Epilogue

It's been fun! I've got some numbers here to sum up the trip, and a few reflections farther down.

By the numbers:
Depart Haines July 25
Depart Prince Rupert July 29
Arrive San Francisco: September 5
Distance Pedaled: 3,370 km (2,150 miles)
Total Climbing: 14,020 m (46,000 ft)
Biggest single day distance: 238 km (148 Miles)
Most climbing in one day: 3167 m (10397 ft)
Number of punctured tubes: 8 (+/-1)
Number of new tires purchased: 2
Dollars spent: $1650
Ferry Ticket: $214
Bicycle Repair/improvement: $250 (+/-50)
Pedal revolutions: 1 million
Shortest Day: -15 miles (I did go backwards one day!)
Injuries: scraped hip, stubbed toe, sun burn
Jars of peanut butter consumed: 15 (+/-2)
Calories of peanut butter consumed: 30,000 (+/-4,000)
Jet boil fuel consumed: 450 grams
Items lost: Jet Boil bottom cover, Jet Boil gas mesh, 1 sock, two rear view mirrors
Link to approximate route map: Bicycle directions Prince Rupert to San Francisco

A few reflections:
I remember a different life I had two long months ago...I was climbing mountains, painting houses, and generally playing. Then I spent three days on a ferry writing, reading and remembering. I clambered in an ice cave, tied my food in trees, and slept under the stars a half day's ride from anyone. It was hot and sunny and I was sunburned. I met crazy people: a guy named Chandler going to name a mountain, an Egyptian-Italian man who couldn't stop talking, and a stranger who gave me a popsicle. I pedaled 150 miles in one day over a mountain range when it was 90 degrees, and spent two nights hosted by a single mom with a one year old. I visited friends and relatives for four days then was sick for two. I became friends with other tourists at campgrounds in Oregon, then left them to spend time in the Redwoods and on the Lost Cost. I pedaled four days with three strangers, and know them better now than some people I've been acquainted with for years. And finally, I arrived in San Francisco and caught a ride to school.

Wow. I guess a lot of stuff happened.



Now I'm clean, have new clothes, and spend my days reading (but academic papers instead of the novel I read on the ferry) and getting ready for class and research work to start. Quite a contrast! It's a good thing I got so much exercise; I can stand to spend time at a desk now.

And here begins the next chapter of life.

I'm glad I did this trip. San Francisco doesn't seem as far from Alaska as it used to, now that I've seen how it's all connected. Arriving in new places by jet always seems so shocking; as though the place you left and the place you reached are only connected through the magic of a machine. I enjoyed seeing the big evergreen trees of Haines imperceptively give way to the smaller, deciduous trees of Washington, and those ultimately give in to the tall redwoods and smelly eucalyptus of California. And more importantly, it was fun! Fun to meet people, fun to spend my days pedaling, and fun to have an adventure.

That said, I don't think I'll do another solo bike trip. There were too many times that I wanted to say "look at that!" or to hear someone else say "Hey, let's do this!" I enjoyed the freedom and spontaneity of traveling alone, but I look forward to having friends on future adventures.

And with that I'm signing off... I hope you enjoyed the story.

Bodega Dunes State Park to San Francisco!

We got off to a slow, pleasant start on the last day of my bike trip. We ate breakfast, then pedaled less than ten miles down the road before stopping for coffee (or coffee cake in my case...I'm still not much of a coffee drinker). We met two fascinating women on their way home from the Burning Man festival and ended up staying there for over an hour before heading South again.

It was a great day to ride, with a strong north wind pushing us along. At one point I found myself in "beast mode" and flew down the road for perhaps ten miles,with Kerry in tow...Then I realized that I had blasted right past an important turn about seven miles ago, and led the other three guys astray. Fortunately, the guys weren't upset. We didn't exactly have to back track...We rejoined the route six miles later about two miles past the turn I missed...but it was close enough to back tracking that we had to turn into the wind. Once we got back on course, we picked up the tailwind again and cruised into the outskirts of the San Francisco Bay metropolitan area.

It started imperceptibly about 25 miles north of downtown. We just rolled into what seemed like any other small town along the coast. But instead of dissolving back into empty hills after a three blocks, stop lights started to appear and the buildings started to grow. We had to slow down and start choosing our route carefully to avoid traffic.

It seems like I ought to go on about the grand emotions I felt or pontificate about the great things I learned. But I didn't feel emotional as I approached the city. I just pedaled along the same way I had for the last five weeks, knowing that eventually I'd get where I was going.

Soon enough the Golden Gate bridge appeared, and we made our way up to it. As I crossed it, I began to realize that a rather long bike ride was about to end. I let the other three guys pull away from me for the first time in four days and went slowly. I watched all the people go by, commuting back home from work. I looked down at the water, out at the sun, and over to the city. I stopped and took a picture of the bridge. A well shaved cyclist going the other way with sharp bike clothes looked at my shaggy beard, greasy vest, torn shorts and duck taped saddle bags. He smiled and said "Welcome to the city." The word "welcome" never meant so much to me before.

When I finally arrived at the other side of the bridge, Kerry and Brandon were hurriedly plotting the rest of their route on their phones. I'd forgotten that they still needed to get to Oakland that night, and the sun was setting soon. Laith and I, on the other hand, planned to stay with a friend of mine from Cornell who lived just a short distance away. As we said our goodbyes, Aaron arrived on his bicycle and Laith snapped a picture:

Meeting Aaron at the end of the ride.

Laith and I followed Aaron to his apartment, packed our bikes in and then showered. My boxes of clean clothes and school supplies had already arrived in the city, and Aaron was going to give me a ride to campus. For the first time in over a month, I knew that after this shower I would actually stay clean. I had made it.

This is the view from Aaron's apartment, with the Golden Gate Bridge in the background.

There will be one more post about this trip tomorrow, an epilogue of sorts about my move into Stanford and some overarching numbers and thoughts on the journey. I hope you've enjoyed reading...I wrote a lot of words!

Westport to Bodega Dunes State Park

The gang at Westport (thanks to Laith for the photo).

We started slowly after the food and wine in Westport, but fell into a fast pace before too long. We made good time for about 20 miles until we met another cyclist on the side of the road, along with a local that had joined him for the day. This man was undertaking a tour that dwarfed the four of ours: he had flown from his home in Ireland to Anchorage in May, pedaled north to Prudhoe Bay, then turned back South headed for Patagonia and the southern tip of South America. From there he plans to catch another flight, but rather then go back to Ireland he'll be flying to South Africa and then pedaling home! He's got a great website here: http://www.thebigcycle.com.

With these two new acquaintances we stopped at a pub in Mendocino for a beer and a bite to eat, then pressed on and got to our camp at Manchester Beach just as night fell.

The next day gave some of the best cycling of the entire trip. The scenery was spectacular, the descents were fun, and the weather was fantastic. I'm grateful to Laith for sharing some photos:

A nice place to ride a bike.

Cruisin'

That's Kerry flying down one of the descents. The road had some switch backs that allowed Laith to get this bird's eye view.

Good times on the road.

We rolled into our campsite early that day, so Laith and I headed down to the beach for a swim in the breakers. I played in the waves until I got cold--about ten minutes--then hustled back up the beach to my clothes. The campsite seemed to be a meeting ground for all the cyclists on the road. There were about 15 of us camped out at the hiker biker site. I ran into a Vancouver woman headed to Baja that I'd met on the road way back before I visited the Lost Coast. Brendan (the Irishman) arrived at the campsite too, as well as an Alaskan couple traveling with their nine-month-old baby that I'd heard about through the cycling grapevine the day before. There were other fascinating people too: a married couple that looked to be about 50 on their way to South America, some lone tourists out on long term rambles, a group of women nearly finished with their trip from Vancouver to San Francisco, and one San Francisco guy out for a three day tour on a long weekend.

The youngest cycle tourists I've ever met...and parents too.

In camp, Laith slipped into his now normal role of cooking a gourmet camp meal to share with everyone, and I cooked my usual one pot stew of something green, some sort of grain, some sort of protein, and a healthy dose of olive oil to throw a few more calories to whoever needed them after Laith's meal. We stayed up for awhile hearing stories from all the different tourists...a fitting final camp to my cycle tour.

Standish HIckey State Park to Westport

My new friends and I pulled into the Peg House a little before six o'clock, just across the street from our planned campsite. It was a fun place: there was a small shack selling burgers and beer, plenty of outdoor seating, and a guy singing uninspiring karaoke on the stage. We all chipped in for a pitcher and relaxed.

Soon, the loan karaoke singer exhausted his repertoire and my new buddy Laeth got permission to play a song on the guy's computer. Laeth had a specific song in mind: one of the other guys in the group, Kerry, was a small time musician. He'd made a CD of cycling songs that he gave out to people he met on the road, in hopes that they would spread the word and ultimately increase Kerry's sales on itunes. I sat back, drank my beer in the sunshine and chatted with these new friends while "Chicks in Spandex" played on the speakers. This is what cycle tourists dream of.

Laeth wasn't done working his magic though. Another random guy sitting nearby caught Laeth and started asking questions about the trip we were on. Laeth chatted with this stranger for quite awhile before he came back to the table. A bit later, the stranger came over and laid forty dollars on the table. "I'm buying you guys dinner," he said.

