fact, crazy enough to come with me led me to embrace the idea of going solo. And I have to say, at this point, I wouldn't have it any other way.

For one thing, I can do whatever I want, whenever I want, however I want. Traveling with a friend is like living with a roommate; it's a great way to bond but it requires a lot of understanding and compromise. Whether the dirty dishes be yours or theirs, you are always conscious of them.  Cycle touring adds the further pressure of time, a daily concern when you have miles to make before dark. As a solo cyclist I'm free to pee whenever I want, but I don't have to wait for anyone else to go.

Riding solo has also been incredibly empowering. In the beginning I really did wonder whether I would be comfortable doing it all on my own. Those doubts have vanished.  So often I meet couples on the road, and the women confide to me that they would be lost without their husbands (usually because they know nothing about bike repair). Every time I just want to pull them aside and let them know that they can do it all themselves. Now that I know my own strength, I can choose to travel with others not because I need them but because I truly want their company.

Of course, there is always the safety issue. Many of the people I meet express concerns in this regard. On one of my nights in Washington, I met a young guy from Phoenix who was doing the exact same trip as me, also solo. Curious, I asked him whether he elicited the same reaction from strangers along the way. He told me that his parents, like mine, had their qualms, but that was about it.

So I guess it's because I'm a girl.  Much as this pisses me off, I get it - I'm more vulnerable, there are lots of creepoes out there, etc. etc. Personally I think I'm probably more at risk walking alone in a city than staying in a campground full of other campers and cyclists. And as far as being on the road goes, numbers can hardly protect you from deranged RV drivers, though I suppose you could make your friends ride on the outside.
Otherwise all I can say is that I have felt very safe throughout my trip, and apart from certain distinctive biological functions, I refuse to let my lady parts restrict me from doing anything a man can do without question.

The other great thing about traveling alone, which also makes it safer, is that you are rarely ever alone at all. This was especially true on the Oregon Coast, where every state park was full of cyclists with the same brilliant idea. Normally it would bother me to be so unoriginal, but some ideas are popular for a reason.  Between the spectacularly scenic coastline, consistent bicycle route signage, and awesome state parks (5$ for the night plus free showers- it may seem trivial, but after a day of cycling the last thing you want to do is canvas the neighbours for change), it's not surprising to see so many cycle tourists on this stretch.

Chris at our failed lunch spot

As I've already recounted, I met some great people in Washington. In Oregon, every night was like an orientation event, filled with "where are you froms?" and "where are you goings?" Biker talk leads to life talk, which is always easier with strangers due to the capacity to reinvent yourself. Before long I had plans to visit half of the American states within the next year.  I had to hide in my tent just to get some alone time.

Life is funny. Just as I was really settling into my solo adventure, cycling buddies started to pop up everywhere.  After hanging out for a second night at Beachside State Park, Chris and I decided to start the following day out together.  Six miles down the road, the man at the visitors' centre in the quaint town of Yachats informed us that we were coming up on one of the most beautiful stretches of the coast. He wasn't kidding.

Chris and I decided to take the day slow, riding together and stopping every few miles to appreciate yet another amazing ocean vista. (Chris called this riding "Dana-style," though I'm pretty sure he took more photos than I did...)

The final picnic location.

Although he's more of a restaurant diner, I convinced Chris to do the picnic thing with me for lunch.  Unfortunately the park we had planned to eat at was closed. We decided to chance it and go around the barrier, figuring we'd tread lightly and that there was probably nobody there anyways. No such luck. No sooner did we roll down the steep hill leading to the idyllic picnic area than a park ranger threatened to cite us if we didn't leave. Don't you hate people who are "just doing their jobs"?

We climbed grudgingly back up the hill, and set up our picnic at what the ranger told us was the most photographed spot on the coast, an accolade I'd already heard attributed to about five other locations. (Sort of like "World's Best Clam Chowder!") The spot was beautiful, if a little windy for picnicking. Chris downed a club pack of turkey breast while I polished off a tub of hummus, and we were back on the road again.

