June 19-28, days 19-27

Well, well, well. If it isn’t our new friend, climate change, rearing its ugly head. 

I’ll write about the heat and what I’ve been up to. If you’re a cyclist looking for information about the Sierra Cascades portion in southern Washington and Oregon, scroll down to the “Cycling” subhead. 

I’m stuck in Portland. While this is annoying and I’d — obviously — prefer to be on the road, there’s nothing to be done with a scenario like this. There’s no negotiating with it. It is literally hotter than it has ever been in Portland, Oregon, my home town. They’re calling it a freak “heat dome” that is melting the entire Pacific Northwest. At 3 a.m. last night it was above 90 degrees. I’m writing at 1:14 p.m. on June 28 and it is 113 degrees. This apparently breaks yesterday’s all-time high of 112. 

I’m writing from my mother’s house in Portland. It’s a big house in a nice neighborhood. The air conditioning is sort of working. It was 80 degrees inside near 10 p.m. last night when I slept on the couch downstairs, which is cooler. The unit is leaking water onto the concrete floor of the basement and we’re trying to figure out what’s wrong with it. We’d fixed it temporarily by switching out a dirty filter before the heat wave descended, but the leak is back. While this is expensive and concerning we’re still indoors in safe conditions. I’m not on the road. Nor am I living in an apartment without air conditioning, which is dangerous and can be fatal in heat like this. 

The inferno will mitigate by next week here. In central and eastern Oregon, where I’d planned to ride on the TransAm en route to Missoula, days in the 100s and 90s will persist indefinitely. I’ll have to alter my route for safety reasons. Some friends and family will give me rides to keep my dream alive, which would otherwise wilt and wither in the heat like everything else within 400 miles of this place. 

Aside from the devastating environmental impacts of this heat, I am personally faring well during this thanks to some serendipity in my squirrely route. On June 23 I popped out of a lovely stretch of forest and the Columbia River Gorge opened dramatically before me. I cycled across Bridge of the Gods into Cascade Locks, Oregon. This amounted to a homecoming for me after three weeks and 900 miles on the road. Cascade Locks is 40 miles from Portland. 

It felt strange to be back. The traffic was awful and, despite how remote I’d felt, I realized I’d actually been very close to home. I ate an overpriced meal that wasn’t any good and laid on the grass at the Bridge of the Gods trailhead. I missed the country. I hadn’t had cell service for the two days prior and spent my time blissfully watching the full moon rise and bathing in cold rivers. Now everyone was driving aggressively and hoarding ice for a cataclysmic heat wave. I was uneasy. It was cool in the shade. I listened to the breeze in the trees for an hour and laid looking up at the Douglas Fir bows. A few hikers exited the Pacific Crest Trail and walked with their packs on into town, ostensibly looking for supplies. I was satisfied and felt like I was returning home as a different person. Someone more independent, someone stronger, someone more relaxed. 

My two friends Andrew and Mike picked me up. It was great to see them. We proceeded to drive into Portland and invite friends over for a barbecue. 

I’ve since spent the days hiding from the heat during the day and hanging out with my friends at night. 

I won’t chronicle those days here because they’re in the realm of normal life, of the typical trip home to see friends and family. But I am extremely restless despite the blessings of the last few days. I feel like I shouldn’t be here and I would much prefer to be on the road. 

I have a plan to get back out there. My mom is a teacher and has the summers off. Coincidentally, she’s never been to Montana. We’re extremely close and I genuinely enjoy spending time with her, so we’re planning to road trip next week to Glacier National Park in Montana. We’ll camp and see the sights. Then I’ll cycle the park and ride down to Missoula, where I’ll intersect then with my original route. All told from this diversion I’ll lose a net of about 300 miles of riding. But I will not be a desiccated husk on the side of a blazing road near Prineville, Oregon. And I’ll get to see Glacier. 

I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve family and friends such as the ones I have. 

Cycling 

From Randle, WA the southbound ACA Sierra Cascades route follows Highway 25 to Carson, WA and the Columbia River Gorge. 

Folks, the stretch was one of my favorites in all of Washington. It’s shady and secluded at first, with excellent free camping on Iron Creek (near the Iron Creek Campground, but $22 cheaper) and little, if any traffic. Elk Pass wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. Yet after the pass, when the downhill begins, the views of Mt. St. Helens are unbelievable. For an hour you’ll parallel the mountain. Pull over often to gawk at the  volcano. I then camped for free again on the Lewis River. It’s beautiful, with long beaches of grey sand. I spent an evening writing and watching an osprey hunt the bend of the river. There’s no services between Randle and Carson except for a small camp and convenience store that may or may not be open when you pedal into the dusty lot, so prepare for two nights of food in advance in Randle. 

Things are more dangerous from Carson to Cascade Locks, OR. Traffic increased dramatically. At this point you enter the regional traffic bubble of Portland. On the weekends in the summer, it’s packed. And it sucks. 

I rode this on a weekday and it was still downright unsafe. There’s a big lumber production facility in Carson and the semis are prolific heading south out of town. I was run off the road by a semi truck for the first time. There’s little to no shoulder between Carson and Stevenson. However: crossing Bridge of the Gods was safer than I expected. If you’re afraid of heights, you probably won’t enjoy crossing the bridge. It’s a grate surface and the railings are low on the side of the bridge, and there’s going to be traffic behind you. I was lucky enough to have nice people behind me. And the bridge isn’t very long to begin with. 

June 18-20, Days 17-19. Yakima Canyon, Yakima and Ranier Ntnl Park

I’ve done 800 miles. It’s June 21 at 1:35 p.m. and I’m writing inside of a country bar in Randle, WA. There’s a song playing over the PA: “Let’s get drunk and fight.” Hell yeah. I’m in here because it’s hot as hell out on the road now, the heat climbing to the upper 90s here even at this moderate elevation in the Cascade foothills, and the bar has cold beer. “Better than the rain, I suppose,” the bartender just said of the heat. I intend to sit here and drink cold beer. A problem on the horizon: the bar is dangerously close to running out of beer. They’re already out of Coors Light, a plastic cup thrown upside-down over the tap.

God: I know it’s been a while. But if you ever do one thing for me please do not allow this bar to run out of beer.

My hand pain has subsided somewhat, but it’s still an issue. I’m messing around every other day with my bike fit now and I think I’m getting closer to the ergonomic ideal that may or may not exist. The problem is in the joy of this trip: I’m covering a lot of ground every day. It’s not easy on the body. Maybe it will be in a month. Who knows. 

I reluctantly left Colleen and Ellie in Ellensburg on what was also a very hot day. I considered asking her for a ride through Yakima but did not for two reasons: I didn’t want to impose, and I was also curious about the Yakima River Canyon. It’s a 25-mile desert oasis between Ellensburg and Yakima. So I kept my wits about me navigating out of Ellensburg and entered the canyon. The high brown walls quickly closed around me and the river emerged, a deep green and moving fast. Cottonwoods and brush filled the banks. What wind existed in the heat was behind my back. 

This was the first day of riding in the heat. It will be the first of very, very many, and I suspect I’ll soon be structuring my days around the heat, riding early in the morning, crawling like a rat into some hidey-hole during the day’s peak and then riding in the evening. Call it a siesta. 

