Blog 17

July 18

   The mail wasn't available until 11:00, so I had plenty of time to kick around Fort Bragg for even longer than I wanted to.  I had pretty much resolved myself to the fact that I wan't going to get the gloves until my trip was done, so it was only minorly disappointing when they didn't arrive.  I'd paid good money for them, however, and was solidly bent on eventually tracking them down.  After consulting with the post office lady, I filled out a card with a relative's address in Palo Alto and rode out into the fog.  

   For some reason, I had been growing increasingly hungry for the last week or so, and honestly couldn't remember a time when I'd actually been full in that time period.  In an attempt to get myself even close to enough food, I'd fallen into the habit of eating lots of $1 390 calorie McDonald's cheeseburgers.  Fort Bragg had a McDonalds on the south edge of town, so of corse I pulled in and laid down my $2 for a bit of lunch.  Back outside, I reorganized my stuff to make room for the food and rode off.  2 miles down the road I realized I'd forgotten to actually put the bag in my pannier.  Hoping that the homeless people loitering about hadn't noticed my mistake and snatched my calories, I turned around and pedaled as fast as I could back to the restaurant.  Fortunately, the sandwiches where right where I'd left them, and after a quick double check to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything else I retraced my earlier tracks.

   If I remember correctly, I actually had a tailwind today, and was thus motivated to push myself and my speed to the the upper limit of sanity.  It was seriously fun, and I now realize one of the reasons why.  

   Recently, I was talking to this hyper active middle aged college graduate drug addict homeless woman, and she mentioned, "you know, long distance running and bicycling release some of the same chemicals that heroine does".  Now that she'd mentioned it, I do seem to recall hearing that at some point in the past.  I'm afraid I can't provide a side by side comparison, but I can say that cycling is addictive.

   So anyway, I was cranking 20mph down the rugged hilly coastline, through the cool mist, with the wind at my back.  I was hungry, was missing a pannier, and nearing the end of my trip.  But I was having the time of my life.  Maybe the drug effect becomes stronger the longer you ride for, or maybe it was the extra effort I was putting out today, but I was up in the clouds, no longer on earth.

   My destination of Gulala Point Park was before me in no time, and I set about my usual campsite routine of showering, eating, and setting up my tarp.  I was once again sharing the hiker biker area with one other person, this time a guy named Shane of 30 or so.  Shane had quit his job, cashed in his 401k, and packed up some stuff and his cat onto a bike he'd purpose build for wandering America.  It was quite the rig, fully loaded with panniers plus a BOB trailer that had been altered to fit the cat box.

   There was also a bunch of other cyclists who where riding on a supported tour.  While waiting for the single shower, I chatted with some of them, and later ended up with a bunch of food from one of the women in the group.

   Speaking of food, I seriously needed some.  I had stopped at a close by supermarket on my way in and snagged some chocolate milk and a small french baguette, which I ate with jam while cooking my customary 4 hot dogs.  Later, Shan said "What do you think about barbecuing some chicken?"  I told him I thought that it was an excellent idea.  

   "You fly I buy?"

   "Sounds good to me"

30 minutes later I was back with 8 chicken drumsticks, a bottle of Sweet Baby Ray's, and another 1/2 gallon of chocolate milk.  Shane had purchased some firewood, and with the help of some of my spare stove fuel, soon had a fire going.  4 pieces of chicken and another quart of chocolate milk later, I was actually comfortably full for the first time in quite a while.

   Shane had stayed at the campground before, and warned me about the raccoons.  Apparently they were quite bold, and would descend on the campground like the plague as soon as darkness fell.  Almost as if it had been waiting for the cue, we suddenly heard a feral snarl from the direction of Shane's tent.  Sure enough, it was a raccoon, and had been surprised by Shane's cat.  Living up to reputation, it didn't even flinch when Shane approached, and it took a forcefully hurled chunk of firewood to get rid of the the thing.  

   Hoping the wild animals wouldn't take an interest in my face, I climbed under my tarp and fell asleep.

July 19

   Sarge had given me some ideas for where to stay the night before I rode into SF, and I decided to make for Samuel P Taylor State Park (SPTSP).  Once again, the riding was beautiful.  For some reason, highway 1 took a bit of a jog inland, and I got to see some agricultural land.  The downside was that as soon as I got off the coast, the wind once again swung into my face.  Soon enough I was back on the water, and riding on nearly deserted roadway past little towns.  It was very damp; there was a thick mist that seemed perpetually suspended in the air.  Because of this, everything was covered in thick green algae, or something similar.  It had an interesting effect on what it covered, and made things look uncared for, abandoned.  

   Anyway, I actually didn't know exactly where this state park was, and stopped at a restaurant to see if I could get some directions.  The restaurant was closed for the day, but a friendly guy outside with a smartphone was able to point me in the right direction.  After riding through a bit of a touristy looking town, I turned left onto Sir Frances Drake Boulevard and continued on.  

   I had once again pounded it out pretty hard during most of the day, and climbing up over the ridge that separated me from the SPTSP was slow going.  To make matters worse, the cement road became very bumpy, with large height differences between the slabs.  After a few miles of enduring this, I finally made it to the campground.  Except the campground didn't have any room.

   Apparently, there was only supposed to be a certain number of campers in the h/b area, and there were already that many there.  Fortunately, the young woman at the check in booth wasn't a stickler for rules, and with a quick pucker of her lips said, "oh well, as long as they have room for you, it's fine with me".  Of course, the eclectic group at the campsite not only had room for me, but offered me some dinner as well.  

   That night, I once again had animal problems.  I had anticipated that, however, and put all my food into the onsite bear box, leaving only my panniers exposed.  Sometime during the night, I was awakened by a raccoon going through my panniers, apparently attracted by my dishwashing scrubby.  He was not at all afraid of me, and it a large rock to convince him to vacate the premises.  

July 20

   This, I am afraid, is the narration of the final day of my journey.  

   Upon waking up, one of the first things on my mind was figuring out how I was going to get into San Francisco.  I didn't have a map detailed enough to navigate by, and really had now clue how I was going to make it to the bridge.  Instead of just heading for a freeway and enduring the traffic, I decided to ask some of my fellow cyclists if I could check out their maps. Mel and Holly, a pair of post-college girls from Canada, were also ending their journey in SF, and instead of just giving me directions they suggested we ride together.  After a brief moment of considering if this was how I wanted to end my ride, I accepted.  