Lunch for a solo rider is one thing, but dinner for four guys!? This was unbelievable. He went on to explain that he was inspired by what we were doing and really admired it. He wanted to support us. And his generosity didn't stop there. While we were waiting for our burgers to be made, the stranger returned, saying, "You guys need desert!" His kids came back a few minutes later with a selection of ice cream bars for us to enjoy. He offered to meet us a few days later farther south and take us out for pizza too, and when he learned that one of us (Brandon) was raising money for a charity that got disabled kids out bicycling, he made a donation to the cause. Unfortunately, the timing didn't work out for pizza down the road, but I'll always remember that man's enthusiasm for our efforts and his generosity.

I had a grand time eating dinner with the three guys, and we all set up our camps together. This happened to be labor day, and everybody had returned home from their long weekend leaving the campground completely empty. Well, almost. There were a dozen English cyclists that camped at the site across from ours and they were having a party. They had beer and whisky, and steaks roasting on a fire. We joined them for awhile, and this seemed to be their normal routine. They were all in their twenties and on vacation from jobs in England. They were cycling the whole pacific coast, and they were having a good time doing it!

From Standish Hickey, the four of us pedaled South together. Thanks to Laeth, Kerry, and Brandon's welcoming spirit, we were now a team working together to get to San Francisco in three days. Although I had been reluctant to join them at first, I had to admit that it was great to have people to ride with after so much time by myself.

We started off the day with a thousand foot climb up to Leggett, than had a nice descent as we made our way back to the coast. During the course of the trip I had started to delude myself with thoughts that I was good at descending. These guys quickly showed me that was far from true. They flew down the hill, gracefully gliding around turns. I wasn't even tempted to try to keep up; I used my brakes plenty and didn't catch up until they had to stop for construction near the bottom of the hill! Fortunately our paces were reasonably similar apart from the descents, so we were able to stick together pretty well.

South of Leggett, highway one along the California coast was a cycling paradise to rival Oregon's. The road had light traffic, and rolled over hills one or two hundred feet high. The top of each hill offered a rewarding view looking out over cliffs that dropped straight to the sea. Each climb was followed by an exhilarating, curvy descent back to the edge of the sea.

We cruised down the road, enjoying the sights and making our first stop in the little town of Westport. We stopped at the only grocery store in town, which had disappointingly little food and disappointingly high prices. I was waiting outside with Laeth while Kerry and Brandon were still in the store when a local woman came by, and told us that the tomatoes and vegetables sitting in boxes outside the store were from the community garden and therefore free. "You should go to the community garden too," she continued, "everyone is welcome to pick vegetables there." I was a little unbelieving, but she insisted: "it's for everyone," she repeated.

Well, that was sufficient for us. Laeth and I, followed by Kerry, helped ourselves to a couple tomatoes each and then headed up to the community garden. The tomatoes were extraordinary; we ate them like apples. On the way to the garden, a local on the side of the road struck up a conversation with Kerry, so he stayed behind while Laeth and I went on to the garden.

The garden was small but productive. There were beats, carrots, and various leafy greens. Laeth and I picked a few, watered the plants (this was Laeth's idea...he is a tremendously thoughtful person), and talked to Kerry when he caught up to us. The local he'd met had invited us over...he had a small winery, and was happy to share. We reconnected with Brandon and headed down to the man's house.

As it turned out, this guy may have been the most unusual character I met on the entire trip. His house was a museum...a man-cave museum. It had ancient arcade machine, record players, a megalodon tooth and who knows what else. There were a couple guys around, clearly in party mode.

We learned that they had only met each other a day or two before while diving for abalone. I didn't know what an abalone was, but they told me. It's similar to a clam, but enormous and rare. There is no commercial harvest anymore, but a few can be harvested each year for private consumption. Apparently, there is a black market for these things where they sell for $500 a piece.

I also learned that "ab diving" is tremendously dangerous if you don't know what you're doing. It's illegal to use scuba gear, so guys simply hold their breath and dive up to 30 feet deep to find these things. Occasionally, people get tangled in kelp or lost in cracks and drown. Ten years ago a great white shark bit a diver's head off. The owner of the man cave had been diving off the coast of Westport for decades though, and seemed full of experience.

We were served wine and abalone, and told stories about the dives and our hosts' lives. "Can you believe my wife left me!?" exclaimed our host at one point. "She left because I always had company over and the party never stopped...well it's been twenty years and the party is still going." That certainly appeared to be true. We'd passed by in the middle of the day in the middle of the week, and he'd welcomed us in to join his party.

We hung out there for an hour or two before eventually insisting that we needed to get back on the road. He was a terrific host: fun, welcoming, and generous...and with three other friends I felt comfortable there. He seemed to be living his dream.

Redwoods to Standish Hickey State Park

After a good night's sleep I woke up before sunset the next morning. I packed my sleeping bag quickly, grabbed my pack out of the bear cache, and hoofed it up to the lookout. I wanted to eat breakfast while I watched the sun rise. I was disappointed to find that none of the valves at the lookout actually provided any water, which meant that I had to walk a couple miles before having a drink that morning. But I did get to enjoy my last hot pocket and as the sun crested the hills.

I took a circuitous route back to the campground and my bicycle, adding about a mile to the return. I stopped to look at "Tall Tree" and "Giant Tree" on my way by; the two trees are aptly named and popular tourist attractions. Although they don't really seem to stand out too much from the other redwoods that surround them, Tall Tree is known as the tallest redwood, at >360 feet tall, and although only 354 feet tall, Giant Tree  is known as the biggest coastal redwood due to its diameter.

Once reunited with my bicycle I was determined to put in some big days on my own. I had 280 miles to go in three and a half days, and I was itching to feel tired. The day went well. I rode South again, passing the campground I stayed at two nights earlier after about 15 miles. I pedaled that same stretch of road three times, in total. Fortunately, it was one of the best stretches of road for cycling on the whole trip, so I didn't mind. Who would get tired of cycling through some of the tallest, most majestic trees in the world?

There was one big climb that day, and I hoped to crest it and then cover another thirty miles or so until I reached a good campsite. As usual, I spent more time in a town along the way than I planned. It was getting close to five o'clock when I approached the bottom of the climb, and I had to admit that it might get dark by the time I reached the next campground. I was just starting to consider setting up camp at the campground at the top of the hill.

Then I saw three cyclists in the distance ahead of me. I was frustrated: I really wanted to pedal by myself just then, but I felt obligated to talk to the riders rather than just pedal past. I caught up to them soon, and was impressed by their cycling know-how. They were moving at a pretty decent pace, two had color coordinated bike outfits that suggested they were sponsored, and all three were comfortable looking around and chatting as they road. The trio seemed to have a similar outlook on their tour to mine: they were doing it not just to see the coast and travel, but also because they enjoyed biking fast. 

One of the guys was wearing a jersey that said British Columbia across the back, and we struck up a conversation easily. I learned that he had started cycling from his backdoor in Vancouver, and had just met the other two guys on the road a couple nights earlier. The other two were from Texas: one a father of a 17 year-old, recently retired, and out doing what he loved to do, and the other fresh out of the college cycle racing scene and now on his first cycle tour. They pedaled at about the same pace I wanted to up the hill, so we all stayed together.

To my surprise, I enjoyed their company as we chatted our way up the climb. By the time we got to the campground and the guys invited me to join them for a beer across the street, I had given up on the idea of trying to reach the next campground. I parked my bike, pulled a relatively clean shirt over my cycling vest, and pulled up a chair with my new cycling team. This decision would redefine the rest of my trip.

Humboldt Redwood State Park

Backpacking was a bit of a challenge. The only backpack I had was my miniature running backpack with a capacity of 5.5 Liters. But where there's a will there's a way.

I packed up my camp and started the 15 mile pedal back toward the lost coast to reach the trail head, planning to stop at one of the two campgrounds on the way to check in and pay my five dollar fee to pitch a tent in the woods. But first, I stopped at the one nearby grocery store right when it opened at 8 o'clock. The store didn't have much to offer, but I knew I wouldn't have space to pack my stove so I couldn't cook anyway. I picked up two frozen hot pockets, two frozen burritos, a bag of corn tortillas and a jar of peanut butter (about 6000 calories) and headed off. I stopped at the first campground and explained that I wanted to camp at one of the hike in sites and lock my bike at the campground somewhere. "I wouldn't do that," said the camp host. She went on to explain that there were a lot of people in the campground, and the park couldn't be responsible for the bike, and she just wouldn't trust everyone. She suggested walking my bike up a fire road all the way to the campsite. I thought about trying to explain that I really wanted to take a hiking trail, I was willing to except some risk of losing the bike to enable hiking, and that I was happy to carry the bike and gear half a mile into the woods and hide it somewhere. But instead I decided to try my luck with the next campground host, and accepted her plan as a viable alternative.

I pedaled five more miles down the road and asked the next campground host exactly the same question. She was super helpful! She arranged for me to lock my bike and gear in a shed, and didn't even bat an eye at the tiny pack I was planning to bring.

I packed my bag with tights, a rain jacket and a hat; a small first aid kit, knife, SPOT and matches; twine, a space blanket, and forty pages I tore out of the biography of Crazy Horse I was reading. I tied my sleeping bag to the bottom of the pack, and carried my water bottle. I was in for a cold night if it rained, but with the space blanket it would be OK.