The canyon is awesome and I realized I’d chosen an inferior mode of transportation. Not a car, but a raft. It was Friday afternoon and folks from Ellensburg were flocking to drop their cars and fill their tubes, beers in tow. I filtered water from the river in a number of riverside parks and then ritualistically dove in before heading out again. High on the canyon walls I’d speed past the rafters and wave, them smoking pot or cheering or just raising a hand in recognition. They floated 15, 20 miles. Near the end of the canyon I had planned to camp in one site that was all reserved, so I just hung out and swam. I had a blast. A crew of extremely drunk 20-somethings docked then and began singing “Buy U a Drank” in unision. To my surprise they sang the entire song, word-by-word, which was strange and hilarious. A guy on a jet ski told me about Yakima Sportsman State Park, some 20 miles away. The only place to camp around here I was aware of. I did not have internet service. Thus began my arrival in Yakima and my downfall. 

At 6:15 p.m. I sat in a sliver of shade outside of the Selah, WA public library, using their WiFi. I hastily signed up for Warm Showers and frantically sent messages to the few hosts in Yakima to no avail. And the little voice in the back of my head told me that I would just get fucked in Yakima. Somehow I’d known it all along. Everyone I talked to warned me about the area, told me not to stealth camp off of the Yakima Greenway trail that bounds the river on the city’s edge, told me not to go to North First Street because of the homelessness and crime, told me not to go there at all. I was determined not to buy an over-priced, crappy hotel room. Perhaps there were other options, other campsites or tactics I’m not yet aware of that could have remedied the situation. I did my best and did OK for myself. 

So I arrived in Yakima around 7 and rode five miles out of my way, following the river. A swarm of mosquitos heralded my arrival to the state park. 

So there I was, essentially homeless for the time being — which is something I’ll get back to. And the stingy bike tourist in me is still bargaining for one of the last sites left in the park. I wanted a discount because the sites were $35 — way, way overpriced for a bike — and every WA state park I’ve been to offers discounts for hikers and bikers. The woman working the booth was cold and bureaucratic to the point of outright aggression and didn’t budge. So I rode through the state park with a map she’d given me looking for the available sites, to see which ones were most quiet at that moment and were not infested with bugs and trash. I wasn’t surprised to find that none of them fit the bill. And the mosquitos were unrelenting, catching me even as I rode. I chuckled and acknowledged that this was the first low point in my trip.  

In retrospect he was glowing with a Christ-like aura. Park Ranger 2, Badge #511, Andrew Kerlee. He must have seen right through me and knew I was in a bad way. We talked and he gave me a discounted site, a misshapen mound of cottonwood plumage with heaps of half-burnt trash in the firepit. But he possibly saved my trip when he walked over later in the evening and asked me: “Did they tell you about the string of bike thefts?” 

At that point I was shirtless inside my tent, eating my dinner of Chex Mix, resolved as I was not to cook dinner in the mosquito swarm. In fact I was quite happy to have an official place to lay my head. But this news about the bike thefts destroyed what peace I had. “They come in at night,” he said, “and cut locks, take the bikes right off of RVs, out of the bike racks. Expensive bikes, too.” I’d thrown a shirt on and stood in the mosquito swarm talking to him. I asked him if they had a spot for my bike. He thought for a moment and said no. 

Then, he said they might. 

A saint. He pulled into my site an hour later and I walked my bike with him to the bathrooms. He unlocked a door that revealed an alley housing the plumbing for the toilets, sinks and showers and instructed me to jam my bike in there. I did and he locked the door. And he told me that in the morning an individual named Mike would be arriving at my camp near 7 am to unlock the door. 

I slept well that night with all of my panniers inside my tent. It was Friday night in Yakima and the site was filled with people screaming at each other. An Indian family was absolutely blasting some circus-y music with a dance beat. I was tired enough and couldn’t care less. 

In the morning I got out of my tent and the mosquitos swarmed me. Mike arrived and took me to the bathrooms. I thanked him and thanked him and when I rolled my bike away a man stopped him. “Have you seen the bathroom?” he asked him. “Someone puked all over it.”

Whatever they’re paying these people, it’s not enough. These rangers and custodians should be paid more than the office-dwellers above them, if not outright canonized. Without a doubt. 

That day I pedaled and pedaled against a headwind. All day. This was hard but it didn’t damage my spirit to the degree that my ride from Pateros to Chelan had. Because the wind was going the right direction. I was going west and the wind should blow from west to east on my voyage this summer. So I put my head down and went for it. In Naches I resupplied on cherries, apples and plums and ate a massive lunch in an irrigated public park. I began climbing into the Cascades again, against the wind. That night I camped in Sawmill campground, a Forest Service site. The camp hosts allowed me to pitch a tent wherever and didn’t charge me. I camped happily underneath a Ponderosa on the banks of the Naches River. Home again. I cooked some noodles and when I asked the campers next to me for a can opener, they firmly required that I sat to eat tacos with them. 

The next day was a pass day. 25 miles up Chinook Pass, then 15 miles down to Ohanapecosh Campground. In the morning I was really moving and was further emboldened by a sign behind me that read YAKIMA: 48. I decided this was not enough miles between me and there and kept moving. 

The last seven miles were hard. But man, was it worth it. 

Rainier is unreal. I’ve never been there before, and that’s why I made a point on this trip to go there. It did not disappoint. And when you do a pass like that on a bike, people literally cheer for you. At the apex I incredulously watched people saddle up in ski boots and begin hiking up the walls bounding the road; s-turns marked these steep slopes of slush and I wished I had some skis. I ate the last of my cherries and Swedish Fish and talked to a veteran mountaineer who told me how to get into the sport. Then he told me to climb carefully up a slope jutting from the road for the mountain view.  So I hiked deliberately, carefully, up a few hundred feet to a prominent point. And then I saw it for the first time. 

Rainier. Man, that thing is a beast. I didn’t realize that even the mountains bounding the southern slopes are themselves jagged monsters, shear shark-fins worthy of standing themselves in North Cascades National Park. And the ride down. Marvelous. I hit 35 miles per hour and pulled over again and again and again to savor the view. The air rushed over me, cool in the river valleys and then suddenly hot and sweet as I descended into a Douglas Fir forest. At the campground, run by the Park Service, a ranger reluctantly let me pay $11 for my site, down from the stated $20, because I didn’t have enough cash, and they only take cash, and there was no way in hell I was struggling two miles back up the hill to hit the only regional ATM. The site was beautiful and peaceful. I sat and tried to stay awake for awhile and worked on a short story. 

I’m eager to explore Rainier. Someday I’ll climb it. And I’ll hike Goat Rocks, which I since passed underneath. 

A problem is brewing, though, that I can’t ignore. An extreme climate-driven heat wave is descending on the NW. It’s terrifying. I’ve seen projections of up to 120 degrees. With this and other considerations I’m planning to get picked up from Cascade Locks on Wednesday to swim in the Willamette and get tanked with my friends for a few days during Pedalpalooza in Portland. 

Cycling 

The Yakima River Canyon is the bee’s knees. It’s recreation traffic there and everyone gave me a really wide berth. 

The problem with the Ellensburg-Yakima-Naches region on this route is that there’s no camping here barring the canyon. So if you do this WA Parks route, plan it better than I did. Yakima Sportsman State Park sucks, don’t camp there. 