   Before we made it into populated areas, we still had a bit of hillage to ride over.  Apparently, the road we were on was a cyclist stomping ground, and we were passed by dozens of yuppies clad in team colors astride composite bikes that probably cost 3 times what my car is worth.  From the perspective of living on our bikes for the last few months, the whole cultural act of fitting in with your Italian bike, $130 jersey, and color coordinated sunglasses was pretty fake, and we made appropriate remarks to each other as each ego-obsessed cyclist passed by.  Even if they were ego-obsessed, I still envied their 17 pound bicycles a bit as we labored up an especially large climb.  At least I kept up with a knot of them as I cranked 40mph down the far side, outdistancing the girls.

   Within 10 or 20 miles, we where out of the wilderness and into the Sausalito area.  It was still fairly early in the morning, and I don't think any of us really wanted to see the bridge that would signal the end of our respective trips.  So, we took our time and rode slowly as Holly guided us through a mess of civilization from the map zip-tied to her handlebars.  As we rode, we talked, telling each other about the experiences we'd had on our tours.  Holly and Mel lived on Vancouver Island, and the whole idea had been Holly's idea.  Apparently, it took some convincing, but eventually Mel had climbed aboard the crazy train and purchased a bike and gear.  

   The closer we got, the slower we went, taking every excuse we could dream up to stop.  A tourist welcome center, bike shop, and mexican restaurant where all utilized to kill time, and I think we where all extra careful to enjoy the whole thing as much as we could.  Inevitably, the time came when we had to part ways, as the girls were headed to a hostel north of the bridge, and I was headed to a warmshowers host in the city.  It was a sad parting, as we where not only saying goodbye to new friends, but to the end of an amazing journey.  

   Finally, after 3,200 miles and two months, I rolled my bike onto the golden gate bridge.  Incidentally, the bridge was wreathed in fog so heavy that I couldn't see the top.  As I rode over, I tried to reflect back on what had happened in those last two months.

  

 On hardship.

   It is my sincere belief that americans need more hardship.  During this trip, I didn't have many of the amenities that we have grown used to.  Instead of having a bed with a roof over my head every night, I slept in whatever place I could find that particular night.  When it rained, or if it was terribly hot, I often didn't have the option of simply retreating indoors and watching a film.  Because of my tight budget and massive calorie requirements, my food wasn't exactly gourmet.  I couldn't even make coffee in the evening.

   Instead of disliking this lack of comforts though, I found myself enjoying them, or at least the effects of them.  Simply put, I've discovered that my brain works better when I'm not perfectly comfortable.  Comfort kills creativity.  It seemed that the worse the situation was, the sharper my mind seemed to be.  Of course, this is a reaction of necessity, but I found it refreshing nevertheless.

   Another reason for hardship was that it increased my appreciation of what people tend to take for granted.  During this trip, I realized that I'm not really the hardcore backpacker sort, that I still really like coffee, that I still really like sushi.  However, the best way to enjoy something is if you can see it from a perspective at the opposite end of the spectrum.  Because I've had the experience of being forced to live off hotdogs and oatmeal for an extended period, I'm able to see coffee and sushi for the luxuries they are, and consequently enjoy them that much more. 

   

On people

   Without people, this trip wouldn't have been nearly the event that it was. Throughout it, I met many different people with wildly different perspectives, viewpoints, and life experience than mine.  

   Probably what I appreciated most about the variety of different people I met was getting to discuss with them what they believed/thought.  I grew up in rural west Michigan, where there isn't a lot of cultural diversity.  Of course, I knew about what other people thought, and in some cases had even studied it, but often was experiencing it for the first time when I talked to new people.  The effect of this was unbelievably beneficial, and truly expanded my horizons of the world.  For example, from a biblical standpoint feminism is obviously a flawed view point, and if your were to try to have an "argument" with someone who shares your view it's going to be a pretty short one.  However, if you happen to stumble upon the subject while talking with someone who happens to be a feminist, you will suddenly hear a lot of new questions presented in a way you've never heard them before.  

   Really, it's impossible to have a well rounded view of a subject when you've only been exposed to it in a sterile, academic environment.  There will always be a blindingly obvious question that you will never think of unless you genuinely believe something.

   Not all my encounters with other people involved debate.  In fact, most of the people I met shared many of my own opinions.  This was one of the more enjoyable bits for me.  Of course, most of the other cyclo-travers I met had lots in common with me, but many of the people I stayed with where also on the same bandwidth of thought as I am.  I had many good conversations with people questioning the system, discussing education, and becoming frightfully lost in philosophy. 

   

On zen

   I can just hear all you back in Michigan going "Oh no, Marc's finally gone off the deep end".  Just take a deep breath, relax and be reassured that I have not "gone off the deep end".  What I have been doing, however, is reading a book called Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.  In it, the author, Robert M. Pirsig, takes a motorcycle trip over almost exactly the same ground I rode.  During the course of the journey, he discusses a variety of topics, which all eventually come to a philosophical climax.  One of the things he mentions is how sometimes it takes something like a long journey to clear the mind, to allow someone to see the world clearly.  I can genuinely say I experienced what he was talking about.  As I rode further and further into the trip, something grew more and more still.  It was as if the wind that constantly ruffled a pond had slowly died, letting the water settle to a mirror into which one could look and finally see a reflection of the world for the first time.  That, combined with the addictive effects of cycling, and the constantly foggy atmosphere of the northern pacific coast, created a transcendent world for me in which all that existed was me, my bike, and my thoughts.

   So it was with mixed emotions that I crossed into San Francisco.  I can't say I was ready for the trip to be over, but sometimes that's the best way to end.  What I can say is that without a doubt, bicycling across the northern part of Americas was the most amazing thing I've ever done.

 

     

   

   

Afterward

   After hanging out in SF for a few days I drafted a Semi down to Palo Alto, where I stayed with my uncle for 9 days or so.  I then flew to Hawaii, and after spending a night in the wilds of some HNL landscaping, boarded a Cessna and flew to my final destination of Maui, where I now have a place to live and will soon be starting employment at RadioShack.  If you have any questions or would like to hear more stories of my adventures, hit me up on Facebook, m.wilson1011110@gmail.com, or (734)262-1837.  Thanks for reading the blog!!

   

Foggy bridge, clear mind

Blog 16

July 15

   Today my destination was Humboldt Redwoods state park.  I wasn't exactly sure how far it was going to be to the campground, but my guess was 90 miles or so.  This also meant that I would reach the Avenue of the Giants, a road that I'd been hearing about and looking forward to.  Before I made it there, however, I had lots of boring and busy freeway.  Instead of narrating it, I'm going to go back a day or so to and work on a more interesting bit.