I did end up walking most of the seven miles to camp on a fire road, but it was beautiful. I saw just two other people on the hike up. Otherwise, I was free to enjoy the redwoods alone. At the beginning of the trail, they were enormous 300 foot trees, but as the trail wound it's way up to 3000 feet, the trees slowly became smaller.Once the canopy was down to perhaps 150 feet, I climbed part way up one of the trees. It's not an easy task, because the lowest branches are so far off the ground in the redwoods, but this particularly tree had two smaller trees growing right next to it, so I was able to climb the smallest to reach the branches on the next, and then switch to the second tree and climb it to the branches on the tall tree. Even then, I wasn't confident enough to climb to the top, but I satisfied the childish urge I'd been feeling to climb one ever since I first arrived in the redwoods several days before.

The trail climbed up to a fire watch tower at about 3000 feet of elevation. Unfortunately, the tower was closed, but the view from the area surrounding the tour was beautiful nonetheless. I could see the ridge I had rode over two days before to reach the lost coast, and the enormous state forests covering the hills in the distance to the East. I hadn't appreciated how wild parts of California are, despite its burgeoning population.

The campsite was just below the lookout, and I got there in the afternoon several hours before sunset.I took out my book and spent the time alternating between reading the 40 pages I'd packed with me and simply staring into the woods striving to notice details that I generally overlook. Five other people stayed at the camp that night (four in one group) but I kept to myself and my book. At sunset, I fell asleep.

The Lost Coast

From Prairie Creek I started making my way to The Lost Coast. The Lost Coast is a ~50 mile stretch of largely undeveloped coast line that begins about 20 miles south of Eureka. The story goes that when engineers were plotting the route of Highway 101, they decided that the region was too mountainous and therefore too expensive to build a road in. As a result the highway swings inland around this piece of coastline, and it is hidden from the bulk of tourist and commuter traffic. There are no resorts or hotels; not even a supermarket.

Before I reached the mountains, I stopped in Arcata for a few hours. I cruised by the Humboldt State campus, stopped at a food stand for a delicious Nigerian lunch, hung out in the library for an hour and a half, and stopped at a bike shop to get a new rear view mirror. I started the trip with two mirrors. One was a concave mirror I picked up way back in Fairbanks that can be mounted in the end of handlebars. I didn't like it. With drop handlebars like most road bikes have, it's difficult to position the mirror so that it's not blocked by the rider's left arm. Even once it was in position, I could only use it when my head was in the right place, and never when I stood up on the pedals. Furthermore, my paniers blocked part of the view in that mirror, making it impossible to see cars that hugged the fog line until they were close behind me.

I bought a second mirror in Haines that could be mounted on a visor or riding glasses. I liked this mirror better, but it still had some problems. I didn't have a visor on my helmet, so I attached the mirror to my riding glasses. With it mounted on my riding glasses the mirror was very close to my eye. When I positioned the mirror far enough to the left to see past my head, it was nearly in the same plane as my face, so I really had to strain my eyes to look into it. Furthermore, I switched between clear and shaded glasses, and occasionally rode with no glasses at all. As a result I was constantly having to switch the mirror between glasses or ride without it. Somewhere in Oregon I was riding with no glasses and the mirror fell out of my handlebar bag without me noticing, lost forever. By the time I reached Arcata I'd lost the handlebar mirror too: although it held up for quite awhile, eventually it got bumped too hard and a piece of the mount cracked. I noticed, but didn't care enough to fix it. At some point the mirror rattled loose and fell off without me noticing.

The mirror I got in Arcata met all my desires. It simply sticks onto a helmet with an adhesive pad, and is mounted on a flexible wire arm. It's easy to position properly, and gives a good rear-view. Somewhat to my surprise, the adhesive held up well too. Although many tourists ride without mirrors, relying on their hearing to alert them to approaching cars (and even identify the type of truck and weight of load they're hauling), I like to use the mirror to check if cars are crowding me or hauling an extra wide load.

From Arcata I made it to a campground just at the base of the climb to the lost coast and rolled out my sleeping bag under the stars. In the morning, I pedaled up the 1500 climb into a pass in the King Mountains. The road was narrow, but had almost no traffic (apart from a handful of log trucks coming down the hill). I had a grand time pedaling up it, and even turned off on a side road and pedaled along a ridge once I got to the top, enjoying the view of forests for miles all around.

From there I started the descent. Although not as harrowing as the decent into Pemberton, it was steep enough to keep my attention, and I rode the brakes the whole way down. The road was rough too, leading to one flat tire. I'd picked up a puncture proof tube a few days earlier, so I put that on and continued on my way. The tube ended up performing very well, putting an end to my flat tires on the rear wheel.

Once I got down the hill to the coast I was rewarded with something I didn't think existed in California: beaches and trees as far as I could see, without a house in sight. The only development around was an occasional fence containing a handful of livestock, apparently left largely unattended. There was no cell phone service in this area, not even in the one town I passed through. The coast truly was lost. Wonderful!

I made camp at the only campground on that stretch of road: a rather unattractive sand pit with a dozen parking spaces and flat tent sites. But hidden just on the other side of a sand dune was an absolutely magnificent sandy beach, almost devoid of people. I walked for three hours on that beach, enjoying the isolation.

The lost coast as the fog rolls in.

I stayed up for awhile that night, enjoying the hospitality of my camp neighbors who generously shared an enormous raw oyster with me, the went to bed. In the morning I got up early and headed on into the mountains guarding the way back to the highway. This hill was 2500 feet, and I loved it. It was still decently cool while I climbed it, and I felt good. The descent was fun too. The road was rough and I popped my front tube once when I failed to avoid a put hole, but otherwise the descent was graceful and enjoyable. As the road finally leveled out at the bottom, I found myself back in the redwoods.

The trees were even bigger here than in Prairie Creek State Park. The largest over 360 feet tall, the trees squeeze the small road to the lost coast, coming right to the edge of the pavement in many places. It appears that the road was built around the trees, as it weaves back and forth between them. At least I hope that's the case. This is the Avenue of the Giants, I realized, as I pedaled along slowly, awestruck. I'd been told that I had to see this place, and I am grateful that I did.

To be completely accurate, the road to the lost coast intersects with the Avenue of the Giants about ten miles from where it enters the redwoods, so I wasn't quite on it yet. But is surrounded by the same ancient forest that surrounds the Avenue of the Giants, and is, if anything, even more striking because the road the Avenue is a bit wider.

It was early when I reached the redwoods, but I was so struck by this place that I chose to spend the night there. Once I set up camp, I learned that there were back country camps that could be hiked into. I still had 250 miles to go, but five days to do it in...I decided to spend a day camping in the woods away from the road and then putting in a few big days to get to San Francisco. I went to sleep on top of my un-pitched tent, admiring the stars and looking forward to backpacking the next day.

Prairie Creek State Park

At about five in the afternoon I entered the redwoods. It had been a fairly hot day, and the road had a lot of traffic for the last couple hours. I was climbing slowly up a hill. As I crested the hill I suddenly found myself surrounded by trees hundreds of feet tall. The air was cool under the canopy and felt fresh against my face as I pedaled down hill. Coincidentally, I passed the pair of Peace Corps Volunteers about eight miles from camp, and caught up to another of the traveling gang a few miles later. We pedaled to camp together, marveling at the giants around us.

The next morning I said good bye to a couple of my new friends, but the two peace corps volunteers and I went for a nine mile hike in the morning, walking down to the redwoods. They are truly impressive life forms...I like the way John Steinbeck described them in this quote:

“The redwoods, once seen, leave a mark or create a vision that stays with you always. No one has ever successfully painted or photographed a redwood tree. The feeling they produce is not transferable. From them comes silence and awe. It's not only their unbelievable stature, nor the color which seems to shift and vary under your eyes, no, they are not like any trees we know, they are ambassadors from another time.”

To be fair, I think the Sitka Spruce forests in southeast compare pretty favorably, but I loved passing through these forests nonetheless. The three of us hiked to a place called Fern Canyon. The canyon is a narrow slot perhaps 100 feet deep and 30 feet wide. The walls are completely covered in several species of fern, and home to some striking yellow slugs. Right up to the edge of the canyon, redwoods tower into the sky. It's a place worth visiting, without a doubt.

All smiles in Fern Canyon.

After appreciating the canyon for half an hour or so, we hoofed it back to camp and the two Volunteers continued their trip South. I gorged myself on a loaf of bread, then took a two hour nap.

I woke feeling ready to go, and took off on a run into the forest. The trails in Prairie Creek are perfect for running: narrow, winding and interesting, but flat enough to allow for a good pace. I ran straight from my campsite, just carrying a water bottle, a headlamp, my passport and cash in my backpack. I ran 5 or six miles, then stopped at a bench and looked at the trees. Then I ran some more, flittering down the trail and stopping whenever the mood struck me. 

I had a nice 16 mile loop planned and had passed the halfway point and was starting to race the sun back to camp when I came around a corner and saw the white rear of an elk in the path less than 20 feet in front of me. I stopped quickly and backed around the corner, while the elk (fortunately) took off in the other direction. I waited a bit, and then slowly came around the corner to see if the elk had moved off the trail. Alas, he had only moved down the trail a little ways and was now stopped.

The elk had an incredible rack of antlers. Compared to a moose, the rack was slender and elegant, and seemed larger in comparison to the elk's body than I would have expected. It looked kind of ridiculous in fact, the antlers were so large.