The Greenway to Naches is chill. And take time here to gorge on cherries and produce if it’s the right time of year. Eat buckets of cherries. Holy shit, they’re so good. 

Then you hit Highway 410. It’s narrow and a tad sketch. You’re at the mercy of drivers here. Almost everyone gave me a wide berth. A few RVs came close to me. I’d prefer to ride this section to the National Park on a weekday. There’s briefly and strangely a gigantic shoulder for a few miles around Cliffdell. Then it goes back to nothing. But man, the descent after Chinook Pass is legendary. 

Some notes on this. Completing the circle on the WA Parks route, to Elma, would require going up another pass then next day, Cayuse Pass. Man, that would be tough. 

And if I were you, I’d ride the WA Parks route counter-clockwise as I have done. This is for two reasons: Washington Pass on Highway 20 and Chinook Pass at Rainier are likely much easier and much more scenic this way than the other. Other cyclists I’ve talked to have confirmed this. 

Encounters

I’ve run over several spent snake skins so far and one live gardner snake. The most interesting paraphernalia I’ve discovered on the shoulder was a fully-intact glass-blown pipe. I swerved around it. 

Musings

Jesus christ. This heat may actually be a problem for me. I’d planned my route to escape the West before the fire season. Hopefully it goes down that way, for my health and the health of the forests. 

Days 13-16, June 14-17, Mazama to Ellensburg WA

I've experienced the full pendulum-swing in these four days: the good, the sublime, the not-so-good, tailwinds and headwinds, loneliness and connection. One body issue replaced by another. And the heat has arrived. I've overcome many challenges and charted more than 600 miles. I remain happier than perhaps I've ever been. 

After Washington Pass I camped at Easy Winters, as I wrote in my last post. There on the periphery of the camp near the river was Gus' bike and Gus' tent. It was the third night in a row I'd seen her -- a rare thing in my trip so far. To date I've otherwise only shared an evening or a morning or a meal with another cyclist. Gus is 25, like me, a New Yorker living in Park City, where she works as a ski school instructor. Three nights prior I chatted a bit with her and Joe, an old friend of hers living in Seattle who opted to begin the Northern Tier with her. That's the main cycling route through the northern U.S., of which I have now done a portion. The next night, after I'd crawled into Colonial Creek Campground in the National Park, I camped next to her and Joe in the lone hiker-biker site and got to know them a bit more. 

When I left Easy Winters and pointed the bike south to the outdoor hub of Mazama, I found her bike again parked in front of an outdoor store there. I sat at an adjacent cafe in the misty morning and put down not one, but two breakfast sandwiches and not one, but two 12 oz coffees. She walked over and sat down and we ended up spending the next 24 hours together. A quick ride took us to Winthrop, a kitschy tourist town fashioned in the likes of an Old West settlement. We gorged on ice cream and then went grocery shopping. We walked down the wood-plank sidewalk and tried on cowboy hats. People stopped us left and right and their jaws dropped when she told them she was going to Maine; I called it the "Bar Harbor Eyebrow Raise." We were in the rain shadow beyond the Cascades now and the sun was shining on the sagebrush and through the Ponderosas. Traffic buzzed around us. We stopped into a brewery and kicked our feet up next to the broad Methow River with our beer in tow and then had another. 

Gus commands an effortless cool that I appreciated in the context of this bike tour. She's a seasoned traveler and nomad. Her and her friends canyoneer, WWOOF and live in busses. Whereas I -- and I suspect most other tourists -- planned and blathered on about our trips for many moons, she opted to do this somewhat on a whim. She is carrying far less than I am and inspired me to slim down. 

When you're on the road, it's easy to get lost in the meaningless details of the trip: what gear you're using, how your pace compares to others, where you're going to be in four days, what gear other people have, etc. These things seemed not to stress Gus out. I have no doubt that she'll see the Atlantic. 

She also introduced me to WarmShowers, a free couch-surfing app for bike tourists. With some beer in us we coasted in a golden evening down a country road to Twisp and the wreckage of the Wagon Wheel, a decades-old diner currently disemboweled at the whim of a Seattle-based family, who would host us as they convert the space and its land into some kind of restaurant. Ben, an ex-finance guru, and his younger sister Sylvia, were lovely company that night. A fascinating family they are with roots across the West and a disturbing knowledge of places I've lived -- shoutout to Park Hill -- and every Western outdoor town and destination and organization under the sun. I cooked dinner on a hotplate on the floor and we traded stories of our adventures. Notably, Ben is a gnarly-ass bike tourist himself who has clocked many U.S. and international tours. Notably he traversed Central Asia on a Walmart mountain bike. That route included the Wakhan Corridor in Afghanistan, which I've always been fascinated with. 

In the morning we set up camp and Ben made me some coffee. It was the beginnings of a warm day that would set the tone for much of the next several days: a hotter and drier climate, brushy surroundings and new flora and fauna. We said goodbye to him and then said goodbye to each other; Gus turned right on the road to continue east, and I turned left. 

I quickly rode 30 miles along the Methow River in a canyon that is identical to Poudre Canyon outside of Fort Collins. This cracked me up; all the sudden I felt like I was much farther east than I actually am. 

What followed was perhaps my most difficult day to-date. I stumbled onto the Columbia River gorge at Pateros and found that the wind was cruelly not blowing east as I had been promised but from the south. It was a nasty headwind. And it did not let up. I battled it for 30 miles into Chelan. The scenery was somewhat muted in this portion of the state — you know the deal, brown hills and blustery vistas — and the riding was just hard. Near 4 p.m. I still had many miles to go and the wind doubled down. At one point I was attempting to lay prone on my handlebars and I looked to my left and saw the trees doubled over in the wind as I was; the wind flung a fountain drink cap toward me at 20 miles per hour and I turned and watched it race down the road behind me. And then a sudden moment of comic relief. In one nameless hamlet a group of teenaged girls were standing in a field as I lumbered down the main road. Out came a cat-sized dog, trying with all its might to catch me on tiny legs despite my pathetic seven mile-per-hour pace. The dog was in the middle of the road now and cars had pulled over while the girls shouted to no avail to bring the dog to heel. People stood on their stoops laughing, I was laughing, the girls were horribly embarrassed. Eventually the dog huffed and watched me roll out of town. This was orchard territory now, cherries and apples lining the brown hills and gullies, and I kept my eyes peeled for farmstands. 

That night I pulled into Lake Chelan State Park. I was lonely and tired so I called my family. 

The next day was much better. I rode a small pass in the early morning heat and connected again with the main interchange, Highway 97. I was elated to find the heat tamp down the infernal wind. In Sunnyslope, which is across the river from Wenatchee, I stocked up on locally-grown apples and a bag of some of the biggest and sweetest cherries I’ve ever had. Then on through the orchard paradise of Cashmere. The feet of the Cascades were closing in around me again and I saw glimpses of the high peaks. I camped that night at Blu Shastin RV Park. 

This park is the realm of the Daves. It’s run by a Dave, who gave me a discount and a free slice of pizza. It was hot when I arrived so I promptly dove into the sparkling pool. There I met Dave #2, who hung off the railing, shoulder-deep in water, in his 60s. The proud new owner of an RV parked there for the summer. An infectious good mood. He’d just come from his grandchildren’s high school graduation bashes in Tacoma and was showing me photos of them in their robes, covered in flowers. He offered me some beers so I walked with him to his trailer and we cracked some Modelos. Together we demolished the bag of cherries. Then Dave #3 arrived. 