   The previous day, I'd stopped to talk with some people on the road, and they had mentioned an alternative route I should take.  Newton B. Drury scenic parkway was the route to take, they told me, and it even looked like it would clip a few miles off 101's route.  I took the proper exit, and was confronted with a long and steep climb.  I wondered slightly about the advice the other cyclists had given me, but decided to give it a shot.  

   After the climb was behind me, things started to get scenic. The road gently rose and fell through more redwoods, and I didn't think I would ever tire of riding in forest.  There where a few trailheads and memorial signs, and I rode slowly so I could read them.  Leaned up against one of these signs, I noticed a bike that looked familiar.  It was an old brightly colored Peugeot, and belonged to Josiah, the guy I'd met in a campground a few days before.  I thought it'd be cool to say hi and compare our last few days, so I parked my bike and set out down the trail, munching an oatmeal pie.  As I entered the forest, I got the feeling that I'd just walked into a cathedral.  Looking up, I could almost imagine that the redwood canopy was a vaulted ceiling, high above.  The rays of sunlight that managed to pierce the treetops washed across massive trunks in bright streaks, illuminating bark with rough grooves that were deep enough to swallow my hand.  Due to the shade, the forest floor was mostly clear of underbrush, but there were fallen trunks that were taller than I was.  In some places, I could see dark burn marks on the trees, traces of forest fires long ago.  By far though, the most striking part of the forest was the stillness.  not a breath of air moved, and everything was perfectly still.  I wandered around for a bit, but soon came to rest on a bridge under which a small brook burbled.  Enchanted by the forest, I sat down on the edge of the bridge and let the spell of the woods wash over me.  I don't know how long I was there for, but I soon realized that it would be hours and hours before I tired of being in this great still forest, and finally dragged myself back up the trail to my bike.

   Josiah's bike was gone, but he'd left a note in my open pannier with the simple inscription, "isn't this awesome!"  I couldn't have said it any better.  

   Back in the the present and skipping ahead to the Ave. of Giants, I stopped at a sign with a map on it just off the highway exit.  To my mild concern, the sign's scale made it look like I had another 20 miles to go the the hiker biker campground.  This was bad, as I was already pretty tired out and didn't know how much further I could make it.  There was nothing for it but to keep riding, so I wearily got back on the Jamis and pedaled away, slowly.  After a few miles, I rode into a touristy little town with a general store, restaurant, and gift shop.  Stopping to refill my water, I inquired the gift shop as to how much further I had in.  "Oh, only a mile or two", said the lady behind the counter.  Well, 2 miles later I found a campsite, but it was a group campsite, not a hiker biker campsite.  

   Flicking my speedometer from millage to some less distracting function, I pedaled on, trying to shift my attention from how tired I was to my surroundings.

   Due to this strategy, I don't know how much further it was the the campground, but after a total of 95 miles, I arrived.

July 16

   Today was the big day when I'd be leaving the increasingly busy 101 and follow highway 1 the rest of the way down the coast.  This also meant I'd encounter legget hill, a climb of apparently epic proportions I'd been hearing about from fellow riders for the last few days.  In preparation for this "all day" event, I stopped at an establishment called "The Peg House", and blew $4 on an 8 inch beef hotdog.  Before I started eating, I wheeled my bike from where I had parked it into the outdoor dining area, so I could keep an eye on it while I ate.  This attracted the attention of another restaurant patron, who sat down at my picnic table and struck up a conversation.  We talked for 20 minutes or so, during which we mainly discussed bicycles.  He turned out to be quite the enthusiast himself, and told me about how he had spent an entire summer repairing a shattered carbon fiber frame he'd picked up.  He also confirmed that legget hill was quite big, saying that it was the largest hill he'd yet encountered on the coast. 

   After finishing my food and and conversation, I got back on the road and set out in search of some climbing.  A few miles later, highway 1 split off 101.  Almost immediately, the road dropped sharply into a 30 mph hairpin, and then rose back up into the beginning of a 4 mile, 7-8% grade.  I don't know if it was the hotdog or something else, but for some reason the climbing felt good.  Instead of feeling worn out, I was refreshed by the effort, and cranked up my speed to 6 or 7mph.  even with a couple quick stops, the climb took me less than an hour, hardly the ordeal I'd been hearing about.

   After taking a minute to attach my phone to my handlebars to shoot the footage you saw earlier, I was off down the 10ish mile descent.  It started out with a fairly shallow grade, dropped off a bit flattened back out, and kept going and going.  After the stretch where I was filming, I encountered an amazing bit of road, with tight hairpins winding their way down a steep hillside and between towering redwoods.  I had to stop a few times for construction, but the rest was pure amazingness.  

   With legget hill behind me, I still had one ridge to climb over before I was back on the coast.  It was substantially smaller than the previous bit, and I disposed of it in no time.

   From my map (which was beginning to get pretty tattered), I knew the place I was planning on staying, McKerricher State Park, was a few miles north of the city of Fort Bragg.  However, I didn't know quite how far.  If I were to ride the full distance to Fort Bragg, it would be another 95 mile day.  I wasn't anticipating going that far, and resisted the temptation to stop at a state beach that I'd heard had H/B sites.  The state park turned out to be like 2 miles north of town, so I pretty much rode the whole way and ended up pretty tired.  

   As I checked into the campground, I chatted with the young guy in the registration booth, asking him if he'd checked in any other cyclists.  He told me he had, a talkative guy on "one of those big long bikes" (recumbants) , who went by the name of Sarge.

   Sarge turned out to be quite the guy.  He was basically a military guy turned backpacker turned long distance cycler.  He'd done some serious long distance hiking in the past, gotten sick and almost died once, and been forced to sell the boots and buy his current steed, Kate, when he had some tendon problems while hiking the Pacific Crest Trail.  We spent the evening exchanging stories, investigating each other's gear, and eating.

July 17

   In the morning, we discussed our plans and routes while we packed up. Sarge had sold just about everything he owned, and was planning on cycling for the foreseeable future.  His route would take him around the perimeter of the U.S., and because he was going north up the coast, his eastbound journey would be similar to my route.  As it turned out, it would be identical to mine.  He didn't have any maps for the journey, and it just so happened that I had a stack of pre-owned ACA maps that I didn't need any more.  A deal was struck; I ended up with a bit more cash for food, and Sarge left with the maps that he needed to make his trip.

  It is now time to explain the debacle of the cycling gloves. 

