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!”

Days 1-4:, June 2-5. Elma to Forks, WA

Days 1-4, June 2-5. 120ish miles. 

I wrote much of this from the South Beach campsite on the western coast of the Olympic Peninsula. It’s calm here with the crackle of the fire and the roar of the surf which must be just a hundred feet from my site. I was surprised to learn that this blustery camp is a regional destination for whale watching. A medium named Lula told me that before she generously gave me some firewood. She said there’s a spirtual power throughout Olympic and I believe it. Here, grey whales seasonally pass through the strait here between Olympic and Destruction Island, which is an ominous-looking grey mass on the horizon to the northwest. Luckily I was able to see the arched back of one just beyond the surf. I did not see the giants that she said roam Olympic and occasionally rip full-grown Douglas Firs from their roots.

I think I’ll structure the blog this way: a section to follow of info for bike tourists, then a portion on people I’ve met, then some musings. I’ll hed the sections so that if you’re only interested in some things and not others you can skip around. 

Cycling 

Day 1: I started from Elma at about 5 p.m. My first turn of the tour was, to my dismay, onto an onramp announced by a sign that said FREEWAY ENTRANCE. I merged onto highway 12. This is a major thoroughfare that, to Montesano, has a giant shoulder — except for one quarter-mile stretch of one long bridge over a river followed by several shorter bridges after. I had to time in across the bridges and made it safely. It sure got my adrenaline up. I camped that night in Lake Sylvia State Park, which is up and over a big hill from town. There’s hiker/biker sites (which are $12). I rode ten or eleven miles this day. 

Day 2: I rode fifty miles this day and passed into the Quinault Indian Reservation. In the morning it was foggy. The ACA route here does not take you to Aberdeen. Instead you wind your way through country roads, including several variations of “Wishkah” Road. It’s a native moniker that means “Smelly Whale.” A white lady told me that and I don’t have WiFi at the time of writing so I can’t fact-check that. It’s pretty good riding through to the 101. Traffic was light, but these are curvy country roads with no shoulder. Drivers were courteous. Then I hit the 101 and took it north essentially to Lake Quinault, where I camped. Highway 101 here started with an enormous shoulder. Just colossal. I was elated and then, as ten and 20 miles passed, the shoulder totally disappeared. And the logging trucks appeared. 

These trucks are huge. They drive extremely fast and menacingly. A woman named Jigger told me that they are so heavy that they are literally incapable of stopping. So you gotta keep your wits about you through this stretch. My method was listening for them and siting the rig and then immediately pulling over into whatever was on the side of the road, usually a plume of scotchbroom, which has hopelessly taken over this region where it has been logged — which is most places outside of the national park, it seems. I camped in Falls Creek campground on the southern side of Lake Quinault. $25, no hiker/biker. I split this with someone else. 

Day 3. I rode 30 ish miles on 101 to Kalaloch Campground and then doubled back a few miles to camp there. This is out of the reservation and just west of the national park. It seemed like there might be a better vibe here and I struck gold. No water here. Not even sinks in the bathrooms. Whales though.

On this first stretch drivers have been courteous. They’ve generally given me a wide berth. When there’s no line of sight or particularly large vehicles approaching I pull over. This has been true even for many of the logging trucks. It’s tough riding but I’m glad I stuck it out. 

Day 4: I never knew riding could be this good. The logging traffic ceased altogether and I relished in the ten miles or so on the coast. I easily rode another 20 miles or so to Bogachiel State Park. It’s nice and quiet here and very, very lush. There’s two hiker/biker sites. It’s the weekend and the site is totally packed with folks with their RVs and roaring fires and grills. And here I am in the rain. If I wasn’t enjoying myself so much I could see how depressing this probably looks. 

Physically I feel better than I expected. However this is only thanks to the hospitality of two wonderful camp hosts, John and Denise, at South Beach. I’m taking it slow this first week. 

Aside: Backcountry blunder 

When I rolled into that site everything rapidly fell apart. I was starving and exhausted, my elbow hurt, my butt hurt and rain was on the horizon. And I was utterly disorganized. I desperately wanted a grilled cheese and miserably had to dig through all of my panniers to assemble the ingredients: cook stove, fuel, lighter, bread, cheese, and handle for the pot. I then discovered that I’d made a fatal mistake. When hanging my food in a tree so a bear wouldn’t devour it, I’d forgotten to remove my 30% DEET bug lotion. When jamming the bag back into my pannier the next day, it must have exploded. All of my food was covered in this sticky viscous lotion that would not be washed away by sand or salty water or in the grimy little creek that bounded the campsite in a ditch. As I ran from the creek to the ocean to the site crows picked through the ruined food.  I was able to salvage much of the grub, but my drybag has not yet recovered. On Day 4 I woke up utterly exhausted. This is where Denise and John enter the story and rescued me and I’ll pick this back up below. 