I couldn’t tell whether they were together or not. But they looked near-identical and bantered like a couple, them with their bushy mustaches, square frames, beer-bellies, flip flops and gold chains. They’d bought the RV together and were spending much of the summer there. Dave #3 is a retired hospital chaplain who launched homeless shelters in Spokane and Anchorage. I sat there and we traded stories about that and travel. Then they fed me a mountain of burgers and hot dogs, and then a salad, which I’d been craving. Dave #2 patted me on the back and gave me two more beers before he sent me on my way. Great people. 

In the morning I crushed Blewett Pass. I marveled at how quickly I pedaled over the 4,500-foot traverse, feeling disembodied, as if I was watching someone else do the work. I leaned in for a long downhill on the main road. The valley opened up again, the trees fell back and I climbed a long and peaceful hill beneath wind turbines with little traffic. From there I did not pedal for ten miles — literally. And I watched the valley continue to open beneath me. This was a feeling I cannot describe. The air became hotter and drier. Soon I was in Ellensburg, a moderately-sized college town here on the high plains. 

This has been a particularly important stop for me because I have family here. My cousin Colleen is two years older than me and making a life here in this beautiful community with her husband Tanner and their 10-month-old baby, Ellie, who I had not met yet because of COVID. Her eyes are huge and blue. I think she’ll be a drummer because she abruptly slaps her chubby little palms on tables and hard surfaces. That, or a writer, because she loves pens and, separately, paper. 

I’ve been able to rest here. It’s been a blessing roll around on the ground with Ellie and watch Colleen work wonders with her. Colleen is set to begin grad school. While Ellie babbled in a high chair and captured the hearts of each and every patron around us, Colleen nursed a cocktail and told me about her aspirations, how she wants to use her knowledge as a young mother to help others in similar predicaments navigate postpartum disorders and early parenting. She continued to tell me this the next morning, effortlessly bouncing Ellie on a knee as she screeched and chuckled and crawled all over her. Truly inspirational to see. I can’t wait to come back and hear how Colleen and Ellie are doing. 

Cycling

Much of this stretch is on 97. It’s a main thoroughfare with more traffic and, at times, small shoulders. You’ll get pretty good at navigating slip streams here. They’re the wind funnels semis create when they whip past you under the right conditions. They’ll either suck you in after them, bestowing a much-appreciated boost, or bump you moderately to one side. 

The riding is really good for most of that road, though. No sketchy bridges or tunnels. Old Blewett Highway, which leaves the main road to traverse the pass, is awesome and much less pock-marked than I’d been told, but be careful on the road for any speeding traffic. I encountered three cars and heard all of them coming easily. Be careful on the downhill for pot holes and the rare car. 

Encounters

Before Cashmere a toothless old man pulled up to me on a three-wheeled cargo tricycle. He wore suspenders and a big sunhat. 

As I studied my map he told me all about how electric vehicles work and how much more feasible battery storage is now. Next, he said he’s getting an electric car. It was hot and I paid little attention to him, searching as I was for my next food and water stop. Proudly he showed me a makeshift wooden bench me’d crafted for the machine. It had replaced the stock seat that stood too prominently, he said, and caused him to flip the thing a few months ago. That got my attention. He said he was OK and chuckled. 

Traffic was bunched now near us before a traffic light across the highway. Someone in a sedan waved to him and he squinted and studied her. She pulled away. 

“I didn’t know her,” he said, smiling. “I guess she knows me.” 

Musings

I’m having hand pain now. My right hand cyclically experiences numbness throughout the day. As of writing on the 18th I have just raised my handlebars from their lower, more aggressive position in the hopes of alleviating this pressure on my elbows and hand. Fingers crossed; this is making writing difficult. 

Gus inspired me to cull my possessions. I’m much more lighter now than when I started. Yesterday I mailed half of my clothes, my travel pillow, some bluetooth headphones and a wildfire pamphlet. 

I oscillate between wondering why more people don’t do this and then, the next morning, it’s clear to me why. I think that’s evident in today’s blog. 

Days 10-12, June 11-13

Note: I’m losing power here and have to post this unedited. Apologies for typos. 

I cycled three 50-mile days in a row here from Anacortes to Mazama, WA. This series took me from the southern Salish Sea through North Cascades National Park. On Sunday I cleared the heinous pass over the park: an interminable 30 miles up to 5,500 feet and a euphoric 20-mile downhill. I’ve never experienced anything like it. In one day I survived perhaps the most grueling physical challenge of my life and in the blink of an eye the most beautiful downhill I’ve ridden on a bike to date — although Mt. Evans in Colorado gives this decline a run for its money. 

I saw so much in those three days. Outside of Anacortes I crossed the Salish Sea to Fidalgo Island and saw in the marinas there ships moored from Berkeley, Alaska and British Columbia. Tide was out and as I brushed the last of the coastline a great mud flat extended tens of miles into the mist. I entered the I-5 corridor and rushed to buy fuel, toiletries and groceries in crowded Burlington. A Walgreens I stopped at was especially seedy and I bought my items quickly before one of the many junkies loitering there could begin rifling through my panniers. From there the Skagit Valley deepened, I left the crowded corridor and the Cascades quickly began to close around me. I battled a headwind for the first time this trip. Farmland again in the historic Skagit tribal homeland, the clouds parting briefly before me to illuminate the vast river in a brilliant turquoise. 

And then the climb began. I was surprised at how quickly I crossed the valley and entered North Cascades National Park. Hard rain was forecasted; none came and in fact the clouds parted and a perfect day unfolded: blue sky, cottonwood fluff floating like snow, lush green valleys and fishermen all buzzing on the big rivers with their catches. This national park is a favorite place of mine, sandwiched between Rainier and the Canadian border, a place of Alp-like high peaks and great glaciers. It was tough work climbing at the end of Saturday to reach Colonial Creek Campground. And I knew then I was in for it. 

I woke up Sunday at 6:30 and began climbing by 7:30. Four hours later I was vacantly eating a cold lunch in the rain with 20 miles under my belt, all of them hard-earned. The high peaks now were towering above the foothills and it became colder. I began screaming from time to time and would sometimes began laughing maniacally but mostly I said nothing to myself and dug, and dug, and dug, fighting for every tenth of a mile, praying that that fifth numeral on my odometer would flick forward. I would oscillate between admitting to myself how difficult the climb was and pretending that I was fine. Often I would pull over and turn my music up louder, or take photos of the increasingly impressive scenery raising up around me. The road stretched on and on and up and up infinitely. I couldn’t think coherently and my sentences became jumbled and torn in my mind. Two-and-a-half miles later I crawled like a drowned rat onto the Washington Pass lookout. Snow crunched beneath my feet. And what I saw exceeded my expectations of the thoroughfare road. A cliffed lookout point is there two thousand feet above a swath of valley ringed by shear, jagged peaks. Far beneath you there is the road I’d soon rocket down, a satisfying series of switchbacks through the valley. I’ll post some photos on the Gram. I spent hours there on the top. I would eat glorious quesadillas and then take photos and then eat more grilled quesadillas. It had been raining for hours now but I was prepared and didn’t mind. When I allowed myself to leave there I couldn’t stop smiling on the downhill. 