  At some point in Montana, I had lost one of my gloves when it had blown off where I'd strapped it to my bike to dry out.  Instead of buying new pair at a bike shop like a normal person, I'd ordered new ones off ebay and had them shipped to Clarkston, ID.  Well, the glove's arrival at the post office and my departure from Clarkston didn't quite line up, but a very nice lady at the post office answered my call a few days later and offered to have them shipped ahead to Portland for me.  Apparently, she did't quite get something right in the address, and the gloves evaded me once again in Portland.  Taking what I thought to be a foolproof approach, I then had them shipped more than a week ahead of me, to, you guessed it, Fort Bragg.  

   So I packed up my bike and rolled into Fort Bragg, on the hunt for the PO.  And of course, they didn't have a package with my name on it.  This threw me a bit, and I decided to find some coffee while I figured out what to do.  The coffee I found turned out to be embarrassingly bad, and did not put me in a better mood.  I did however come the the conclusion that I would stay an extra day in Fort Bragg, with the slim hope that the gloves would show up.  

   With my mind made up, I spent the rest of the day wandering about and tapping on my iPod in the library.

   That evening, I returned back to the campground and had my stuff set up and dinner cooked in record time.  After feeding the shower an outrageous sum of $1.50 for a measly 5 minutes, I crawled into my sleeping bag and waited for the skunks to come out.

  The last night, I was woken up by something sniffling around, and once again turned on my flashlight to be confronted by the awful beady eyes of a greasy rodent.  This rodent wasn't even that scared of people, and stared at me at me for a minute before leisurely waddling off, with one of its friends in tow.  

   This night was no different, and I remained locked in apprehension as seemingly endless numbers of skunks wandered the campground.

Blog 15

Okay, so I've slacked off a bit.  For those of you who don't know, I made it to SF on July 20th, and have been hanging around wasting time for the last few weeks.  My next adventure will start on the 4th, when I'll be flying to Honolulu en route to Maui.

July 12

  Today I experienced my first real catastrophe. While I was brushing my teeth the previous evening, I had noticed a sign that warned campers about the resident raccoon population, and suggested putting coolers indoors for the night. I certainly didn't want to have any problems with raccoons, so when I got back to my campsite I loaded all my food into a rear pannier and stowed it in a corner of the shower building. I didn't really think twice about this, as I'd done it multiple times before. However, I did note that the door was propped open, but thought in the back of my mind that the campground host would probably come around later in the evening and close everything up for the night. 

  Skip ahead to the morning, when the first thing I did upon waking up was to stroll down the the bathroom complex to retrieve my food and make some pancakes. Except my food wasn't there. In the corner where I'd left my pannier, there was nothing. I had a bit of a sinking feeling, but didn't panic. I thought that possibly, the campground hosts had done something with my pannier, and walked up to the campground entrance where their motorhome was located. Unfortunately, they had not seen my pannier, but they were very sympathetic and really seemed more upset about the whole situation than I was. Still fixed on tracking down any information I could, I set out to ask everybody I could in the small campground if they'd seen anything. I wandered around for a good two hours, but nobody had any information. 

  Time and time again on this trip, I've been amazed at the way God has provided for me, and during the whole experience I was never really that worried, and had full faith that things would work out. And things did work out. Even though I didn't find my pannier, or any trace of it for that matter, I was showered with kindness from many different people and just about ended up with more food than I had started with. Two people invited me into their campsite and fed me me breakfast, and many others donated food items ranging from hot dogs to soy milk. The campground hosts, an elderly couple, remained concerned, and the woman even prepared a care package with all kinds of good food. One of the people who fed me breakfast, and elderly fellow who actually invited me into his motorhome, asked me if I had a way to carry the items I received. I responded by telling him that I wasn't really sure how I was going to hang the stuff off my bike but I was sure I'd figure something out. He said "hold on a minute", and went into a back room. I could hear him digging around, and he emerged with a large sackpack style nylon bag. "Here", he said, "take this". The bag was fairly heavy duty, and I was sure I could tie it to my rack and use it as a fourth pannier. 

  So my bike was a few pounds lighter as I rode out of the campground, but I was almost glad that someone had stolen from me, as it allowed me to experience even more of God's provision and peoples' kindness. 

  The talkative guy from Eugene had told me that there was another hiker biker campground 90 or so

miles further south, so I decided I'd just keep an eye on my odometer and stop when I spotted a state park in the vicinity of 90 miles. About all I remember about the riding is that it was beautiful, and that I was happy. 

  Sure enough, signs for a state park showed up 85 miles or so later, and I crossed my fingers and hoped that they would actually have HB sites. They did, and I dragged my bike up a bit of trail and leaned it against a picnic table. There were a coupe other guys in some of the other sites, and I spent the evening chatting with them. One of them, an older guy, was hiking the pacific trail, and it was interesting hearing stories from the perspective of someone on foot. Another one of them had been riding to Portland, but had hurt his knee and was going to be picked up in a few hours. That left Josiah, a college student from Florida who was taking a bit of his summer to ride from Portland to SanFran. After we had talked for a bit, I decided to cook a few hot dogs for supper. However, I realized my catsup had been in the stolen pannier, and promptly set about begging some more from the inhabitants of the regular campsites. I quickly found a couple who was traveling on an old BMW motorcycle with a sidecar. They not only have me a few ketchup packets, but invited me back for a glass of wine when I had finished my supper. I don't need a whole lot of persuading when it comes to meeting new people, and headed back their campsite an hour or so later. We exchanged our stories and plans, and I was a bit surprised at the magnitude of what they were doing. 

  They had lived in SF for the past 6 years or so, where the guy, Matt, had worked for a law firm. It sounded like it was a pretty crazy job though, and he was tired of working 100 hour weeks. So, they sold and gave away everything they owned except for the motorbike, and had set out to travel until either the money ran out or they were tired of it. Basically, they put everything they had left onto three wheels and set out to see this side of the world, from the arctic circle to Argentina. 

   As I prepared to make my way back to my campsite, Matt said "you can have  that map by the way", referring the map of California we had been looking at.  The timing couldn't have been better, as I would be in California in a few days and didn't really have any sort of plan or route.

  After a good day filled with positive interactions, I was ready for bed, and quickly fell asleep under my tarp.  

July 13

   I had ridden 80+ miles the last two days, and decided to take things a bit  easier and head for the town of Brookings, only 50 miles distant.  Still mildly disgruntled about having to actually pay for a place to stay the night, I thought I might try to resort to the old trick of staying under a picnic shelter. In between the state park I stayed in and Brookings were the twin cities of North Bend and Coos Bay.  The overly talkative guy in Eugene had rambled on for a good 5 minutes about these towns, warning me to be carful in them.  He described them as a defective culture, saying, "You know when you hear of someone going crazy and killing his girlfriend and family before committing suicide? Ya, that happened in Coos Bay." I really didn't think the place looked all that bad, but kept an eye on my bike when I stopped for lunch never the less.  