I paused to watch for a bit, then backed around the corner again. We went on like this for about an hour: me waiting out of sight, then slowly moving forward until I could see the elk again, confirming that he was still in the trail, then backing out of sight. Eventually, it became clear that the elk was not going to get out of the trail, and I wasn't willing to leave the trail to go around him. So I headed back the way I came; the long way round the loop I'd started.

I jogged back slowly, in case I ran into more elk. And sure enough, I hadn't even been headed back for half an hour when I ran into more elk on the trail. Fortunately, these elk scampered off into the brush, so I didn't have my route cut off again. Inevitably, the sun set before I got back to camp. After stubbing my toe on a root, I reluctantly took out my headlight and used it to find my way. By the time I got back it was pitch dark, but I was happy. I cooked some dinner then crawled into my sleeping blag glad that I'd taken a day to explore the park.

Cape Lookout to Prairie Creek

South of Cape Lookout I established a wonderful routine of waking up early, running to the beach, stretching, pedaling for most of the day and getting to camp early enough to enjoy the company of new friends. For four nights I found the same four people at my campsites: the two peace corps Volunteers I met at Cape Lookout, another young woman from the Bay Area, and a retired prison guard completing a journey he'd dreamed about for 25 years.

The days blended together, but each had its own extraordinary people, beautiful beaches, friendly towns, and variety of libraries. There was one woman in her twenties who had been on the road for over two years. She had a big, heavy steel touring cycle equipped with a heavy trailer, and she covered about 30 miles a day. "It's not about the cycling," she explained, "it's about the traveling. I used to own a car, but it was always breaking down and costing money. A car just tied me down too much, so I sold it and got the bike." She made a living selling copper bracelets she made while traveling and working odd jobs she found on the way. "Someday I might go back to Montana and live on my cousins farm," she said, "but I don't want to stop traveling yet."

There was a man in his fifties who started touring when he was a teenager. His family was abusive, and one day he bicycled away. He toured for a month that first time, before returning home. But he left on more trips after that, and he's been a cycle tourist ever since.

A pair of couples from the Netherlands showed up on the road one day. The four of them had been going on a bike tour annually for years, in Thailand, Europe and South America. The last one of the four had just retired this year, so they were able to undertake a tour longer than two weeks for the first time, and they were excited to be pedaling all the way down the coast and then heading to the Grand Canyon as well.

Then there was the guy from Florida who had caught a ride to San Fransisco and was moving to Seattle. He had a pet dog, and couldn't bear to leave him behind or send him to his friends already living in Seattle...but this was no problem: the dog sat in a basket on his handlebars, and watched the scenery go by! We bonded a bit over the strangeness of cycling alone for so long, swapping stories about the songs we sang to ourselves, our appreciation for the company of cattle on the roadside, and the frustration of having so many inspirational ideas on the bike but never seeming to remember them at night with our notepads.

I was trying to read up on classes and catch up on this blog as I pedaled down the coast, so I stopped at a library each day. They gave a nice window into the towns: there were nice big libraries with clean buildings and fast inernet, like the ones in North Bend and Pacific City, grungy little libraries with computers that barely functioned, and occasionally a small, wonderful library with enthusiastic staff and a story to tell. Of them all, the Port Orford library was my favorite. Port Orford is a small town--about the size of Haines--but the library is spacious and welcoming. I found books on the redwood parks I was planning to pass through, a book on cycle maintenance, and good internet at the library. Just inside the entrance stood a life-size girl cast in brass. She smiled subtly and held a banner above her head that said simply, "Imagine."

The librarian explained to me that brass girl had been donated, and the names of those 'gone too soon' on the base of the statue represented donations to the library in the name of deceased loved ones. "The statue is a tribute to this library," the librarian said, obviously proud. "it is amazing that a poor town like this can have such an incredible library."

I appreciated the town of Port Orford too. There is a historical park there preserving the site of an old search and rescue station. Ships used to get lost in the fog that often shrouds the cost and end up crashing on the rocks. The coast guard built a watch tower at the top of cliffs near Port Orford that drop dramatically into the sea. The watch tower is gone now, but the view is not. From the cliffs you can see tens of miles down the coast and out to sea. When I was there, the coast to the north was fogged in, so I looked out on a blanket of white. But the south was clear, so I could see down into the bay that Port Orford is built around and marvel at the rocky towers that protrude from the sea.

Through all of this, I met the same four people in camp each night, which gave us the opportunity to swap stories and relive our travels of the day. I got to hear their stories too, of living in villages in Panama and Nigeria, and interacting with prisoners for two and a half decades. We leap-frogged each other throughout the days since we all stopped at different places, and sometimes we pedaled together for a few miles. It was a perfect addition to my traveling: I still had the independence of traveling alone, but the comforting company of people I knew to chat with at night and meet along the road.

With some hesitation, I left the group just south of the California border, at Prairie Creek State Park. As much as I appreciated the group, I had a few extra days, and I wanted to spend them in the redwoods. Prairie Creek was the first redwood park that we encountered, and I chose to spend two nights there while the rest of the gang pressed on. And oh my, what a wonderful place it was to spend a day.

Cannon Beach to Cape Lookout

After my joyous dash across the sand in Cannon Beach, I packed up and rolled South again. The day held a couple of pleasant surprises...First, just a short distance south from Cannon Beach I rolled past a sign advertising Kelly's Brighton Marina, an RV campground and marina selling fresh crab. The two Canadian women that hosted me at their campsite in Washington had told me about this place: they had ended up looking for a campsite late at night, and begrudgingly ended up staying at this place. The said it looked funky, and that there was a guy wearing a crab shaped hat on his head who ran the place, but they ended up having one of the best nights of their trip at the marina. I had to pull in and check it out, and smiled when I saw the tall guy in a crab hat and an out of place snack shop with big water troughs full of live crabs and other shell fish. It was just as the women described, and that was fun to see.

After a brief self-guided tour of the marina and an ice cream bar, I headed down the road again. I hadn't gone more than a dozen miles when I cruised by a car waiting at a stop sign to get on the 101. As I rode by, I distinctly heard somebody shout my name, "Chandler!"

I looked closer. It was the couple from Gnat Creek! The folks I'd stayed up late chatting with two nights before. They pulled up next to me and we exchanged a couple sentences before traffic pressured them to move on. What fun to share the route South with some people I'd met before.

When I arrived in Tillamook, I stopped off at a fish and chips shack across the street from the cheese factory to get my first taste of fresh tuna (or at least tuna that didn't come from a can). I was sitting outside eating when a big truck pulling a camper parked at the shack. The retirement age couple got out of the truck and sat down at the table adjacent to mine after ordering their food. They saw my grungy clothing and touring bicycle and started to ask me questions: "Where'd you start?"

"Alaska," I replied. "I'm headed to San Fransisco."

"You're crazy," came the response. We chatted a bit more, and I got the impression that the couple found me crazy like a high school kid that refuses to wear a helmet to be tough, rather than crazy like a person worthy of admiration. Soon their food came, the couple ate quickly and then got back in their truck. As they started to pull away, the man stuck his head out of the window. "By the way," he said, "I paid for your lunch."

No way! I thought.

"Thank you!" I exclaimed, and the coupled disappeared headed north. The fish and chips that I had found disappointingly dry and flaky before suddenly tasted much better after that.

When I finished eating I pedaled over to the cheese factory. I spent an unreasonable amount of time there, but it fascinated me: enormous blocks of cheese rolling down shiny conveyor belts, everything appearing to be carefully thought out, constructed, and precisely engineered. It reminded me of the physics lab I used to work in as an undergrad.

From the cheese factory, I pedaled on to Cape Lookout State Park to spend the night. Here, for the first time, I met cyclists my own age headed down the coast. There was a British man learning to juggle seven balls at once, two peace corps Volunteers that met each other while working in Panama and a man from Southern California that worked for the Catholic church (in fact, he worked for a specific person in the church--maybe a bishop?--and he reported that this person occasionally performed exorcisms when doctors failed to diagnose patients... part of the cyclist's job was to screen calls from people seeking exorcisms that did not need them. I didn't even know exorcisms still officially happened!). We sat around a campfire that night, swapping stories and learning about each other. It felt good to hang out with my peers again.

I appreciated the beach at Cape Lookout too. I arrived, ate and set up camp and still had time before sunset, so I went down to the beach and swam in the waves. The water was cold and I'm really skinny, so I couldn't stay in long. But I enjoyed being in the Pacific briefly and feeling the power of the surf as I let it carry me back to shore. In the morning, I got up and went down to the beach again. I took off my shoes and socks, but didn't run much; my calves were a bit sore from the previous day's barefoot run. Instead I stretched as the sun came up and appreciated the clean sand and booming surf. Eventually satisfied, I packed up and headed South again.

To the Coast

I apologize for the long lapse in my blogging...I have a lot of catching up to do, but now I believe I can promise a new post every day until I get to the end of the story. ...Here goes:

The Oregon Coast is made for cycling. The highway winds along the coast, climbing up strenuous but manageable hills and descending through smooth, graceful curves. Traffic is manageable along most of the highway, and there are many opportunities to leave the main road and enjoy even less traffic on side streets. I followed the Adventure Cycling Maps I carried with me, but the state of Oregon provides cycling maps at most of the visitor centers as well. The recommended route is well marked with signs, both to direct cyclists to low traffic, scenic roads, and to warn motorists to share the road. The state campgrounds have hiker/biker sites as well: areas designated specifically for people camping without a motor vehicle, and charge just five dollars per night.