Encounters

I met Michelle in Humptulips. It’s a goofy-sounding town that is on the banks of a supremely beautiful river of the same name. She told me it means “Hard to Pole” in a native tongue, as in pole a canoe up-river. Apparently the river and its surroundings are a major destination for fishermen and kayakers and the like from all over the region. This has brought more problems than benefits for her community, she said — even though she runs the only pit stop in town with some food and water. She said backpackers and campers have a serious littering habit that’s detrimental to the landscape and does not mesh well with the sanctimoniousness of these urbanites spending a few days on the river. A man walked into her store as we sat there and stood listening for a moment, then added that he’d picked up another several bags of trash just that week. Then he walked inside. Michelle went on to say that some backpackers once tossed bags of shit outside of their car as it sped through town, littering the road in front of her store. She added that certain conservation efforts dreamed up in Seattle and Olympia just harm locals’ ability to work the land and make a living. I believe her. These are not wealthy communities I’m passing through.  

It was interesting to hear the other side’s thoughts about outdoor tourism and conservation. Tourism is an industry and when lawmakers prioritize this, other industries and local economies can suffer. 

I met Dan in Quinault. It was my destination for the day and I’d just ridden about 53 miles. I was salivating at a grocery window that read PIZZA when someone called from down the road, “Another biker!” 

He beckoned me over, grinning ear to ear. I could tell immediately he’d been on the road for a long time. A scraggly beard, a gauntness in his cheekbones that told me his body fat content was probably down to .001%. And a beautiful bike with top-of-the-line gear. I could not guess that he’d been on the road for 18,000 miles over three years. And he’d almost died as recently as November. “Are you squeamish?” He asked me, already handing me the phone. Photos of him in the hospital bed, his knees abraided away. And then in the helicopter, his legs tied together for his dislocated hip. He’d been in Arizona and found out later that a car had hit him full-on at about 70 miles per hour, launching him a hundred feet into a ditch. I found out later that Dan had been suicidal for years and started his bike trip as a way to save his own own life; as time went on he discovered his story resonated with so many people and he offically began riding to raise awareness about suicide and prevention strateigies. This means that in Arizona he was towing a trailer — attatched to his bike — bearing his awareness messages. The woman who hit him worked for human services on the Navajo Nation, and when she barreled into him it was likely the trailer that protected him and savaed his life.

His story is obviously poetic: The ride that saved his life — and by his account, the lives of others — almost took his life as well. 

Dan is healing still but riding strong. The world rallied and donated him thousands of dollars for new gear in the fall. He is a persistently positive individual whose attitude is infectious; when we pulled out of town the next day, locals literally waved and shouted their goodbyes to him. But I do worry about him. He’s 32 now and a survivor of so much but I wonder what he will do when he stops riding or if he can stop riding. He doesn’t plan to. Dan, best of luck to you.  If I can carry just a modicum of your purpose and congeniality on my own trip, I’ll have no trouble whatsoever. 

I met Denise and John at South Beach at perhaps my lowest portion of the trip so far, when I was running around like a decapitated chicken trying to rinse my food of DEET lotion and keep my items from blowing away in the salty breeze or become carried off by chickens. They pulled up in their car and immediately began helping me. The baby wipes they gave me were what saved much of my food. 

They’re in their 60s and about the same age as my parents. We laughed about this and the fact that I’m the same age as their son. 

They’re the camphosts at South Beach and run a salon of sorts from an impressive camper bus parked on the bluff overlooking the ocean. In the morning I trudged over to their bus in search of coffee — they’d told me they had coffee for me the night before if I wanted it, and I’d woken up absolutely exhausted. I did not expect them to invite me into their bus for the entire morning, where they fed me chia seed oatmeal and as much coffee as I wanted and then another round of air-fried potatoes. I sat there with them for about two hours and we talked about life.

John is an artist with pieces in various galleries. He’s a painter mostly of what he says has been called abstract expressionism and a deep thinker. Denise is a retired Catholic school teacher, so we got along well. Both of them hold court from their bus and have made a slew of eccentric whale-watchers: a psychiatrist who invited John to a rabbinical conference, a submarine captain, Argentinian bike tourists. 