   I made it into Bandon pretty early compared to the last few days, around 4:00.  I noticed a state park just outside of town, and stopped to discover they had hiker/biker, which was good to know, just incase I couldn't find anything in town.  I didn't find anything in town.  There were a few parks, but none of them had a quality picnic shelter.  As I pedaled back to the state park, I grumbled about getting soft and worried about spending too much money. It did end up being a very nice park, with a large HB area.  

   When I was planning for my trip, I realized that couldn't always count on having a good tree to set up my tarp, and found a collapsable trekking pole that I could use to set up my tarp.  During the first bit of my trip, I didn't use the pole at all, and was worried that it was just going to turn out being dead weight.  Finally, this campsite didn't have any good way to pitch the tarp, and I used my trekking pole for the first time.  With my tarp set up and my dinner eaten, I settled down into my sleeping bag for the night.

July 14

   I had been having some trouble with the wind, and had 70 miles or so to ride to Orick, where I had arranged to stay with a couchsurfing host.  The wind was a pretty serious disappointment; I had heard from multiple people that the wind pretty much always blew south down the coast and had been looking forward to finally not fighting it.

I suppose it was still better than it had been riding west, but not nearly as good as I'd hoped.  Today turned out to be a bit strange, as the headwind I'd had for the first half of the day switched around and pushed me for the last half.

   The big event of the day was redwoods.  I'd been looking forward to seeing some of the massive trees for the last few days, and almost missed the first one.  I was laboring my way up a bit of a climb, and was looking down at the pavement, as I often do when going slowly up hill.  After riding along for a few minutes in this fashion, I glanced up and found myself staring at a gigantic redwood.  For the next few miles, I craned my neck to see the top of every tree I passed, awestruck with the sight of each one.  

   Steve, the guy I was staying with, had given me his address, and I had no trouble finding his house in the tiny unincorporated town.  He turned out to be quite the character.  

   As he opened the gate in his 8 foot fence and let me into the yard, I took a minute to survey all the crud that was crammed into the small town lot.  There was an old school bus, an old camper, an overgrown garden, some chickens, a goat tied to a tree, and a turbodiesel Mercedes that appeared to be at least 30 years old.

   "You'll be staying in the bus"  Steve told me, and proceeded to give me the tour, complete with the bus' history.  I don't remember the exact details, but it was something like the local school had decided to upgrade their bus (singular), and the bus driver had snatched up the old one to do a road trip to Alaska, but then lost interest in the idea and sold it to Steve for $2500.  "It still runs, I think" I was told.  The inside had been overhauled for habitation, and had a bed, pair of chairs, and even a stove.  There were two doors, but Steve advised me to only use the one that was out of the goat's reach.  He also pointed out the 6 foot cannabis plants that where thriving in the garden, saying, "The combination garden is legal, I've got my paperwork."

   Later that evening, we, or rather Steve, chatted.  He turned out to be quite the interesting guy, and not at all what I would have expected for some old guy living in a small town growing weed.  He'd grown up in Southern California, had went to college, and for some reason that I didn't get to, left it all behind and moved into the middle of nowhere.  Since then, he looked like he'd adopted the redneck lifestyle pretty comfortably, but with the occasional bit of evidence betraying his former life.  For example, sitting on top of an antique radio were an apple laptop and android smartphone, both of which completely clashed with their surroundings.  Eventually the conversation turned to the slightly naughty plants he was growing outside, and that's when I learned that Steve was a complete marijuana devotee.  He spent the next 20 minutes talking about the benefits of smoking it, and actually seemed to have a pretty good reasons as to why marijuana was God's gift to mankind.

   Around 10:30, I managed to tear myself away, and retreated out into the chilly, damp air to spend the rest of the night in the bus.

Those inclined to vertigo and/or excessive worrying about me probably shouldn't watch this.  And yes I know I'm not there yet.

More stunning coast.  Note that the hideous device has developed an optical artifact in the upper right corner.

Redwoods!

Blog 14

July 7

   Really the only thing I had to do today was clean my bike's chain and loaf around. Cleaning my chain was a bit iffy, as I wasn't sure how my utilitarian methods

would go over with Portland's population if observed. Step one was to discreetly root around in some trash cans and obtain an assortment of plastic (NOT styrofoam) bottles. Next, I borrowed a gas can from some random dude and procured a quart of petrol. With all the supplies in order, I sacrificed my old toothbrush and proceeded to scrub all kinds of crud out of my drivetrain. 

   This pretty much took up the morning, and I aimlessly did nothing until 3:00 or so. Jerking myself out of the stupor and vague irritation that seems to descend whenever I have no purpose for more than 4 hours, I jumped on my bike and wandered around Portland, eventually ending up at the art museum, which happened to have a big exhibit of bicycles. Of course, this was of extreme ingest to me, and begrudgingly parted with $12 to gain access to the collection. I walked through an arched doorway into what was probably one of the most wonderful rooms I've ever been in. Scores of bicycles were suspended from the ceiling, and I was swept away in the tidal wave of mechanical awesomeness. Just about every kind of bike you can imagine was represented, from weird side by side tandems to Lotus time trial bikes. I of course, gravitated to the race bikes. I admired every detail, from handmade carbon fiber wheelsets to expensive derailers. These bicycles truly were art, but they were also far more than that. Each and every one of them was built for a specific purpose, and all of them looked like they worked so well. I've got this thing for quality stuff that does what it is supposed to do to perfection. Each of these machines looked so uncompromising, so purpose built, that all I wanted to do was get on each one and let it speak to me. I have no doubt that if I had had the chance to ride any of these bikes, my awe and respect for them would do nothing but grow. 

   Machines like this somehow become more than the sum of their components. Sure, any of the individual bikes may have been composed of carbon fiber, epoxy, aluminum alloy, titanium, steel cable, or any other number of elements. But in their whole, they had a soul. Some person, some person who really cared, had put all his or her effort into sculpting those components into a creation that reflected their own personality. In today's world of mass produced products, you have no idea how much I appreciated seeing something that was obviously built with so much care. I think this is the primary reason I like apple computers and devices so much. When I hold a Dell laptop or Samsung phone, there is no beauty in it. Corse plastics, buttons that click mushily, and stickers are revolting to me, because they speak of people who aren't passionate about what they do. I am surrounded by a world obsessed with consumerism that doesn't pay attention to refinement, and the Portland Art Museum's cyclopedia display was a gust of fresh air, a comforting reminder that craftsmanship does, or at least did exist. 