After leaving the small campground on Gnats Creek just South of the Oregon border, I pedaled on through Astoria and down to Cannon Beach. It wasn't until I got past Astoria that I began to realize what a treat the next week of cycling was going to be. Since leaving Bremerton several days before, my body hadn't felt well and the traffic and roads were not conducive to cycling. In particular, the 20 miles into Cathlamet just before crossing the Washington/Oregon border had been busy with cars and didn't offer much shoulder. But once I reached the coast, with waves crashing at the base of dramatic cliffs just a few hundred feet from the road, I was invigorated.

I rolled into Cannon Beach in the early evening, and immediately liked the feel of the town. I was greeted by a kite shop, and although it was closed, I marveled at the artistic creations in the window. What a wonderful career, I thought, spending time making such lovely, benign toys. The sign on the door said that they were open from 10 AM to 4 PM, but sometimes the store opened as early as 7AM or as late as noon. "But lately," the sign said, "I've been here pretty much all the time...except when I'm not."

The message captured the feel of Cannon Beach for me (at least the little I saw of it in one night). It's certainly a tourist town--the solid line of condos between the sandy beach and the road evidences that--but it's still relaxed. It reminds me of Whistler a bit: perhaps Cannon Beach is the place Portland folks go to get away from the city, while Vancouverites escape to Whistler. But I enjoyed the relaxed seaside feel of Cannon beach more than the high-octane mountain sports feel of Whistler.

I stayed in a private campground that night...I was disappointed at first, because there is only one campground in Cannon Beach, and they had posted a big sign at their entrance that said "Campground Full       REALLY!" and nobody was in the office. I was about to leave when a college age guy ran over and told me that they still had space for bikers. He proceeded to charge me $10 (about one third the price of a standard campsite) and showed me back to a wonderful, small, private campsite in the woods behind all of the cars. Like I said, Oregon is made for cycle touring.

After dinner that night, I walked down to the beach, just as the last colors were fading from the horizon. I was blown away. Big Pacific swells crashed on the broad, white sand beach, and towers of rock climbed into the sky just off shore. Oyster Catchers (a type of seabird with a long orange beak that I had first seen in Glacier Bay a month earlier) and gulls covered the rocks, and the ocean stretched out past the horizon.




This beautiful picture is beyond my photography capabilities... I borrowed it from another blog:
http://www.angelastrand.com/2011/05/cannon-beach-or.html

This is the Pacific, I thought. It's so different than the ocean in the Lynn Canal. The waves in the Lynn Canal, although ferocious and perilous, are never like the big ocean swells that Cannon Beach gets even without any wind. I tend to think of myself as someone who grew up on the ocean...but I realized looking out from Cannon Beach that what I call ocean is completely different from the Ocean that fishermen experience out in the Gulf of Alaska, or that sailors write about in old exploration stories. I know that I don't appreciate it as they do...but at least I realize that.

When woke up to my alarm at 5:30 the next morning, slipped on my running shoes over barefeet, pulled on my light, short running shorts and a T-shirt, and jogged down to the beach just in time for sun rise. Once there, I took off my shirt and shoes, and went down to the edge of the sea, a few inches of water submerging my feet whenever a wave arrived. I looked along the coast, and headed off into the distance.

I ran.

The sand was firm, and pleasant between my toes and I felt light. I ran all the way down the beach, past boulders and rock towers, eventually stopping in a cove in some rocks to stretch, breath the damp air and take in the sounds of the waves, the bird calls, and the feel of the sand rolling beneath my toes. I jogged back to my shoes, sprinting occasionally for the joy of it.

Sometimes, it's just good to be alive.

Shelton to Oregon

After a good night's sleep in Shelton and so many easy days, I expected to be full of energy the following day. But for some reason, I couldn't get in a good rhythm. By the end of the day, my stomach was feeling a bit queasy, and I was glad to pull into camp after about 100 km.

I had read that there were "hiker-biker sites" for people camping without a car that were cheaper than other campsites, but when I arrived the only one I saw was full. I cruised around the campground looking for more. In fact, nearly every site was full, hiker-biker or otherwise. As I neared the end of my tour of the campground, somebody yelled from behind a camper, "Is it full?" I stopped and looked over. Two women were sitting by a campfire drinking wine, and I explained, "I'm just looking for a hiker-biker site."

"Well there's space here, if you can't find a site...we're not going to use the tent site."

"Thanks a lot I," I said, "I'll keep looking, but maybe I'll come back." I kept riding around the campsite. There were some empty car sites, but they were expensive. And some company at a campfire would be much appreciated. I rode back to the two women. "You sure there's space for me?"

The two women treated me to a feast that night! Stir fry with steak and vegetables, and I got to enjoy their stories over previous motorbike and RV trips all over Canada and the US. As I ate, my stomach became more uncomfortable, but I didn't want to turn down such good food! I enjoyed the company that evening, but had to turn in early on account of my stomach.

I didn't sleep much that night due to nausea and diarrhea, and was beginning to worry that I had contracted Giardia somewhere along the way. Fortunately, I was feeling moderately better in the morning, and made a short day down to Seaquest State Park near Castle Rock, before feeling ill again. I lay out my sleeping bag on top of my tent (without pitching the tent) and took a three hour nap. When I woke up, I was relieved to find myself feeling much better. I went for a little jog down to a boardwalk and got a beautiful view of Mt. St. Helens, then went back to camp, ate some spaghetti and fell asleep again.

Miraculously, I was essentially recovered by the next day. I rode about 100 km without any trouble, catching a ferry across the Columbia River into Oregon and making next to a pretty brook in a 'primitive campground' with just three sites. I appreciated the Adventure Cycling maps that recommended this route as I sat on the ferry rather than fighting my way across the notoriously dangerous bridge into Astoria. I ate dinner early and was just settling in to read in the shade for a few hours before hitting the hay when a retired couple invited me over to their camp for a beer. Once again, I was welcomed with warm hospitality and good food (brats, in this case) at another's campground. We sat up for a couple hours listening to each others' stories before turning in for the night.

Bremerton to Shelton

I left Bremerton in the early afternoon after spending the morning replacing chain rings and bar tape, and otherwise fixing up my bicycle. It felt good to be on the road again, but I stopped a couple times that day and old made it a about 60 km down to Shelton. I picked up groceries there, and found an RV park that would let me pitch a tent for a ten dollar fee. The grocery store was only three miles from the park, so after picking up pasta and sauce for the evening, I decided to try to carry the bags from my handlebars rather than repacking. I made it about a mile before one of the breaks tore, and my glass jar of pasta sauce slipped out and splattered on the road. Grrr.

I pulled over, lay down my bike, and went back into the road to clean up the glass. I was just about to repack my bags when a big truck pulled up beside me. "Where you headed?" he asked.

I explained that I had about two miles to go to get to my campsite. He offered a ride, and I accepted. "I was driving by as your bag was breaking," he told me. I was impressed, this guy had actually turned around and come back to help me out! "It's my good deed for the day," he said, as excuse for his kindness.

It took a bit for us to find the RV park--it wasn't exactly a tourist attraction, and didn't have much in the way of signage as a result--but we eventually succeeded, and the guy dropped me off, saying, "Well, maybe now you'll remember Shelton." Indeed I do.

About the Bike

My horse.

From Seattle, I hopped a ferry to Bremerton, camped near town, and finally gave my bike some loving. I think there's some interest in the bike I'm riding, and this seems like an appropriate place to talk about it. To the gear heads out there, this post is for you. I'll do my best to communicate effectively, although I'm afraid I don't qualify as a gear head myself.

The bike is a Giant OCR 3 that I purchased new in 2007 for $650. I purchased it to commute to town, and enter the Kluane to Chilkat Bike Relay once per year. It came with low end Shimano shifting components, pedals that strapped onto shoes, and a standard plastic seat. Since then, I've replaced and modified many of its parts, but the frame, shifters, and brakes remain the same.

The frame is aluminum, primarily designed for the racer on a budget. That means it's light weight, but not as durable as a steel frame would be, or  as stiff as a carbon fiber frame would be.  Although most frames are sold in sizes measured by centimeters, this line of bikes simply comes in small, medium and large. My bike has a 'large' frame. At the time I purchased the bike, the cycle shop owner simply had me stand over the top bar and ensure that my crotch cleared the bar, but by less than two inches to fit the bike to me. Since then, I've grown a couple inches. But with a long stem and properly adjusted seat, I'm comfortable on the bike, which I suppose must mean that the frame fits me reasonably well. In retrospect, I think that paying a bit more money and sacrificing some weight to get a steel frame would have made sense for me. Although I haven't ridden one, they are reputed to be more durable, easier to repair if damaged in a crash, and more comfortable to ride on. Since I primarily use my bike for commuting, and now touring, those qualities are worth the extra weight. On the other hand, the frame has held up great through several thousand miles of riding without any signs of wear so far, so maybe aluminum is durable enough for me anyway!

I haven't changed the shifting components at all: they're still the same low end Shimano shifters. They occasionally come out of adjustment, making it hard to change gears when I want to (and occasionally shifting when I don't want it to!) but with some tweaking they still work as well as ever.

One neat gimmick on this bike is that it has two pairs of brake handles: one on the drops and one on the horizontal part of the handlebars near the stem. It's essential to have the brakes on the drops for descending hills, and the other pair of brakes is handy for cruising through towns. Both pairs of handles connect to the same brake cables, so each wheel is braked by one pair of pads just like any other bike. I've replaced the brake pads in the rear twice and the front once during, but the brake cabling is still original.

