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.
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