   I also toured as much of the museum as I could before it closed, and got to see works by Vincent Van Gogh and Claude Monet. 

   That evening, I also had some more excitement. I'd been getting to know Audie, and had enjoyed hearing her ideas about the world, which were very different than my own. Contrary to creating resentment, I appreciated how strongly she held her beliefs. If Christians would put even half as much thought into their faith as she had out into hers, the church in America wouldn't be in such a bad state. Anyway, I decided to breach the dam and share my viewpoints with her. Little did I know what the conversation to follow would be like. I think Audie may have had some resentment going due to events in the past, and she pulled every difficult question in the book, from the problem of evil to the patriarchal philosophy of the bible. Each question was charged with emotion, and I did my best to answer them. The conversation, sometimes crossing over into debate, raged on into the night, and left me mentally and physically exhausted. I'm not prepared to say that I won the argument, or even did a good job of it, but my hope is that my actions and the way I carried myself during my stay planted a seed and changed Audie's view of Christianity. It also highlighted the importance of education to Christians. True, christianity is a relationship, but beyond that it a philosophy that explains the fundamental questions of mankind and the reasons of the earth. Anybody who calls themselves a christian needs, I repeat, needs to strive to understand why they believe what they believe and be ready to offer some basic explanations to skeptics. 

June 8

   You are probably thinking, "what happened to Danny?" Well, Danny and I came to sort of a mutual understanding that we really would probably both more happy if we parted ways. So it was solo, once again, that I headed out of Portland. On the way out, I stopped at a DMV in an attempt to secure a state map. They didn't have one. I'd even called ahead and been assured that the location I visited did, in fact, have state maps. Remember how I dislike stuff that doesn't work they way I think it should? The US government falls squarely into that category. 

   I had found warmshowers hosts in both Salem and Eugene who were willing to host me, and the cities were perfectly spaced for two easy day's rides. My first stop was Salem, were I was staying with Dave and Sharon, a retired couple. I had a pleasant ride, although there were sections where the traffic was a bit heavy. Little did I know the the hosts waiting for me were probably the best I'd had the whole trip. As soon as I pulled into the driveway, I received a hug and was asked if I was ready for some good old fashioned parenting, and things pretty much went uphill from there. After a fabulous dinner, Dave showed me some of his cycling records, which he recorded with a GPS and showed everything from temperature to elevation. He had kept track of every ride he'd taken for like the last 5 years, and I had fun seeing how meticulously he kept track of everything. 

 

June 9

  In the morning, Dave and I enjoyed another excellent meal, and we reluctantly said goodby. My destination for today was Eugene, and a tailwind wafted me down the Willamet Valley. 

   I was staying with a family of 6, and I soon learned that they were unfairly gifted athletes. When I arrived, the father, Paul and I sat out on the front porch with some lemonade and shared stories. Paul asked "so, how far do you usually go in a day?" I told him, "oh, maybe 70 miles or so". He looked at me for a second, and then told me how far he and a group of 2 friends averaged per day when they had crossed the country. I almost didn't believe him. "When I rode across" he said, "we averaged 160 miles per day" keep in mind, the furthest I've ever gone on a bike in one day is 120 miles. Ya, the guy was super hardcore. 

   There was some sort of event going on in a nearby park, and I decided to go check it out. It turned out to be some sort of revival meeting; here's what I wrote while watching it. 

Okay, so currently I'm checking out a revival being put on by the "Cowboy Church of Oregon" that's taking place in a close by park. To get to the point, I am disgusted. The entire thing is based solely on emotion, with lots of references to "drug addicts" and "being set free", with piano music playing softly in the background. Some dude is yelling at the top of his lungs into a microphone, another bald guy in a leather jacket is dancing in the grass. The spectators are a show of their own. From soccer moms to homeless people, they are scattered about, and their reactions are just as diverse as their appearance. One guy, who I think may have been wearing a bra, got all worked up and started yelling and shaking his fist aggressively. Security quickly descended and silenced him, probably for fear that he would raise a legitimate question that the preach wouldn't be able to answer. If I was a non-Christian and saw something like this, do you know what it would make me think? Actually, you probably don't. If I met somebody who believed Christianity in the manner that I'm guessing many of these people do, I think I would play the antagonist and argue from the standpoint of an atheist, and see what kind of responses they could come up with.

   Chances are, many of you know me well enough to know that I could insert some artfully crafted disclaimer about how they probably have good motives and stuff, so I'm not going to bother.

Ha! I have successfully memorized pi out to the number of digits my iPod displays it to (15). Just incase any of you were wondering, it happens to be 3.141592653589793

I apparently also wrote about memorizing more useless facts. Anyway, I actually was later accosted by some lady wandering around looking for people to chat up about Jesus, and pretended to be an atheist. She pretty much met my expectations, continually steering the conversation from answers that made sense to things like "you know, you should really visit the prayer tent. Those people are amazing, I think they could really help you." I later broke the news that I wasn't really an atheist, and answered some of the questions she had struggled to answer. 

   After a bowl of soup graciously offered to me by the Atkinson's, I fell asleep in the yard under my tarp. 

July 10

   I had been hearing about what a neat town Eugene was, and had decided to spend an extra day there. I'm afraid that the most prominent thing I noticed in Eugene was the homeless people. They were everywhere, in the parks, on the streets, on the sidewalks. It did not make Eugene feel like a nice place. 

   I visited the library, and later got some cold brewed coffee. I'd been hearing that the best way to brew iced coffee was to steep the grounds in cold water for like 10 hours, and everybody talked about how good it was. I did enjoy it, and will probably have to figure out how to make it my self someday. 

   I'd heard that the revival people were serving dinner, and snagged myself 3 sloppy joes plus some assorted pastries. Scarcely an hour later, I accepted an offer to visit a new restaurant with the Atkins', and had another 3 slices of deep dish pizza. 

   The restaurant was close by, so the entire family walked. On the way back, we were discussing what would be my best route to the coast, and Paul said, "we should make a stop and talk to Brad." He also added, "oh, by the way, Brad likes to talk." Brad turned out be a a guy in his 50's with longer hair, arched eyebrows, and a weak chin. He was also cycling obsessed, and a flaming liberal. He talked nonstop for a solid hour and a half, but I emerged from his house, gasping, with a detailed route. 