I don't know much about the wheels on my bike...I do know that they have shallow rims, accept presta valves, and are Alexis brand. I replaced the entire rear wheel this summer because the wear groove on the original rim had disappeared, indicating that the rim was getting dangerously thin.

For this tour, I've been running 700X28 mm tires and tubes. 28 mm is pretty wide for road bike tires, but I think they give a bit smoother ride than the standard 23 mm tire, and seem to hold up better with a load on the bike. Currently, I have a Continental Gator Skin tire in the rear, and a Continental Ultra Sort tire in front...but basically, I just get whatever I can find when I need one. I'm also carrying two foldable, narrower tires for spares. Again, the spares just happen to be what I had when I left home.

I got my seat this spring specifically for the touring I expected to do. It's a leather seat made by Masi. I picked it up at a bike shop in Fairbanks...I had been planning to get a Brooks Saddle, based on recommendations from a few friends and a bit of reading; they seem to be the gold standard for touring seats. But the bike shop only had the Masi. Fortunately, I like it. It was hard as a rock and uncomfortable for several hundred miles when it was new, and it contributed to my discomfort on the ride from Fairbanks to Haines, but now that it's broken in I can ride all day without getting a sore butt.

The drive train consists of an 8 speed SRAM cassette and chain, and a "triple" set of chain rings. Sometime while I was in Seattle, the chain started to slip on the middle chain ring because the teeth were so worn, so I replaced it as well as the outer chain ring in Bremerton. Currently, I have a 29 tooth middle chain ring, a 52 tooth outer, and a very small "granny gear" for the third chain ring. Again the chain rings aren't ideal for what I'm doing. Now that I've ridden with this arrangement for awhile, I would prefer a bigger middle ring and smaller outer ring, maybe a 35 and a 48.

For pedals, I use a set that has clips on one side that attach to my shoes, and flats on the other side that are comfortable to pedal on with tennis shoes. Although I was skeptical at first, clipping in has a huge benefit because it allows riders to pull up on the pedals as well as push down.

Overall, my bike has held up very well and I've been happy with it. Apart from the tires and tubes, the only repair work I've done on the bike for this trip was replacing two chain rings, the chain, handlebar tape, and brake pads, and adjusting the derailleurs. I purchased a book in Bremerton in the hope that it would teach me the right way to fix my bike, and to capitalize on the interest my brain currently has in bicycle repair. I also payed $15 to have a professional adjust my front derailleurs, because I couldn't get it to shift after I foolishly purchased new chain rings with such different dimensions (I started the trip with a 32 and a 52, with "shift assist pins" on the bigger chain ring...I didn't pay much attention to what the mechanic gave me when I picked up new chain rings in Seattle, and wouldn't have known what to ask for anyway. With the smaller middle chain ring and no shift assist pins on the big chain ring, the new set up doesn't shift as well.)

Finally, to carry my gear I have an Axiom handler bar bag, Ortega paniers, and a small backpack to carry my gear. The paniers have torn a bit at the seams since I've been abusing them with excessive loads, but a few wraps of duck tape seem to have solved the problem. The handlebar bag is holding up like a champ, and is a tremendous asset to my trip. For my body, I've got a pair of Pearl Izumi bike shorts with a nice thick pad, a pair of bike shoes that are decently comfortable to walk around in, a bright yellow jacket, a helmet and lights, and a pair of well padded bike gloves.

Four nights and four friends

It was good to visit Ben. He met me at the ferry terminal in Port Hadlock, and drove me out to the place he was 'bus-sitting.' We sat around a fire, drank beer (a satisfying, but delicate thing to do after all that biking...I drank enough to get sick for the first time) and caught up...it had been almost a year since we talked.

The next day Ben showed me around the wooden boat school he was attending. It's amazing! Clearly, everyone there loved what they were doing. There were a couple people like Ben, who loved boats and were hoping that this school would give them enough skill to make a living working on boats, but many simply wanted to spend a year working on boats whether it led to a career or not. It's always fun to see people doing what they love.

It was also fun to see people finding a way to do what they loved...whether it meant renting a yurt, living in a decrepit sailboat that they got for free, or bus-sitting. I admire Ben for seeing what improves his life and not wasting time on other things...At least, that's my understanding of him.

From Ben's, I bicycled down to Whidbey Island and caught a ferry over to Seattle to visit my Aunt and Uncle. They are some of the most fun people I've ever met: when I was little, I remember lying on their floor with my shirt off, while my uncle stood on a chair and sprayed redi-whip into my mouth...I also remember when my uncle asked me to give my Aunt's engagement ring to her and I slipped it into my underwear...probably not how he expected me to carry it, but I didn't have pockets!

This time, they met me with ribs: delicious, tender, moist, cooked-all-day ribs. There was corn on the cob too, and bread, coleslaw and pie...and of course, plenty of redi-whip. Once, when my dad attempted to turn down some piece of food by saying "I don't need that," my Aunt replied, "This is the house of want, not the house of need!" Somehow, she seems to know what I want better than I do!

What great family...they even welcomed me like this!

The next day my Aunt gave me a tour of Seattle, dropping me off near the Pike Street Market while she went to a meeting, and then taking me up the Space Needle and through the Chihuly Glass exhibit. Both were amazing: from the Needle, my aunt gave me a visual tour of the city, pointing out places she used to live, and telling stories about her and my mom when they were in college. Appropriately placed at the base of the Space Needle, the glass exhibit seemed like it was from an alien world. Dramatic pointy spires of colorful glass erupted from the ground, and Dr. Seuss style trees with tall trunks and long wavy fronds grew from the lawn. Inside, flowers, bells and curly-cues tumbled on top of a brilliantly reflective black deck. Finally, out in the garden, enormous glass flowers grew from glass and steel vines, and framed the space needle perfectly overhead.

It's nice to know that my Aunt and Uncle will always be on my way home from school!

From my Aunt and Uncle's place, I went to visit a fellow Cornell runner named Chad. The last few days have been like a time machine: seeing Ben brought me back to my little league days, seeing my Aunt and Uncle simultaneously brought back memories from numerous moments throughout my life, and now seeing Chad brought me back to Cornell.

We went for a run down by the locks north of downtown Seattle, then went back to the house he lives in for dinner. A few other people came for dinner too, including Chad's girlfriend, housemates, and old cross country coach Doris Heritage, who happened to be a five time international cross country champion from 1967-1971.

The first time Chad introduced me to one of his friends as a Cornell cross country captain, I was kind of shocked: that seems so long ago, I'd almost forgotten. Then he introduced me to Doris: "This is Chandler, Cornell cross country captain. Chandler, this is Doris...five time world champion." I had to laugh at that contrast!

Dinner is a blast; all of these people are happy and fun to be around, and after dinner Chad and I went down to climb at "Vertical World," a hobby both of us picked up since leaving Cornell.

By a remarkable coincidence, I learned that my friend Jonathan from Alaska happened to be in Seattle at the same time, and I managed to catch up with him just before leaving town the next day. By the time I got to his aunt's house where he was staying, he had to leave to catch a flight back to Sitka in ten minutes. But it was fun to see him anyway, and to meet the rest of his family.

The best part of my whirl wind tour through the Seattle area was seeing friends with such varied lifestyles all enjoying, and loving their life so well. From bus-sitting at wooden boat school to starting a career with Boeing to owning a house and enjoying an established career...everyone loved their life.

Whistler to Port Hadlock

It was late morning by the time I finished touring the village of Whistler, but Vancouver was only 125 km away, which sounded unbelievably short after my last ride. I enjoyed the cruise downhill from Whistler out to the coast, followed by a beautiful ride along the coast into Vancouver. I got into the city at a decent hour, and was mildly disappointed to find that the downtown hostel was already full. Instead, I headed out to the UBC campus and stayed in one of their empty dorm rooms for $30. I had hoped to walk around and explore the city that evening, but instead I explored the campus.

It was strange to be in the city again after riding so long  through BC. The campus had big, beautiful buildings, and a wonderful, quiet library. I was ready to write, but terribly disappointed to find that there was no way for a guest to get internet access at the library on a Saturday night after six o'clock. Nonetheless, I enjoyed walking around. I stopped in a food court for dinner and went back to my dorm room. It felt just like college! Everyday as an undergrad, I would go for a long running workout, eat dinner, then sit down at my desk and work. Now I'd finished a bike ride, eaten dinner and was in a dorm room, but no problem set to work on! I actually wanted a good physics assignment that night...instead I went to sleep.

The next day I planned to make it all the way to Copefield to catch a ferry to Port Hadlock where my friend from Haines planned to pick me up. It was about 200 km away, but I planned on taking a county bus part way...then I realized that the county buses don't run on Sundays in Washington! Oh well, I thought, guess I've got another big day after all.

Riding through Vancouver was a bit of a pain, but luckily I had a map produced by the Adventure Cycling Association that showed me a good route through the city. A couple different people recommended the maps to me, and I ended up purchasing Adventure Cycling maps for the entirety of my route from Vancouver to San Francisco. The maps guided me from bike path to low traffic road, and I was grateful to be avoiding the busy highways.