The afternoon brought further treasures.  When we arrived at the outskirts of Florence, Chris ventured into a yarn store in hopes of finding a washroom. A minute later he poked his head back out and suggested I come in and have a cookie while I wait.  Unsure of what this was all about, I stepped skeptically inside,  only to be greeted by the most bad-ass knitting club I'd ever encountered. The women gathered in a circle of sofa chairs around the shop quickly ushered me into their stitch n' bitch (and drink) session, offering me fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies and telling me all about their beef with the local phone company.  One elderly woman noted that she broke her knee the last time she rode a bicycle (not sure that's possible, but anyways...) "I was 45 and drunk" she stated matter-of-factly, pausing for comedic effect. These gals were a riot.

Darlingtonia Californica

I could have hung out at the yarn store all afternoon, but there was more to see and not enough time left in the day.  Our last stop was just up the road, at Darlingtonia botanical preserve.  There we walked out onto a platform surrounded by Darlingtonia Californica, a species of carnivorous plant. The plants lived in a swamp and looked like alien pods. I stepped back for fear of losing a finger. Cool.

After a quiet night in camp, Chris headed onwards, while I decided to take the day off to run some errands in Florence, explore the sand dunes, and let my body recover from the latest pummeling. My timing could not have been better.  Just as I returned from town, the party in camp began.  First I ran into Gary, one of the guys from the group of cyclists I'd met at Cape Lookout.  As we chatted, three more cyclists arrived - a couple (Brent and Katy) and another girl traveling solo (Rose).  I convinced the whole crew to come play in the dunes with me before nightfall. We ran and slid through the sand, finally parking ourselves to drink beers and watch the locals surf down the hill on sandboards. Katy, Brent and Rose told us about some colourful characters they'd met that day, including a family of five on a bike tour, and a woman named Sherry who worked at the Sea Lion Caves (a tourist attraction Chris and I had elected to skip) and had offered to deliver a pizza to their campsite.  Both were scheduled to arrive shortly.

Katy, Brent and Rose on the sand dunes

The family circus (a.k.a. "famcake") pulled into camp shortly after our return. Dad hauled 4 panniers and a trailer with their 2 and 4 year-old, while Mom rode a tandem with Jade, their eight-year-old girl. Now I've experienced an hour or two in the life of a child via my very own young nieces, and I honestly cannot imagine where these folks get the energy to do it all on a bike tour (the bathroom issues alone!) And this wasn't even their first trip. They'd already spent six months biking through Southeast Asia, back when they only had two children. Chuck, you may have just lost your title.

With the kids in camp, personal space soon became a forgotten notion as we all gathered around the fire to share food and stories.  As darkness rolled around, Brent, Katy and Rose began to lose faith in Sherry. She had seemed pretty serious about coming, even running out of her post at the seal caves to ask what toppings they wanted. But it did seem like a bit of stretch to deliver a pizza to a state park for some people you just met...

Right at this moment, a woman appeared on the trail, accompanied by a park ranger with a flashlight.  Sherry (a.k.a.shilarious) had arrived, deluxe pizza in hand! Much cheering and hugging ensued. Nobody appreciates a fresh pizza more than a group of cycle tourists camping in the woods (even after a huge dinner).  In addition to being the bearer of pizza, Sherry came with a warm, sparkling and all-round-hilarious (hence the name) personality.  As it turned out, she had just moved back to the area after years of living in California, and was hired at the sea lion caves by complete accident before she had even found a place to live. I could see why - this was some service we were getting.  After offering us just about everything she had in her car, Sherry finally said farewell, and the party began to wind down, with promises of Sunday morning pancakes filling our dreams.

The campsite gang. Still haven't perfected the self-timer...

The next day, Rose joined me on the road.  We got to talking and realized we had a lot in common. Passionate about bikes, food and community, Rose taught workshops on bicycle safety and had started a small homemade food delivery business amongst friends in her hometown of San Francisco. The weather was hot and sunny, so we stopped for lunch by a lake and took a freezing cold dip before gobeling down sandwiches.  Engrossed in a long discussion of life philosophies, we lost track of time and found to our surprise that it was already 3pm.  We put our heads down and pedaled hard for the next 20 miles to Coos Bay, where Rose's Mom had arranged for her to spend a night at a bed-and-breakfast as a birthday present.  We exchanged information and I headed on to the campground, alone once again but not for long...