Within 45 minutes I’d traveled 20 miles and rolled blissfully into Early Winters Campground for a campfire and a meager dinner. I dreamed of fried chicken and salmon and Caesar salads, buckets of beer, Choco Tacos. 

Cycling Info 

The roads from Anacortes to Mazama are easily navigable, generally beautiful and generally safe. I hit rush hour in Sedro-Wolley and was surprised how crowded it became, so I cruised onto the Cascade Trail, a 22-mile gravel section that parallels Highway 20 to Rasar State Park.   I hopped on and off this again onto some country roads. By using Google Maps I’m able to pick and choose some country road that parallel main routes if they’re obviously good routes. I did this into Rasar. 

It is VITAL that you do three things if you’re traveling west->east over Rainy and Washington passes. The first is to shed any dead weight you have. If you have food that you won’t eat, or condiments, or old wet maps, or trash, or any old items that don’t cost much and aren’t serving you well — throw them out. The second is to stock up on what food you need in Concrete. On ACA’s Washington Parks map there is a grocery store icon for Newhalem. This is a general store that is almost always closed. Do not plan to shop there. The third thing to do is get up early for the climb. If you’re like me, in good shape but with a heavy touring bike, you’ll climb at four or five miles an hour for most of the day. That means you will ride uphill for six or seven hours, stopping often all the while. And when you finally get to the top, you will be cold. Put your clothing on quickly. 

Encounters

On Saturday I met John C Bromet Peace Wizard. He was walking on a glittering country road and I saw him from a long distance bearing a tall white sign with black lettering that read PEACE. I pulled over and waved to him from across the road. He appeared the ultimate pilgrim:  an old man perhaps in his seventies whose was tucked into a six-inch-thick beard. I asked him what his sign was for and he told me he’d started carrying it through this quiet valley as he went about his daily business after the U.S. invaded Iraq in 2003. Since then he’s continue to carry it and spread an anti-war message. His eyes smiled and he smiled as he told me all this. Then he asked me if “I had room for a picture.” I assumed he wanted to take a photo of me, or vice versa. Before I replied he dug through his knapsack and produced a small physical photo of himself. I accepted it and told him I’d carry it the entire way on my tour. It’s a photo of him in that very location with the mountain behind him, but in fall, and he’s wearing a long scarf in Gryffindor colors, beaming and carrying his sign. We were both laughing and he asked me if he could sing for me. “It’s hard for singers like us to find an audience around here, so we have to take all the chances we can get.” He instructed me to turn the photo over: scrawled on the back in pencil in cursive were a string of virtues: “Peace Love Joy Truth Good Health Happiness, Kindness Generosity.” John planted his feet and held his arms together as if in a great opera hall and began his song, set to the tune of “Ode to Joy.” He sang to the hills and then to me and I stood there awkwardly, somewhat uncomfortable but smiling for his benefit. And then from the woods behind him tottered an even older man, no antiwar activist himself but wearing the trucker hat and denim garb of a rancher. I waved to him and he began shaking his head and chuckling. By the time John finished he too stood on the road with us. 

We clapped for John and they exchanged some niceities. I caught that this new arrival’s name was Tom. 

“Well,” John said, bending over to zip up his pack. “I should be going now. Have a massage to get to.”

Tom rubbed his back jokingly, smiling at me. He told John he could walk through his land to get to town if he’d like. “I think I will do that,” John said. Off he went with his sign into the woods.

I stood then with Tom for a while. Across the road was 200 acres of ranchland he said was his. I asked him whether it was a good business to be in. “It just about pays for the taxes,” he said. “We’re not rich people around here.” He has about 25 head this year. 

We stood in a comfortable silence for some time. He was very old and took his time. Then he began telling me about John. “Yeah, his wife left him about four or five years ago soon after they moved up here.” He took his cap off and scratched his bald head. “After that, everything went a little screwy with him.”

Musings

I have many thoughts to offer after these three days. Currently, though, it is 1:34 p.m. on a misty Monday and I’m writing from the damp front porch of a closed public library in Winthrop, WA. I’m here with Gus, who I’ll write about. My appetite is bottomless after yesterday’s climb, so we’re packing up here to hit the grocery store and then put down some well earned beers. A bar here says it offers not only country music but also “Smooth Jazz,” and I’m eager to see what that’s all about. 

Days 8 and 9, June 9-10

 Days 8 and 9, June 9-10

I took a full, proper rest day in Port Townsend on June 9. It was an obvious spot for it: a hiker-biker site at $12 a night on a beach bluff on the Puget Sound, little rain forecasted. The town is built into a sweeping series of hills that jut into the Sound, making for great views. There are bookstores and little cafes where everything was blooming, where in the marina there docked vessels from as far as Juneau. I needed the rest and enjoyed it, although I ran errands for most of the day and became surprisingly busy. 

First I went to a cafe to read, which I’ve been wanting to do more of. Most nights I’m actually too busy or too tired or a combination of both to tackle my reading list. It turns out that much of bike touring is actually labor, not leisure as I’d imagined. Thankfully I thoroughly enjoy the labor: the tent-pitching, the cooking, the showers and rare laundry day, the hunt for WiFi or an electrical outlet in a state park gazebo, the bike maintenance, scrubbing pots and pans, packing up the bike, finding potable water and the perusing grocery store aisles. 

So I sat and read for a while in the sun. Then I went to the nearby public library to upload my photos from my camera, write my blog, catch up on some emails, write postcards and then rework a short story I should have out in a week or two. 

From there I rode to the bike shop. 45 minutes later I was installing a new front rack on my bike in front of the store, on the town’s main drag, in the sun. Tourists walked past and thought I worked there. I bought a Bontrager rack that is a major upgrade. 

Cyclists: you know it’s important to distribute your weight properly on your bike. I’d unfortunately learned in my first week that I’d failed to do so, and I couldn’t fix my predicament without some creatively-placed panniers or a a frame bag or a new front rack. I went with the latter for $70. It’s replacing my Tubus Tara front rack, which works great but does not allow for storage on the top of it. Now I have my ginormous sleeping bag snug in a dry-bag and bungie-corded to the top of the Bontrager rack. It handles so much better and looks great. Couldn’t be more pleased. From there I dashed up a hill to the most impressive post office I’ve seen in the states and mailed the postcards and my Tubus rack. Then I went to the grocery store. A guy parked a touring bike in the rack while I was locking mine and told me he’d spent his stimulus checks on a new bike. 

I arrived back in Fort Worden around 5:30 and found the state park has a strange secret: the former U.S. military installation is ringed by a vast network of derelict fortifications connected by miles of subterranean tunnels. These concrete bunkers are totally abandoned and the very definition of a horror movie set. What paint still exists on the exterior is peeling off the walls and upon walking merely 15 feet into one of the tunnels the black is so profound that an iPhone light is literally useless. The place gave me the creeps. I’ll have to come back with a buddy and a headlamp to explore. An older couple I talked to told me they were in there for hours the day before yesterday, at one point paralyzed in the blackness and separated by some kind of metal grate they couldn’t find their way around. 