I was a little South of the city, calmly pedaling along when I came to a railroad crossing. I probably shouldn't be approaching this at such a sharp angle, I thought, as my front tire approached the rail. Sure enough, my front tire slipped into the notch between the rail and the pavement, stopping the bike and pitching me onto the pavement. I was mostly on the shoulder, but hopped up quickly and looked over my shoulder to see if any traffic was coming. One car was close behind me, and it slowed almost to a stop and gave me lots of space. It even paused for a bit to stop traffic and give me a chance to retrieve my handlebar bag that had skittered into the road. I packed up quickly and was on my way again soon. Fortunately, I'd been going slow and the crash wasn't bad. My bike wasn't banged up much, and all that had happened to me was a patch of road burn on my hip. Once I got into Washington, I pulled over in a grassy spot, cleaned up my hip and taped a gauze pad over it. Then I cruised down the road to Copefield.

The ride through the northern part of Washington was wonderful! Thanks to the cycling maps, the roads weren't busy and the road gave a lovely tour of the coast. It was fun to be back by the ocean again; it gave me a sense of accomplishment.

My bike was starting to show signs of wear though...the shifting cables had slowly been coming out of adjustment throughout the trip, and by the end of the day the derailleur couldn't shift out of the middle chain ring (the middle gear by the pedals). The handlebar tape, which was already worn and torn before the crash, was now unraveling and hanging from the bar. I promised myself I'd fix up the bike once I got to Ben's. But first I really wanted to catch that ferry!

With 17 miles to go, I had about two hours before the ferry departed, and bikers were advised to get there twenty minutes early. Easy, I thought. Without stopping, I seem to ride about 15 miles per hour most of the time, so I figured I'd arrive with about a half hour to spare.

Two miles later, I got a flat tire. No problem, I've got time, I thought. I took out my spare tube and tools, and removed the broken tube. I hurried, and popped the new tube onto the rim and started pumping vigorously. After about 200 strokes I noticed that the tire wasn't inflating as quickly as normal. After 300 strokes I was forced to conclude that the tube had a hole in it. I couldn't believe it! A brand new tube! I messed with the valve a bit, and tried pumping it up again. Still, it didn't hold air.

Eventually, I turned back to the old tube, hoping to patch it. I pumped it up, and began turning it slowly, looking for a leak. I couldn't find one anywhere. In fact, the tube wasn't even deflating...wait a second...I looked at the tube in my hands more closely. There was no doubt: I had the new tube in my hands...I'd taken the same tube out of my flat tire and put it back in again! Sigh. Relaxed now, I took the tire back off the rim, put on the new tube, and pumped it up. I checked the time on my cell phone as I got back on the bike: just under one hour until bikers were supposed to check in at the ferry dock, and I had fifteen miles to go. No problem, as long as nothing went wrong.

I got on the bike and pedaled hard. My derailleur was so far out of adjustment that I couldn't switch out of the middle chain ring in front, but it didn't matter too much because with a light head wind, I couldn't use the biggest chain ring anyway. I raced up the hills and spun down them until my legs couldn't keep up with the bike. It felt incredible! It is fun to be fit, especially if there is some application for it.

Fortunately, my bike held together for those fifteen miles, and the ferry was just pulling into to the dock when I arrived. I stopped at the terminal and said, "I'm hoping to get on that ferry."

"And you can," said the worker. I paid three dollars for my ticket, hopped on, and gave Ben a call.

"You made it!" he said, "Good job."

A Day in Whistler

My host, Sara, was incredible. She consciously created a lifestyle that she believes in, loves her life, and is working to make her home in Whistler a better place. She has bucked society's definition of success and achieved it on her own terms. That's what I admire most.

Not only that, but she makes a mean blueberry waffle in the morning.

To my surprise, I woke up before eight o'clock the morning after I arrived in Whistler to the happy sound of one-year-old laughter. Sara had waffle batter ready, and she was playing with her son in their living room. I used her internet, made a phone call and chatted a bit with the other cyclist staying with Sara. Then we all took off in different directions for the day.

I headed for the mountains, and followed a trail that Sara recommended. I came through Whistler because of its fame as a ski town...even though it was summer (and I'm not much of a skier anyway), I wanted to see what the trails had to offer.

They didn't disappoint. I followed the Rainbow Lake Trail up out of town. It climbed about 1000 meters up to a beautiful alpine lake. It was a bit much for my body after the previous day's ride: hiking up there was hard work! But the view from the lake was worth it.



The view from a small ridge above Rainbow Lake near Whistler.

The lake is just below treeline, allowing for great views of the surrounding valleys and mountains through gaps in the trees or high points that protrude above the trees. I could see glaciers and snow through the trees and I longed to run the surrounding alpine ridges...accept that my legs weren't really up for it. I restrained from swimming in the lake out of respect for posted regulations: apparently, Rainbow Lake is the source of drinking water for Whistler. I sat around for a spell, then headed back down the hill.

I made a detour on my way back to Sara's to swim in one of Whistler's lakes, and was pleasantly surprised to find her and her son enjoying the lake shore as well. When all three of us were done at the beach, Sara packed her son into her bike trailer, and gave me a tour of the Whistler lakes on the way back to her house.

That night, Sara, the other cyclist and I stayed up and talked. The others' travels dwarfed my own: they told stories of cycling through Asia and Jordan, and traveling through Morocco. At some point, I explained that I was headed to grad school in San Fransisco to study energy resource engineering. "Oh," Sara said, as though I was like many people she'd met before: young and ambitious, and wasting time in school. What a different reaction from the last environmentalist I talked to (the woman who actually hugged me). I honestly don't know which reaction is more appropriate. For environmentalists, Sara's is more typical.

Eventually we went to bed, and in the morning we all took off again on our own missions. But before I headed south, I took a cruise through downtown Whistler. There was a mountain bike festival going on, and it felt like Skagway on a three ship day. The streets (which only allow pedestrian traffic) were packed with people carrying expensive bikes, and the beautifully crafted buildings glistened with souvenirs, outdoor gear, and finely served meals. Unfortunately, the competition hadn't started yet when I left town, but I got to see the jumps and routes the bikers ride down the dry ski slopes. They must be incredible athletes.

 It occurred to me that Whistler is an outdoor town, but designed for people that want to visit the outdoors as a recreation facility rather than a place to live. Sara bucked that trend and embraced another side of Whistler, the side where people live there to be close to the bears and trees. Beyond that, she works to help the forgotten people in the community, strives to think globally as she develops her own life, and lives to be happy without being distracted by all the fanfare that surrounds her. I wouldn't want to live in Whistler...but I would be proud to live like Sara.

Clinton to Whistler Continued

At my last stop before starting the descent, I noticed chords beginning to show through my rear tire. This was the same tire that I had blamed for two of my flats way back in Quesnel, and it had performed without mishap for 400 km. I figured it would probably hold out for 70 more km to get me into Whistler. But once I started down the first descent, knowing I had 1000 m to descend over the next couple dozen kilometers, all I could think about was that tire. I pulled over and changed it.

As I started down the hill again, I gently applied the brakes, and realized I hadn't closed my rear brakes! The brakes have a quick release on them that makes it possible to pull an inflated tire out from between the brake pads. Leaving it open means that the brake levers have to be squeezed much farther before the pads touch the wheel rim, and it seems to affect the amount of braking force that can be applied as well. Jeez, I thought, that was dumb! After pulling over again to close the brakes, I felt confident in my bike and was excited to fly down the rest of the descent.

I whipped by the sign warning of 15% descents ahead, then (thankfully) squeezed the brakes hard when I came to the first sign advising 15 km/hr around the first switchback. So much for speeding down the hill! I spent the rest of the descent riding the brakes and hoping they held up, so I wouldn't go crashing into one of the cement barricades like a bobsledder in a square-bottomed shoot.

Although the road was fairly narrow and full of sharp turns, traffic wasn't a problem. All the vehicles were going at least as slow as I was down the hill. When I finally rounded the last turn and released my brakes I breathed a sigh of relief. Five minutes later the first cars passed me, finally accelerating after their own descents. A strong scent of burnt pads lingered in the air behind them.

After descending from the pass, it was a short ride into Pemberton, BC, where I stopped to buy an icecream cone and send a text to my host for the night (I would've called, but she had told me she would be out at a birthday dinner for her one year old son).

From Pemberton, it was just a short 30 km to Whistler. I hoped it would be flat.

Of course it was not. The road began to climb immediately outside of Pemberton, and didn't stop all the way to Whistler. It hardly even mattered at that point. I put my bike in a gear I could "spin" (pedal with a fast cadence and low resistance) uphill in, and made it into Whistler at about 9 PM. I was proud: when I realized how big the climb out of Lillooet was, I wasn't sure I would make it into Whistler in the heat...I had done it!

But the day wasn't over yet. I called my host for specific directions to her house, and was relieved when she answered the phone. Her house was only a few miles away.

As a fitting end to the day, my nose chose this moment to begin bleeding profusely. My nose has a habit of bleeding spontaneously; I couldn't be to surprised by it after all the breathing I did that day. I hardly cared any more, and let it drip on my jacket as I pedalled to my host's house. What a sight I must have been! Greasy, sweaty, exhausted, and now splattered with blood! My host will never let me in! I thought, with a laugh.

After some confusion, I pulled into her driveway. I used the last cup of water in my bottle to wash my face and hands, and pulled a less-dirty shirt over my blood stained jacket. My host came out of her house to make sure I found it. "Chandler?" she said.