Musings  

Everyone has an opinion about Portland, and it’s not good. When people ask me where I’m from I say there first. And then they launch into it: the homelessness, the crime, the riots, it’s too expensive. People just unload. I’ve had this conversation perhaps eight times in two-and-a -half days. Most people I’ve talked to would prefer homeless people just be somehow driven from city limits. Some of them have lived there and left because of the state of things. I covered homelessness somewhat in Colorado so, if the conversation goes long enough, I’ll chime in and talk about smaller-scale solutions — temporary or otherwise — I’m aware of, like sanctioned campsites and building conversions. However the problem is personified in a man from the midwest who is older and wealthier. He said he’d prefer that homeless people left Portland but also that the city should be doing more homeless programming. His perspective is a broader one: property owners do want solutions in many cases but they don’t want solutions near them. They’re NIMBYs. They’ll complain about visible homelessness, and when there’s a proposal in their neighborhood for a halfway house or second chance center or an affordable housing complex, they’re vehemently opposed, frothing at the mouth in city council hearings. I’ve personally written about this phenomenon many times and I’m frustrated to see it again in conversations, of all places, on Olympic. 

I saw the world’s largest spruce tree three days ago. It’s over a thousand years old and steps from an RV park. 

People everywhere I encounter are very excited that I’m biking cross-country. They’re very generous. Lea, a friend of mine, told me that she thinks she needs another tour to restore her faith in humanity. Color my faith restored so far, especially after meeting Dan and Denise and John. 

I’ve been reading a lot of Cormac McCarthy. I’ve done my best not to let his voice bleed into my writing but it’s infectious. There may be a morsel of him here and there. However, I’m reading his first book now, The Orchard Keeper, which he wrote almost entirely in the style of Faulkner. That makes he feel better — that even McCarthy, who is a god, started out sounding like his literary hero. 

Word of the week: Epiphytes are plants that grow on other plants. 

FAQ: June 1

 It's hot in Portland and summer is finally here. I'm leaving tomorrow. 

Mother of God. What am I getting myself into. 

Jokes aside, I feel ready to go. Shout out to my mom who will drop me off in Montesano, WA tomorrow afternoon, June 2. I'll spend my first night camped at Lake Sylvia State Park and then begin heading up the far side of the Olympic Peninsula. 

Here's an FAQ for those who are interested. As always, comment or bother me on social media if you have a question I haven't answered. Shit-posts are also encouraged -- shout out to Tube Creamer on Twitter. You know who you are. 

Am I vaccinated? 

Sure am. I got my first dose in a mosque and a second dose in a country/western bar.

Where am I going? 

I've patched together a very long route of various Adventure Cycling Association maps. For those who don't know, the ACA is based out of Missoula. It is the most fantastic resource I've discovered for travel of any kind. The Association diligently routes bike tours based on scenery but more importantly safety. Click on over to their website and see their cross-country-spanning network of routes. 

So, all on ACA routes, I'm going:

In WA: From Montesano to Sedro-Woolley, WA on the Olympic Peninsula and Whidbey Island. Then through North Cascades National Park, down to Yakima and to Mt. Rainier National Park. Proceeding south then between Mts. St. Helens and Adams to Bridge of the Gods. 

In Oregon: Cascade Locks to Hood River, then Parkdale, then over Mt. Hood, then Bend and down to Crater Lake. I'll meet my mom -- you're the best Mom! -- at Crater Lake and hang there for a few days. Then she'll drop me off in Sisters and I'll point east to Baker City. 

In Idaho: I cross through the Nez Perce-Clearwater National Forest to Missoula.

In Montana: Hang in Missoula and then head SE to Yellowstone. 

In Wyoming: Yellowstone to Jackson to the Tetons. After looping briefly north into Cody I head east and the Rockies end. I pass through the Bighorn National Forest and the mountain range there in the middle of the state. Then back to plains. 

In SD: Black Hills National Forest and Rapid City. Then...whatever is on the route after that. I'm actually stoked for SD based on Explorer Duck's dispatches. (See "Howdy.")

In MN, WI and MI: After this I'm not familiar with the region at all and landmarks are fewer and far between. I eventually pedal to Minneapolis a gazillion miles away and then from there into Wisconsin and up to Michigan's Upper Peninsula. I have family and friends in Detroit and hope to see them up there. I'll either hitch from there to Detroit or ride down Lake Michigan for a while after that. Another note on this portion: Depending on how crappy these sections are, I'll either hitch or throw in the towel in Minneapolis. Who knows. It's a long way and I can do whatever I want.

How do I know where I'm going? 

It's all on ACA routes. I'm using their paper maps, which are excellent. I also use Ride With GPS on my phone.

What kind of bike do I have? 

A used Surly Long Haul Trucker I've had for about a year now. I put Jones H-Loop Bars on it, which I can't say enough good about. I bought those used. I found a used Velo Orange back rack. On the front I have the Tubus Tara. I have Ortlieb panniers and Marathon Plus tires.

Happy to answer any specific gear questions you might have and, if something new fails, you'll be the first to hear about it.