Cycling 

In the morning I took the ferry to Whidbey Island, which was $4. The riding in southern Whidbey is probably the most quintessentially nice stretch I’ve enjoyed to-date. The ACA route is fantastic. Near Deception Pass the roads were a bit spicy. The Deception Pass bride is stunning, high as it is between the island and the mainland, but partially under construction. Traffic was bad here and the shoulders disappeared, but the speed limit was only 40, so I had to get a bit aggressive and claim part of the road for myself when bypassing the usual branches in the shoulder and the guardrails. This tactic earned me my second honk of the trip which was entirely unnecessary. 

After Deception Pass the climb is tough. You reach an apex, then speed to sea-level again and do it over. I’m camping in Washington Park in Anacortes now. There’s a really, really nice hiker/biker site in a meadow where fawns literally prance. The site is away from the rest of the campsite which is crowded even now. The ranger said it gets really bad around the Fourth.  Just another reason to ride your bike: premier camping for cheap. 

Encounters

I pulled over at a gas station in Oak Harbor, WA for a gatorade. Inside the clerk stood, maskless and bemused, behind a plexiglas sheet. She watched as a guy about my age approached her. Skinny, a bit taller than me, wearing a trucker cap and a loose mask over his mouth but not his nose. Behind the straps you could see a wispy beard like mine. He stood there and opened his wallet. A lone $10 bill in there. He hesitated when taking it out and muttered something to himself I couldn’t hear. 

He asked her what was their cheapest pack of cigarettes. Expressionless, the clerk studied him. Pall Malls, she said.

“How much are those?”

She leaned forward and typed something into the machine behind the counter and her eyes flicked back to him. 

“7.67.”

He must have had the $10 in his hand because he said nothing and abruptly tossed it on the counter. It was crumpled and for a moment both he and the cashier watched it slowly twitch and unwrap. You could have heard a pin drop in the store. Then the clerk sighed and reached under the plexiglas sheet to take the money. 

“100s or shorts?”

“Shorts.” 

Musings 

Some of you may be wondering what I’m eating. 

In the morning I do a breakfast bar, which saves so much time compared to cooking instant oats. I usually pop in somewhere for a treat and a coffee if there’s a good place around. 

I’m snacking constantly on the bike. I eat Frito’s, which are high in caloric content, carrots, fruit snacks, apples, peaches, smoked salmon if there’s roadside stops, cookies, candy bars and those weird cheez-it creations with the fake cheese between them. For some reason I like those. 

For lunch I do sandwiches or tortillas. Isobutane fuel isn’t easy to find right now — I just obtained a big stash at an undisclosed source in Burlington, WA — so I’m taking it easy on the hot sandwiches. But in the early days of the trip I was making grilled ham and cheddar sandwiches with pepper on them. Mmmm. Now I’m eating tortillas with sharp cheddar, pepperoni and mustard. When I eat out I usually get lunch, but this is becoming more infrequent. It just depends on how hungry I am and how much willpower I have when crawling past a gleaming food truck that reads PULLED PORK SANDWICHES or a diner that reads BISCUITS AND GRAVY. 

For dinner I’ve had: instant rice with soy sauce and carrots, onions and peppers; noodles with pesto; instant rice and black beans with pickled jalapenos and carrots, taco seasoning, cheddar and tortilla bits; sausages in a bed of red peppers and onions; ramen; and something else I can’t remember. 

On my first night I had a cold half of a 14-inch sub sandwich from Taste Tickler in Portland. The teriyaki sub, you know the one. 

Physically, I’m holding up pretty well. My right knee is tender in the morning but CBD appears to successfully dampen that. I also adjusted my bike seat which has appeared to help. I had some elbow pain on my right arm that has since disappeared. My bike seat is comfortable for the time being. I’m sure tomorrow will bring another tiny torture. 

From Port Townsend I had the rare ability to see where I’m going next. North Cascades National Park looks like Alaska above the foohills and the Sound. It’s going to be wet, possibly buggy, cold and impossibly steep. I’m really excited. 

Mentally, I’m holding up well. I felt my first pang of loneliness in Port Townsend. It’s a strange feeling being alone and on a budget in a comfortable place where families and couples flock for a short retreat. Thankfully I’m happier than I’ve ever been and ambitious and the combination should carry me east. Elsewhere I’m struggling to remember which day of the week it is. This is concerning to me for some reason. I wonder if, at the end of this, I’ll have trouble coming back to a regimented work-week. 

Days 6-7, June 7-8

Note: skip between sub-heds if you're looking for specific information. 

I woke up June 7 at Bear Creek and crawled out of my tent and rejoiced to see blue skies. Where the sun peaked through the Doug Firs steam rose from the undergrowth. I was starting to feel how remote this section of road was. Everything was damp. No one was around.

I was in a good mood. Ahead of me was an epic ride that would become both my longest ride ever and land at least near the top of the list, if not crowning it, of my favorite days ever on two wheels: an 18-mile or so stretch on 101 to the Olympic Discovery Trail, a paved path through forests and meadows completely separate from the highway, around magnificent Lake Crescent and into Port Angeles. This was about 50 or 55 miles and perhaps half of it was on the ODT. At a laundromat in PA I washed and dried all of my clothing, my camp towel, my shoes. 

Camping around there was sparse, and I still had pent-up energy. So at about 7:30 p.m. I filled up water and bought two packs of Oreo's and rode another 20 or 25 miles to Sequim Bay State Park, arriving after dark at 10:22 p.m. I camped next to Chris, who occupied a hiker-biker site just feet from me.

All told it was about 75 miles that day. I winged most of it, especially the stretch to Sequim. Navigation is really easy here.

The next day my right knee was tender and I was tired in the morning. I learned that Chris is homeless and he's been on the road for about 45 years. He carts his stuff around on a $25 mountain bike with a home-made back rack made of wood. We shared coffee in the morning and he told me several incredible stories, most of which appear to be at least partially untrue. These include being struck by lightning while walking across the desert in Arizona, which I believe. I did not believe his tale of personally killing a rhinoceros, which he said had escaped from a nearby wildlife sanctuary, in the woods near Forks. He said he had jumped a cliff to escape it, climbed a tree -- which the rino toppled over -- and finally he speared it with a young pine tree. Hell of a guy.

I rode about 17 miles to Fat Smitty's, a burger joint at the intersection of 101 and Highway 20. This section was more crowded and I could feel I was reentering civilization, despite it being a Tuesday. I was hungry and stopped immediately at the burger joint, which is heralded by an enormous wood carving, from a single tree, of a hamburger that is painstakingly painted and detailed. I could tell I was entering the outer ring of the Seattle tourism region because a lot of people wearing Patagonia shells and tight masks stood with their arms folded in the burger joint, altogether looking uncomfortable standing next to signs that read TRUMP 2020 and "Only YOU can stop socialism." I ate my burger outside and wrote a bit. The food wasn't very good and I was disappointed. 

As I was saddling up I talked to some folks from around there. Right before I was set to leave an old man produced a tape measurer and began scrutinizing aspects of the leviathan hamburger carving. I asked him if he'd carved it. He had. 

What followed was the beginning of a blossoming bromace with Terry, who is perhaps in his 60s, square and short and sporting a long white beard that hangs like a dwarf's. He said his carving union calls him the "Ghost Carver" because he never promotes his work, but he has a lot of it and spends weeks at a time carving on-site across the the U.S. He is exceedingly friendly and, when he asked me where I was going, he learned that I planned to pedal 20 or 30 miles out of the way to Port Townsend because the ACA doesn't consider the direct route safe on Highway 20. He drove me the entire way, my bike laid across his "indestructible" canoe, in the bed of his truck.