July 11  

It looked to be a 90 mile ride, so I started out as early as I could. Brad had warned me that it was very rural, explaining "40 years or so ago, when the government had more money than they knew what to do with, they paved a bunch of dirt roads that really didn't need to paved." Within 20 miles, I had switched from riding through sparsely populated areas to dense forestland. The road grew narrow, maybe a lane and a half, and traffic dropped to a car every half hour or so. The scenery made up for the lack of water stops however, and I was glad I had endured the one sided conversation the night before. I also made a discovery about my bike. 

   Most people don't have relationships with inanimate mechanical objects. I, not being most people, do. My Schwinn, for example, is pretty much one of my friends, not just a bicycle. My touring bike on the other hand had mostly failed to elicit any feelings. As a bicycle, it does it's job, and works reasonably well, but has no personality. In essence, I really didn't seem to have fun when riding it. That all changed when I discovered 15mph downhill hairpins. While all the weight I was carrying seemed to suck the playfulness out of the bike most of the time, it actually made descending sharp corners at unsafe speeds quite fun. All the weight, especially up front, helped to make the bike very stable, and gave me the confidence to lean way too far into corners without fear of sliding off the road. When I'm in my car, I usually pay attention to the recommended corner speeds, but figure that they need to be doubled to be meaningful. Unfortunately, Michigan doesn't have any road that let me test out the x2 rule on bicycle. As I discovered, it does work pretty well. Those 15 mile an hour corners? Try 30ish. Needles to say, it was enormously fun, and I almost had to pull off the road after a particularly tight stretch to allow my adrenaline fueled shakes to calm down. 

   With a quick McDonalds stop in the city of Reedsport as soon as I emerged from the wilderness, I made it to Umpqua Lighthouse State Park, which had one of the government's few gifts to humanity, hiker/biker campsites. For a mere $5, people powered travelers can enjoy all the amenities of a legit campground. After a hot shower, I relaxed in the comfort of my hammock. 

   

   Did I mention that Audie painted? My nasty iPod doesn't really do justice. 

   Can I ride it? Just down the road a little ways? Please?

   I want you. 

   This painting really caught my eye. Someday, I'll have a house filled with artwork like this. 

   North of Eugene, if I recall correctly. 

   Oh yea, not just a revival, Supernaturalfest. 

   Yes! Conservative rednecks with a sense of humor exist on the west coast!

   The middle of nowhere road. It got narrower. 

   Folks, that is one big tree. 

   My first glimpse of water. 

Blog 13

I got a day off somewhere, this was actually the real July 3

July 3

   We now had some interesting decisions to make. Danny had friends in Portland, and he wanted to try and make it there by the 4th for a party/BBQ. We were somewhere in the vicinity of 240 miles away, and had no clue how we were going to pull it off in 2 days. However, ingenuity alway triumphs, and Danny sweet talked his host into waking up at 6:00 and giving us a ride out of the city. We met at 6:30, and I figured out how to stuff my bike into a trunk already fully occupied by one bicycle while Danny bought some food. 30 minutes later, we thanked the lady, yanked our stuff into a disorderly heap on the side of the road, and started putting our bicycles back together. I'm kind of drawing a blank as to what the morning was like, other than there was a headwind and we joined the Columbia river. Because we were now back on an ACA route, we passed lots of cyclists who were, of course, enjoying their tailwind. They also said that we might get a bit of relief when we actually got into the Columbia river gorge, as the trees would help to block the wind. 

   We made it a few more miles, and then decided to once again resort to motorized transportation. Hitchhiking was actually pretty easy, and we scored another ride with an elderly couple on their way to see a movie. The husband happened to work for a power company, and the windmills that we drove past provided me with an interesting conversation topic. I asked about everything from their economic feasibility to his opinion, and 45 minutes went by almost without me noticing. 

   They dropped us off in yet another town, and we took over a picnic table in a gas station's lawn for an hour to eat and figure stuff out. 

   We were still way too far away from Portland to even consider making it there by bicycle that night, so we came to the conclusion that we would do whatever we could to get another ride, and if that didn't happen we would fall asleep wherever we happened to be and ride the rest of the way in the morning. 

   After riding a bit more, we got a ride with a pair of women who were returning from a day of kite surfing. Probably due to the wind, this portion of the Columbia was quite popular for kite boarding and wind surfing. We enjoyed watching them, and were amazed at how fast they could go. The kite ladies had a sprinter van, which was outfitted to be the perfect outdoor recreation vehicle. It also happened to be perfect for picking up tired cyclists, and loading our bikes onboard was almost too easy. They gave us a ride to Hood River, where their route deviated from ours. 

   Hood river seemed like a nice place, and also appeared to be surf central. Dozens and dozens of brightly colored sails dotted the sky, and their owners dangled below and skittered across the waves. Hood River was on the Oregon side, and we decided to cross back over to the Washington side. As we did, the sun began to set, and a scene beyond discription emerged. Once we reached the other side, we biked away from the bridge and both stopped on the shoulderless road, staring. The setting sun lit up snowy Mount Hood with an orangish glow, and rocky patches stood out against the illuminated white. The city was spread across the oppsite river bank, with trees mingled densely in around the buildings and streets. Closer yet, the same sunlight that shone on Mt. Hood was also caught by the kite board sails, and they turned the air over the river into a sea of miniature  rainbows.   

   We wandered around a bit, and then tried to hitch another ride, and then it got dark and we fell asleep 30 feet off the road. 

July 4

   Okay, this was it. We had 70 miles or so to go, and we both blew the first part by sleeping in past the 5:00 start we'd planned. The wind was still howling, and the morning ride was miserable. We did see something quite interesting, almost cool enough to make up for the wind. I had noticed smoke in the distance, and as we got closer we could see that it was a small forest fire. An old pickup full of buff looking firefighters zoomed past us, and a pair of helicopters buzzed around, making laps from the river to the fire site, which appeared to be a 1/2 mile or so from the road. One of the helicopters actually hovered right above to us, and slowly lowered its water bucket (probably a correct term) into the water next to us. We sat and stared, and the pilot even waved as the the helicopter rose skyward. 

   There was another bridge at the city of Cascade Locks, and we decided to cross back into Oregon and see if we'd have better luck in that side. And better luck we found, in the form of the Columbia river historic highway. Built sometime around 1915, it was one of the most advanced roadways of its time, but as automotive technology advanced quickly, it became outdated. Now, there are portions of it that are open to traffic, but other stretches are bike only. The woods we rode through were shockingly pretty, even to the degree that I grudgingly admitted that they might be almost as nice as Idaho. Unfortunately, the roadway was packed with holiday traffic, which detracted from the enjoyment I would have gotten from the road's natural beauty. 