Rose at our lunch spot

I'd better get a move on before I get stuck to this chair. Will try to blog again soon.  I've got some catching up to do!

Lonesomely yours,

Dana

Climb Every Cape, Part II

Halfway up Cape Lookout



These words of encouragement
would have been more useful at the bottom of the hill!

 In flipping through my guidebook prior to starting my trip, I came across a description of a day's ride marked by three major climbs over three capes. I recall thinking that would be a tough day, and hoping I was ready for it when the time came. When I opened my book in the morning at Cape Lookout, I realized that the big day had arrived.

There was no messing around; the route began by climbing directly up Cape Lookout (I knew the name of that park sounded hilly!) Nothing like climbing three miles up a mountain to wake you up in the morning. Luckily the sun was shining and the views from the top provided inspiration for the climbs ahead.

Cape Kiwanda

My next stop was Cape Kiwanda, a popular spot for surfing, and my first opportunity to climb one of Oregon's many magnificent sand dunes. I took my time picnicking on the beach and exploring the steep sandy ridge before hopping back on the bike for the inevitable second climb up Cascade Head.

 I'm not sure whether the hill was steeper or if I was just more tired, but this was a tough one. Just when I thought I had to be close, a cyclist headed downhill the other way gave me a sympathy shout: "It gets better!"  This was hardly comforting. If I was actually close he would have said "almost there," not "it gets better."  How, exactly, does it get better, I wanted to ask. By going back down?  Cause I kind of already knew that. Thanks for nothing, Dan Savage.

Cape Kiwanda

After what felt like an interminable climb, I finally reached the viewless, forested peak, marked by nothing but a gravel turnout. You win some, you lose some. 

Soon I was rolling into Lincoln City. Exhausted, I decided to leave the third climb for tomorrow and head instead to Devil's Lake State Park, right off the main drag.  The park itself was nothing special, but I did meet some pretty remarkable people there. First there was Chuck, the most impressive traveler I have met on my journey by far.  Chuck did not have a bicycle - he had a longboard.  And he had ridden it all the way from Arizona, heading north, into the wind (he was headed to Portland to visit a friend).  As I learned this I thought about the hill I had just flown down. "How do you brake on a big hill??" I asked, flabbergasted.

The amazing Chuck

Chuck explained that after burning through his first pair of shoes, he developed a duct tape braking system, piling the stuff on his soles on a daily basis in order to keep them intact. And you thought I was crazy, Mom. 

Props to you Chuck, wherever you are out there. 

The other person I met at the campground was Chris, a biochemist turned investment advisor. Chris was also a musician and a great conversationalist. We shared a picnic table at Devil's Lake for the first of many nights. 

On the road, the myriad worries of life boil down to the essentials: food, sleep, shower and laundry.  The abundance of towns and campgrounds make most of this a breeze, but laundry can be tricky. It was hard enough finding the time to let washed clothes dry in the hot sun of inland Washington.  I  managed to make it work only by arranging the still damp items artfully under my bungee cord straps before heading out for the day's ride.  But in the coastal rainforest of Oregon, that system was just not going to cut it. With this sad reality on my mind, and only one pair of clean socks left, I decided to take advantage of the park's city locale to visit my first laundromat. This provided a good opportunity to do some writing, and also treat myself to Dairy Queen just down the street. Oh, the night life of a cycle tourist.

Devil's Punchbowl

The next morning, the sky was clear blue. On his way out, Chris remarked that it was going to be another sunny day. Half an hour later, it was raining. Now I know why people laugh at me here when I inquire about the weather forecast (the usual response being "it could rain at any time"). I suppose I couldn't expect to stay dry on the coast forever.

In the end, the drizzle was no problem at all. Dreary enough to let Cape Foulweather make good its name, but mild enough to act as a pleasant coolant while I climbed. On the other side of the hill, I checked out Devil's Punchbowl, an area where the surf washes through a small rock aperture.  After marveling at the churning waters, I stopped in at Mo's - a popular seafood restaurant chain on the coast - for lunch. Mo's is known for having the world's best clam chowder (Jerry has vouched for this), and although cream does not make for great bike riding food, on this soggy morning I couldn't resist.