He gave me great advice along the way. He said he'd hitch-hiked across the U.S. nine times, including a fated trip to Haight-Ashbury in 1967 after which he became disaffected with violent protest movements. He said that he'd relied on the kindness of strangers so much during those trips that he resolved to continually "pay it forward."

"The past is gone," he said. "There's no paying it backward. All there is is tomorrow. You've got to get out and experience it and see what it has to offer." 

After he'd helped me unload my bike and gear he gave me his phone number. I texted him to thank him again. 

"Your welcome," he replied the next day. "Great to have met you. !!!" And attached to the message is a photo of him smiling next to two woodcarvings of painted, human-sized gnomes. 

I'm at the public library in Port Townsend. It's exceedingly beautiful here. I decided yesterday to take a rest day and camp another night at Fort Worden State Park. It's full of surprises. More on this later. 

Portland people: get an AirBnB in PT. It's absolutely gorgeous.

Cycling

I broke with ACA’s routes for most of this day. Originally I planned to take highways 113 and 112 on Olympic’s stunning north coast, but a roadside advisory informed me as I stood in the rain that the road had washed out in December 2020 and is still being repaired (as of early June 2021). So I took the ODT to the Spruce Railroad trail around Lake Crescent. You can’t miss it, it’s perfectly paved and easily navigable all the way around Lake Crescent. From the end of that trail there I took 101 to a country road junction on the Elwa River that’s probably about 10 miles away from Port Angeles. It was a tortuous and stunning ride into town, past idyllic farmland and timberlands. I took this because it looked like a nice road from the junction and had a “bicyclists” road sign there.  From PA to, probably about 10 miles from Sequim, I took the ODT. Then I hopped on the Olympic Highway, which is flat with big shoulders through, again, idyllic farmlands of some pungent greens I couldn’t place and lavender. From Sequim I took the ODT again to Sequim Bay State Park. 

This stretch between Sappho to Port Angeles is legendary. If you're not into bike touring, you should ride it for a day or two on the ODT and drop cars. At Lake Crescent the ODT becomes the Spruce Railroad Trail. In the summer this would make for some of the best swimming in the world. The water is literally turquoise from a distance and crystal clear beneath you. 

From Blyn to Fat Smitty's the traffic increased and at times the shoulder was small. There are semis and some logging trucks on this road but mostly a lot of commuter vehicles. From there I hitched, so I can't attest to the ride to Port Townsend. 

 Encounters

 Aside from the above, I met two baristas in Port Townsend. They laughed and said that only old people live in Port Townsend, which I've found to be true. It's chalk-full of retirees and Gig Harbor types, wealthy grey-hairs walking their tiny dogs or just wandering around appearing totally confused. The baristas said I'd find a girlfriend in moments because young guys are so rare here. They encouraged me to find a job at the local newspaper. I believe it's called the Leader. I've been reading the Peninsula Daily Press, which is solid. Rent is not cheap here though. One of the baristas told me she's reliably paying near $1,300. 

Day 5, June 6

 Day 5: June 6 

Note: skip to subheadings if you’re looking for specific info about conditions. 

With many long or intense outdoor experiences I’ve had in the past, I’ve tended to look back more favorably on them than they probably deserved at the time. Backpacking in particular can be brutal and I’ve done a lot of it. It’s classic Type Two fun: it’s hard and much of it sucks, but you later relish in those experiences and laugh and savor them. 

This trip so far is precisely the opposite. I actually can’t believe I’m having this much fun. I feel like I actually shouldn’t be having any fun at all under the present circumstances. 

Olympic is known for its temperate rain forest ecosystem, which is a relative rarity in the world. It’s the wettest locale in the lower 48 states. 

I am getting the full Olympic experience.

At Bogachiel I set my tent up in the rain. It poured all night and I packed it up in the rain in the morning. I’d let myself sleep in and found an utter deluge when I peaked my head through my vestibule. The ranger at the state park, Keith, is from nearby Forks. He looked around in the downpour and remarked that, oftentimes around there, it’s not really raining. There’s just such extreme humidity that water seems suspended in the thick undergrowth somewhere between evaporation and condensation. “Now this,” he said, probing the downpour with a finger, “this is rain.”

I attempted briefly to hitchhike and then pedaled up the road and just decided to ride the five miles into Forks. I arrived there as perhaps the wettest individual on land in all of Washington. And it didn’t really bother me. I was cold but immediately snagged a booth at In Place. This is my favorite kind of restaurant: a no-frill diner, pretty cheap but not too cheap, with cigarette-stained waitresses that bark and you and endlessly refill your coffee. I had a massive breakfast that I ate concerningly fast and then took advantage of the first WiFi I’d had in days, downloading some literature and podcast episodes. I ate and sat there catching up on the news and eventually the waitresses eventually forgot about me. It poured outside. I enjoyed the warm diner and the coffee they keep pouring me. I sat there a long time. Eventually I knew it was time to come back to reality. I saddled up and rode half a mile back down the road to a big grocery store that also had an outdoor store in there. 

Here I made the best purchase so far this trip: A pair of rain pants and a pair of water shoes. That’s right folks. If you drove 101 between Sappho and Forks two days ago you saw a blond man on a bike pedaling in full rain gear and water shoes. The next day I wore my regular shoes, which were very damp, and wore dog-bags as improvised booties. They worked OK. 

I rode to Bear Creek, a DNR site with no water but bathrooms. A really chill site that is practically empty. A short trail takes you through the mist to the Sol Duc River. It’s in a Douglas Fir grove and run by the state but they’re not even asking for money here right now and there’s no camphost. I purchased a small bottle of whisky in Forks that facilitated my transition from wet clothes to went tent. I had to mop up the floor of the tent with a damp camp towel and a sacrificial Led Zeppelin t-shirt, but it worked. 

Cycling

From Forks to Bear Creek campground 101 is chill as fuck. Enormous shoulders and pretty flat. I really loved this, even in the rain. It’s so much better than the logging corridor between Quinault and Aberdeen. If you buy whisky and a diner breakfast in Forks it feels especially good to ride in the rain here.

Encounters

An old man volunteers at Bogachiel to pick up trash from the sites. Somehow locals around Forks move about this aquarian environment and don’t appear drenched like the rest of us, as if they’re protected by halos that bend the rain around the crown of their heads, some natural umbrella. It was 9 am and I was already soaked to the bone as I packed up camp. He walked toward me, trash picker in hand. 

“I have to warn you about his site,” he said seriously. “There’s a giant rabbit that lives there in that hedge.”

And later:

“One time I was camping in Yellowstone and I left my tent, you know, barely open. There were six chipmunks in there when I got back.” He leaned in and whispered. “And they wanted to kick my ass.”

Musings 

I wonder how long it takes for trenchfoot to set in

Digression: Short story

 I wrote this story sometime in 2019. It’s based on a monologue I heard in a diner about Grindr, the gay dating-app. 

“A few years back, before the bullshit, Grindr was the best dating app out there. 

I don’t care if y’all are straight or queer as they come. In terms of the basics, just objectively, Grindr was the shit. It was the bee’s knees. For a few years, you didn’t need to create an account linked to Facebook. For a while, you didn’t even need an email address. So what guys did was open an account, sometimes with just a first name, sometimes just a first initial, or even no name at all. 