"That's me!"

I went inside, met my host and a fellow cyclist also staying there for two nights. I took a shower, and we sat and talked. I had made it!

This marked the end of the first phase of my bike trip. I had cycled 1350 km through rural BC, pedaling about 150 km per day. I camped in the woods, tied my food in trees, and had to plan ahead to make sure I didn't run out of food between towns. Now I was spending two nights in a bed before a short pedal to Vancouver, then visiting friends for four nights in the Seattle area. And south of Seattle, I'd be pedalling down the Oregon coast, where there are towns every 30-50 km. The wilderness endurance cycle was over, and the relaxed exploratory cruise was about to begin. I went to bed tired and content.

Clinton to Whistler

I got a nice early start from my campground in Whistler, and started off excited for a big day. I hesitated, briefly, as I passed by the short cut I had considered the night before, but decided to take the long way around... I had planned on pedaling about 180 km that day (already 30km longer than my average), but between stopping early the night before and skipping the shortcut, the distance to Whistler had been stretched to 250 km. Regardless, I was pretty confident I could cover that distance, but if I pedaled 30 km out to look at the shortcut and then turned around, I was fairly certain I wouldn't make 310 km.

I had no idea what the road had in store for me that day. My map showed a pass a little ways before Whistler at 1272 m, but Clinton was at about 1100 m so I was optimistic that the there wouldn't be too big of a climb ahead. Some people would call my lack of research on the topography of my route foolish...I kind of like the surprises.

As soon as I passed by the shortcut, I started down a steep hill. Half an hour later, I was still descending the same steep hill. Oh boy, I thought, this is going to be a very hard day. The road descended steadily for the first 20 km South of Clinton, and then started to slowly climb for the next 30 km.

As soon as I left Clinton, despite the small sense of doom associated with the descent, I recognized that this was a beautiful place to ride. The traffic wasn't bad, and the surrounding terrain became increasingly rugged and strikingly beautiful. The road wound through sandy hills hundreds of meters high (similar in scale to the domes surrounding Fairbanks), speckled with sharp, colorful cliffs. The road followed a stream through a Ts'kw'aylaxw first nation reservation, and occasionally I could catch glimpses of a bluish-green lake through the trees as I pedaled by.

As I passed by the mini town of Pavilion, I saw a sign pointing to the shortcut back to Clinton. It looked like a nice gravel road, and I could see it climbing up a hill behind Pavilion at a reasonable angle. I was frustrated: The road looked completely ridable, and I could've gotten to this point two hours earlier. But in the end, it just made this day that much more epic (and I eventually spoke with another biker about the shortcut, who said he had gotten similar advice from locals in Clinton...maybe the road is worth than the part that I could see). I pedaled on.

Past Pavilion, the road began to descend again. So much for the last 30 km of climbing! I thought to myself, sarcastically.  But the terrain also got ever more exciting. The road paralleled an enormous canyon, and I could just barely see the Fraser River far roaring a couple hundred meters below me. The hills near the road grew into full sized mountains too, and I could see snow for the first time since leaving the Seven Sisters about a week ago. It was exciting to start seeing signs that I was approaching the coast again.

The land was still dry and dusty though, like the horse-land surrounding towns in old western movies. There were little shrubs growing in the dust, and occasional horse stalls, but not much else. I expected to see a ball of tumble weed rolling along, and imagined riding horses through the hills...this would be a good place for that.

I cruised down the hills, feeling good and enjoying the scenery, and purposefully not thinking about the climbing each meter of descent implied. The hills were fun: fast enough to be exhilarating, but straight and slow enough that breaks weren't necessary.

As I got close to the bottom of the canyon, the day began to get hot. I put on sunscreen and sunglasses and pressed on, feeling grateful for the two extra water bottles the Quebecois gave me the day before.

I rolled into the town of Lillooet (Guarunteed Rugged, according to all of the propaganda bill boards posted on the of the road), a little after noon and pedaled up a steep hill to reach the visitor information desk. On the way, I passed by a sign that said 32 C (I'm trying to stick to metric units because I find them a lot more user-friendly...and to make a political statement...but to emphasize my point, that's 90 F!)

The women working at the visitor center were very helpful, filling my water bottle from their kitchen once, and then again after I drank half of it. I asked what elevation Lillooet was at, hoping optimistically that it would be around 700 meters. "270 m" they answered cheerfully.

"Oh," I said with a smile, thinking: wow, this is going to be an incredible day! I wonder if I can climb 1000 meters in this heat...

The ladies went on to inform me: "There's a beautiful, free campground just 5 km down the road...Which way are you going? South? Hmmm that's the biggest climb. Most cyclists that come through here stay at that campground, and then get an early start the next morning, like 5 AM."

"Yeah?" I said, "That's probably a good idea." I'm absolutely going to try....

"Yeah, given the weather here, that's probably the smartest way to do it." They went on to show me a few other campgrounds a bit farther scattered along the way up to the pass. Great, I thought, If I get too hot, I can stop in at one of those. "Do those campgrounds have water?" I asked.

"They're right next to a stream."

"Great!" I replied, thinking, even better.

We chatted a bit more, and the women repeated once more what a good idea it is to stay at the campground and get an early start..."Thanks a bunch," I replied, "I'll probably see how I feel." A short while later, I was back on the road.

HOT!

The road is steep--the signs warn of 13% grades, and it literally switch backs it's way up the mountain. I'm trying to climb it at the absolute worst time of day. The sun is directly overhead, so there's no way to hide in the shade, and each time a pass by a rock face that's been blasted away to make way for the road, I can feel the heat radiating off of it. I drink water every time the road flattens out a bit, counting on my two liters to hold out until I get to the first campground. Eating is out of the question: as long as the road stays steep I spend all of the parts that don't require me to pull on the handle bars drinking water, and I don't want to stop in the sun.

I thought of those football players that died of heatstroke....Listen to your body, I told myself, confident from spending so much time running and trying to avoid injury. I didn't have to deal with heat growing up, but I did some running in the heat in New York during college, and the last 10 days have conditioned me, somewhat. It felt brutally hot, but I wasn't light headed or nauseous and my heart rate was high but not out of control. In fact, I felt strong. I kept going, and made an effort to smile at cars as they passed...I got a few honks of encouragement on the way, which I appreciated.

After climbing for an undetermined amount of time (still no watch or bike computer : ), I was aghast to see that the road descended: "12% grade, next 2 km" the sign said!  Wow! This day just kept getting more incredible.

By the time I got to the bottom of the hill, the slick coating of sweat that had covered my entire body was entirely dry, and I was completely cool. There was a river running next to the road there, and ten minutes earlier I was longing to jump in one. But now I was almost cold. I kept pedaling. Best of all, the road had changed angle, and now I was in the shade, off and on. I can do this, I thought, happily thinking of couch surfing that night.

By now, the road was in the mountains and truly awe-inspiring..."awesome" in the best sense of the word. The arid landscape of the morning had given way to evergreen forest, and mountains shot up to the sky on both sides of the road. I could see snow and glaciers above treeline, and the smell of pine trees caught in my nose occasionally. The constant sound of roaring water as the road roughly followed a creek bed was comforting as I dealt with the heat, too. As I continued Southbound on the Sea to Sky highway, I felt closer and closer to home.

I felt good. I dripped sweat, the occasional droplet making its way through my eyebrows and stinging my eyes. I drank constantly, but was always thirsty. Big puffy clouds teased me as they burned away just before providing shade. But the trees and offered brief respite from the heat when the road hit the right angle, and I was in the mountains! I imagined cyclists racing through these hills, and pulled up on my pedals.

After a couple more descents, and their associated climbs, the road again cut next to the river, and I stopped to fill my water. A sign said that I was 20 km from Lillooet, which meant if the road averaged a 5% grade, including those descents, I was near the summit in elevation (although it's actual location was still 30 or 40 km away). I went down to the stream, dipped my feet in shoes and all, ate, and filled my water. The feeling was heavenly.

I returned to my bicycle feeling refreshed, and was about to leave when a Swiss man came flying down the hill on his bicycle and pulled into my pullout. I was mildly surprised--cyclists aren't too uncommon on this road--and then another cyclist pulled in, and another. Within five minutes there were eight Swiss men in bike shorts and shirts sizing me up; a whole Swiss peloton had joined me in this little pull out. "Which way are you going?" they asked. I pointed: "South."

"Oooh," they said, suggesting that I still had some climbing to do. "Where are you trying to get?" They're English was good by most standards, but poor compared to the other Swiss I had met...it would be hard to have a long conversation.

"Whistler," I said, mildly dreading the doubtful reaction I was going to get. There was some babbling in another language.

"You know that's 100km?"

"Yeah...I've made it 150km so far today," I replied wryly. There was more babbling.

We chatted a bit more, and eventually I said, "Well, have a good ride," and we were off in our opposite directions. A typical cycle touring meeting, I've come to realize, brief close camaraderie in our shared insanity, and then parting with essentially no chance of seeing each other again. It's kind of fun!

I covered the next 40 km with trepidation, expecting another big climb the whole way, but it never came. The road climbed and descended over rolling hills all the way to the end of the pass. Eventually, clouds survived the trip in front of the sun without evaporating, cooling the day considerably. When at last I reached the first sign warning trucks to gear down, I was relieved.

Little did I know the most treacherous part of the day was still to come.

Out of time on this library computer...more to come!