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.
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