It was wild. Totally badass. 

The worst, though, was the lack of photos. Like, I don’t give a shit if your name is Greg or Cody. But I do happen to care –

No, you’re good! Yeah, I’ll have the biscuits and gravy. The meat. Yeah. And can I get a refill? Thanks so much. 

God, I love a late breakfast. I feel like shit. 

Anyway. It was so great having a little anonymity on there. Like, the culture had totally harkened back to the glory hole era, but without the AIDS. It was magnificent. 

But the photos – or lack thereof – were an issue. So what you would do was just swipe through a ton of blank profiles. Maybe they had a name on there, but maybe not. And there was definitely not this Tinder bullshit or Bumble or whatever where you tell people what you do for a living. That’s, frankly, a twisted mating ritual. 

God, I feel like I’m 40. Y’all went out and danced yourselves clean; I just had a family thing and stayed up to midnight. How sad is that? And I’m too broke to even have a cat. 

Excuse me, do you have almond milk? Cool, thanks. 

Thing was, it worked. I didn’t even have a photo, and hordes of horny men would ping me. Like, ‘Are you looking?’ That’s how it was, and still is, in many ways. I feel for you straight bitches! There’s so much pressure to lead with a corny pickup line, or be witty or whatever. Fuck that. 

Like, let’s just get down to brass tacks. Put your fucking dick in my mouth. 

The meetups were bizarre, though: Basically a blind date with higher stakes. You can’t just walk away from the table. You’ve committed, to some degree. You’re either in their apartment or they’re in yours. Things could get weird. Things did get weird. 

This one time, I hooked up with a guy and literally never knew his name. He was one of the nameless ones, but he did have a photo. Cute twinky-looking guy who looked like his balls had just dropped. 

Yeah, never knew — well, we actually didn’t have sex. Nope, just oral stuff. 

Yeah. 

I know, cra — well, I gave him head, too! Who do you think I am?! I’m a goddamn gentleman, aren’t I?

Another time — and this is right around when we met, actually, though I didn’t mention it for obvious reasons — I was apparently blacked out and consulted with the app. Terrible idea. 

Also, this is all hearsay, because I have absolutely no recollection of this. 

But allegedly, I met a guy really, really, late back at my house. Mind you, I have like six roommates. It was basically a trap house, right around the corner from DU. So I met this guy. I have no idea what he looks like. 

We must have done the deed. I’ve been told that I disappeared around 3:30 in the morning. Nowhere to be found. And this guy started just wandering around the house in his boxes, piss-drunk, super disoriented. Like, beyond drunk. James, bless his heart, heard him walk down the stairs to the basement. 

He was mumbling something about the bathroom, which is up the flight of stairs and on the complete other side of the house. So, he was not doing well. But — again — apparently, he was really hot. So drunk me had done well for myself. 

Thank you, thank you. I know. I’m fabulous. 

So James helps this guy up the stairs. Looking right up his cute ass in the little boxer briefs. He pads his way into the bathroom, which was a sliding door. So James kind of pushes him in and slides the door closed, checking this nameless stud out a bit. But James has got class, so he lets him have his privacy. He stands in the hall to wait. 

But he doesn’t hear a goddamn thing. 

No trickle; nothing. No faucet running or anything like that. No shower. After a while, he thinks he’s dead. 

He knocks on the door and slowly slides it open. 

Inside, he’s just sitting on the toilet with his boxers on, kind of nodding off. James – being the stand-up superstar that he is – helps him up. His eyes are closed and he’s still kind of muttering “bathroom.” Bizarre. By now, James is wondering where the fuck I am. 

So he runs and grabs a blanket and wraps it around this weirdo. Once again, James steers him down the hall, but up the stairs this time to my room. There’s no lights on in the hallways. A light is visible under the crack of my door. So they totter to the door, turn the knob and push it open. 

Voila! 

The smell hit him first. 

James scanned the room in horror: Empty, it was. The pillows and blankets were all off of the bed. Half-drank Coronas were scattered like mines. There was a shirt hanging off the ceiling fan. I kid you not – James told me this the next morning. 

I, however, was nowhere to be found. The reason? 

The turd in the corner. 

Yeah. Yeah! Hold on, I’ll tell you! Jesus Christ, people. 

Yep. James kind of freezes, just looking at the turd. Thankfully, it wasn’t diarrhea or a watery one. Just a nice, clean, brown log, about this long. 

So our basketcase stumbles over to the bed. He’s wrapped in the blanket and flops on the bed, curling up in the fetal position.

And he’s still muttering, “bathroom.”

James now knows what has taken place. The guy is so drunk, he straight up took a shit in the corner thinking it was the bathroom. Heinous. James calls me, and sure enough, I’m just fucking ranting, worked up as shit, goose-stepping my way to Brian’s to pass out there. I don’t remember any of this. He said I told him that we’d been asleep until the stench hit me.  

Alas, that was not the end of my time with Grindr. You’d think it would be. Any sane person would quit. 

But I kept using the app. Jesus, I feel like I’m talking too much. Cut me off at any time. 

Sorry? Just a splash, please. Thanks. Fuck, this place is crowded. It’s going to take us forever to get our food. 

Grindr, though. Christ. You could either get the best dick of your life, or a bedroom dump. Or, something in between. 

I don’t use that shit anymore. One of my last times using it, I was in Italy. Didn’t speak the language except for una focaccia no pomodoro; One focaccia, no tomatoes. I was so bloated the whole time I was studying abroad in Florence. 

So I swiped and found this Italian guy, also don’t know his name. But he’s sexy as fuck. I have no phone or anything, so I have to literally Mapquest his address and print it out at my host family’s spot. 

So I take the bus and get there. We start making out a little bit. He’s a really good kisser: Not a whole lot of tongue, which I like, and not sloppy; the man had intent. It was so refreshing after so many European dance floor make outs. So he goes to the bathroom, and me — thinking I’m going to surprise him — strips fully naked and lays on the chaise, like, ‘Paint me like one of your French girls.’” Like in Titanic. 

He walks out, sees me and kind of just stops in his tracks. 

Did I mention I was bloated from all the goddam bread and cheese in that hot-ass boot? 

He scans me up and down. And I can feel the smile fade from my lips. 

In broken English, he just says something like, “I’m sorry, but I just don’t think this is going to work out.” 

I know!

No, it’s OK, it’s OK. 

Seriously!

It was, actually, kind of a good thing for me. Because instead of just grabbing my clothes and dashing out, hysterical and obscene, I calmly put my clothes back on, gave him a hug, and said, “I understand, it’s OK. Thanks for having me in your home.” 

I walked out of there strangely at peace with myself, and my body. 

I came out to my friends and family after that study abroad trip, too — like, three weeks later. It helped me realize that you don’t have to please everyone. 

I’ve had plenty of incredible hookups and ruined relationships to know that I’m not damaged goods or anything. I don’t even get mad or down on myself about the occasional rejection, like I used to. The world is too big to be obsessing about your little corner of it all the time. 

So those are my Grindr moments. I’ll still swipe, though, occasionally. 

It’ll still be there, whenever I want it. 

Ooooh, is that our food!? Ah, it’s theirs. Bastards. And we were here before them!”