A note on the Surly: It's a cushy setup that altogether was not cheap. I went a little bit nuts during the pandemic planning this excursion and bought a lot of gear. But let me say this: The cost of gear does not have to preclude someone from bike touring or backpacking or generally getting into the outdoors. There are always excellent resources and, if you're savvy, you can make it work touring on an old mountain bike with cat litter panniers and used tents and sleeping bags that work just as well. Much of my stuff is still used -- I really enjoy hunting for used gear. Shoutout to the Outdoor Gear Recycler in Boulder, CO, where I was living for a time this spring, and Craigslist and Facebook Marketplace. And shoutout to Foster Outdoor in Portland. Go there instead of Next Adventure, it's way cheaper.

Am I camping? 

Yup. I've done a fair amount of backpacking over the years and am very comfortable camping. In the Midwest I may get motel rooms more often depending on how miserable I am.

Will I be alone? 

Mostly. A friend of mine may opt to slog up Highway 35 near Mt. Hood with me. And my Dad, who is in his 60s, will ride with me from Missoula to the Tetons and possibly after that depending on our paces. Other than that I plan to slam beers with strangers in state parks from here to Michigan.

What's my plan for dealing with cars?

High-visibility clothing and a light. But more importantly, spatial awareness. I have an enormous mirror, the West Bike Mirror, that fits well on the Jones bars. This allows me to keep an eye on not only whether there's traffic but also what kind of traffic it is. I've quickly developed an eye for asshole drivers, and it's clear whether someone doesn't intend to give you any room as they approach. The worst offenders I've noticed so far are F-150 drivers and drivers of similar passenger trucks. Industrial and hauling trucks are also aggressive. I'll keep a log updated of the worst of the worst. 

What about bears? 

I have bear mace and paracord to haul my food out of reach away from camp. And I have a really sharp knife if it really gets down to it.

What if my bike breaks? 

I have a decent knowledge of bike mechanics. I can change a tire, patch a tube, fix a broken chain, replace cables and adjust my derailleurs. For any bigger issues that arise I can likely pop into a bike shop somewhere on the way. They're more abundant than you think and marked on ACA maps. If things go really south I'll hitchhike or ritualistically offer myself to the bears.  

What about sketchy people? 

Eh. I'm much more worried about being misted by a logging truck. 

And mosquitos? 

I have DEET, but I'll probably just suffer through it.

Why am I doing this? 

At the risk of writing an essay about bike touring from my mom's couch, I'll just say that it's a standout way to travel. International travel remains iffy and people are still suffering and dying globally from the coronavirus. I'd thought about through-hiking the Appalachian Trail or Pacific Crest Trail and I've decided those probably aren't for me. It took me a long time to save money and I knew after I was vaccinated it was time to leave Colorado, where I'd lived for eight years and worked at the fantastic Sentinel Colorado.

I was also raised with tales of my own father's bike tour when he was also 25, in 1983. He cycled a predecessor of the current-day ACA Northern Tier route from Oregon and made it as far as Vermont. I was always fascinated with this, and I'm blessed that he'll be able to join me for a stretch this year. Our relationship has been rocky because of family issues and this trip has already given us much to connect on. 

Two of my close friends also became deranged bike tourists in recent years and ultimately capped off a ride in 2019 through Alaska and Canada to Montana. Just outrageous. One of them got me stoned during a subsequent backpacking trip in the North Cascades and I decided then and there I'd get myself on two wheels. I began touring on a used mountain bike in the Rockies while I lived in Denver. During the pandemic my man Andrew and I cycled up Mt. Evans above 14,000 feet, which is the tallest road in North America. I also did several short tours around a location in Wyoming that is a gem and at risk of being ruined by Coloradans like my former self. Recently I did overnights around Mt. Adams and into Oregon's Coast Range from Hillsboro. Both were incredible. I also rode from Parkdale to Zig Zag, OR in a daytrip with my lovely auntie Carol via Lolo Pass. 

There's a bigger reason I'm going. I'm a journalist and more importantly an American curious about his own country. I was raised in cities and I've spent much of my time in gentrified or gentrifying areas. It's clear in my own experiences and in the broader political discourse that urbanites generally do not understand what it's like to live in rural America, and there's a fair amount of undue condescension and willful ignorance in this regard. I'm personally very curious to see how the other half lives. I'll endeavor to educate myself along the way about worker's issues, land disputes, histories of indigenous tribes, the roots of political grievances and how climate change is shaping the West and Midwest. All are important issues to me. I'll likely benefit tremendously from being a white person during this tour as I hope to meet and learn from people.

I also hope to use this free time to write either journalism or fiction. The latter is looking more likely as I'll be on the move. I'll post any stories I've written here to weird all of you out.