Chris taking a picture of the sunset

The sun came out in the afternoon. I stopped at the Oregon State University Science Centre, where I met Ursula the octopus and created my own solar system (it's really fun to watch what happens when you add a second sun). When I arrived at my campground of choice for the evening, I was pleasantly surprised to run into Chris. We went out to the beach to watch the sunset, and spent the evening talking about everything from families and careers to philosophy and music. It's amazing how the freedom and anonymity of the road can make conversation flow. As usual, I slept like a baby, dreaming of flat prairie highways.

Love always,

Dana

Climb Every Cape

 There are two types of hills on this route: those that roll steeply, and those that rise gently.  The San Juans introduced me to the former; the Oregon Coast is all about the latter. Steeply rolling hills may be mentally exhausting (just as you push over one peak, you see the road ahead climbing right back up at 80 degrees), but they have the advantage of momentum. The speed built from the previous descent propels you halfway up, at which point its often just a quick push to the top.

Gently rising hills require considerably more patience. The incline is gradual but never-ending, forcing you to settle into granny gear for the long haul. Often the grade is so slight as to be imperceptible, making you think that you've just suddenly become really slow. Discouraging to say the least.

View from Ecola State Park near Cannon Beach

My initiation to the slow-and-steady climb came on my second day of Oregon Coast riding. After catching the bus from Portland back to Astoria early Monday morning, I took my first day on the coast pretty easy, arriving in the resort town of Cannon Beach with plenty of time to explore the sandy shoreline. (I did actually climb a pretty serious hill at the end of the day to get to Ecola State Park, but I had already dropped my gear at the campground, and the view was more than worth the work- one of the most breathtaking spots on the coast, in my humble opinion).

I woke up the following morning rearing to go. By mid-morning I found myself moving down the highway at a slow crawl. The road seemed practically level, yet my legs resisted. I counseled myself to have patience - it was probably just a slight incline that would soon pass. Twenty minutes later, having sweat my weight's worth in water without gaining any speed, I became a little frustrated. Why was I so slow today, and whose idea was this bike touring thing anyways? Just as I was about to really lose it, I saw a viewpoint turnout. I rolled in to find people taking pictures and admiring the view. There were informational placards which described the construction of the "Neahkahnie Mountain Trail Road."  The name sounded familiar, and I vaguely recalled that it was mentioned in my guidebook, along with something about a long slow climb. Soon the pieces came together. I had just climbed a mountain. Go figure. Suddenly I didn't feel so pathetic.

Ecola State Park

Long climbs, of course, are rewarded by exhilirating descents. One word of advice: no matter how hot and sweaty you are at the top of that mountain, throw on a few layers before heading down. Learned from cold experience.

By mid-afternoon, I hit the town of Tillamook, renowned for its cheese factory turned tourist trap. This "attraction" was mostly a giant store, but it was fun to watch the factory workers process and package enormous chunks of cheese from the observation area. The samples were also enjoyable :) I even debated sending home a "cheesemail" - a video email message about my cheese factory experience sent via a cleverly placed machine. But the gimmickry was too much. I decided to blog about it instead. One purchase of smoked swiss and I was out of there.

By the time I grabbed groceries in town it was getting on 5pm, and I still had 20 miles to go according to my guidebook route. I debated staying at a campground in town, but finally decided to take the less scenic but more direct route to Camp Lookout State Park instead, bypassing the trip to Cape Meares (I figured there would be plenty more where that came from).

This turned out to be my favourite park of the entire trip. The hiker biker sites was set well apart from RV town in a whimsically foggy forest, just steps away from the beach. All for a whopping $6! Oregon knows how to treat cyclists right. I soon encountered a motley crew of cyclists from Seattle, who shared a beer with me as we watched the sunset on the sand. Sometimes life is sweet.

Once again I have run out of time - the library is about to close :(  Stay tuned for Climb Every Cape, Part II!

Achingly yours, 

Dana