   The roadway actually climbed out of the gorge, but because the grade never exceeded 5% the climb wasn't unpleasant at all. There was an observatory at the top, where we stopped and took some pictures. The whole area was packed with people, and it made me realize how much I've come to appreciate solitude. In Idaho, where I didn't see another soul for whole days, there was a strange energy and peace I got from being in the middle of such awesome creation by myself. With no other distractions, it was far easier for me to pay attention to my surroundings, not to just see them visually, but to think about what I was seeing and absorb every bit of it. 

   Now, I was standing over the best view I'd seen the whole trip, and within 50 feet of me there was a car alarm going off, several children making a racket, and probably 100 other people milling around. The tourist mindset hovered heavily in the air, and it was so appalling I almost revolted at the idea of taking pictures to disconnect myself from these people as much as possible.

   I was anxious to get away ASAP, and managed to drag Danny away from the railing and onto his bike. After a few more minutes of climbing, we started the descent, which sloped gradually all the way to Portland. Now quite away from the river, we snaked through small towns and festivals celebrating our country's birthday. 

   By this point, I was starting to feel rather unwell. I've been dealing with a fairly severe cold, and probably hadn't eaten or drank enough during the day. Danny's and my eating habits had clashed a bit, and I had given in for the day and not really eaten any real meals. I'd met other people who were like that, and seemed to be able to ride all day off nothing more than a few granola bars and some peanut butter. I, on the other hand, view my body the same way I view my bike, as a machine thet requires proper care to function to its fullest potential. I care for my bike by cleaning and lubricating the chain, adjusting the cables, and keeping the tires properly inflated. In return, my bike carries my smoothly and efficiently without breaking down. In the same way, I need to have enough sleep, three 800+ calorie meals and snacks, and stretch for 20 minutes daily. Other people either don't listen to what their bodies are asking for, ignore what they hear, or maybe can just function on vey little maintenance. Whatever, I'm not one of those people. 

   So by 5:00 or so, I was not only feeling the effects of my decisions for the day, but was also a bit ticked at Danny for always pushing ahead. 

   Nevertheless, we were now in the residential outskirts of Portland, and after a pair of deep fried burritos at some gas station I felt like I could make it the final 8 miles to where Danny's friend lived. 

   We did finally find the correct apartment building, and proceeded to eat as much as we could off the grill and chat with the people at the party. 

   As it got dark out, we headed out to Portland's steel bridge to watch fireworks, and then headed back to the apartment. Danny had found a couchsurfing host who was willing to keep us for a few nights, and to tell the truth I didn't really connect well with Danny's friend and was looking forward to getting out of the place. Imagine my horror, then, when the friend offered to let us stay the  night, which Danny accepted without any resistance. Thinking fast, I mentioned that there wasn't really much room, (which there wasn't) and that it would just be easier for me to stay with the couchsurfing people. After getting a phone number from Danny, I found that the lady had just gotten home from a party and was planning on going to bed, but that she'd be happy to leave the door unlocked for me. I was only mildly surprised at this gesture of trust, and had no qualms about accepting the offer. An hour later I had found the dark house, walked in the front door, and fallen asleep on the futon. 

June 5

   It had been a late night, so I didn't really wake up until 9:00. As I woke up, a young lady with curly brown  hair and a dark tan walked in and sat down next to me. "Are you Tara?" I asked, referring to the couchsurfing lady I'd been texting the previous evening. She replied that no, she was Audie, Tara's housemate. It turned out that there were four people living in the house. Audie had a young daughter, Caroline, and there was a third housemate, Joe. Both Tara and Joe were going to be gone all day, but Audie offered to show me around Portland. It took us a while to get going, and I got the see a bit more of the house and backyard/garden. Everybody in the house payed a lot of attention to what they ate and were it came from, and the organic garden was part of how they lived out their ideas. Nobody had a car, either, so after Caroline was strapped into her seat we both pedaled the 4 miles or so into downtown Portland, with a stop to drop off some tomato plants. 

   Stop one was ----, the worlds largest bookstore. 5 floors of books about anything you could possibly imagine, from photography to anthropology. Even though it was such a massive collection of books, the store somehow managed to retain a very personal, non-chain feel. Instead of boring monotony, their was a variety of different floor surfaces, wall colors, and bookshelves. Handwritten notes littered the shelves, giving recommendations and advice as to best picks. It was the sort of store I could get lost in for days, but there was still more of Portland to see. 

   From ----, we went to a pizza place called Sizzle Pie. Audie and Caroline, both vegan, ordered some strange pizza, but I went for classic pepperoni.  After we were done, we headed back home, but by a different route that allowed me to see some more city. After slouching around a bit, Audie mentioned she'd been on the hunt for a bicycle trailer, and had found one on Craigslist that was only a few blocks away. Off we headed, and after minor navigational troubles successfully located the right house. The guy selling the trailer was very nice, and made very sure to show us all the trailer's insignificant blemishes before Audie got out any cash. While the guy moved on to helping attach the trailer to Audie's bike, I talked with his wife about the chickens they happened to have in a tidy little coop in their yard. 

   With the day pretty much shot, we cooked some dinner and relaxed with good conversation. The only other incident of note was meeting Joe, who turned out to a. Have a sweet mustache, and b. seem like a really cool guy. 

July 6

   Okay, I have a confession to make. I saw the Pacific before I biked to it. In the morning, Joe, Audie, Caroline, one of Joe's friends, Winona, and I all crammed into Winona's car and headed for the beach. After a quick stop at New Seasons, the grocery store of choice, we were off on the 1.5 hour drive to Seaside. The temperature difference between the coast and Portland was quite pronounced, and the misty air didn't make things feel any warmer. Fortunately, we had brought enough warm clothing, but apparently so had throngs of other people, and we decided to hike down the shore a ways to where things weren't quite so crowded. 

   We pretty much spent the whole afternoon there, with the occasional wander into town. Joe and I both sneaked off on the excuse of fetching something from the car, but the intent of finding some food. Success in the form of some sandwiches didn't stop all of us from later visiting a restaurant for some excellent clam chowder. With a quick stop for fudge and coffee, we were ready for the drive home. 

   

Riding down a canyon in Washington. 

The Washington desert. Incredibly awful. 

I'm pretty sure that this is the first glimpse we got of the Columbia. 

The helicopter. 

The sunset on mount hood. 

One of the 5 or so tunnels we rode through in the Columbia river gorge. 

More river. 

This was actually part of the bike trail. See that tiny groove off the the side of the steps? It's for pushing your bike up to the top. Do you have any idea how hard it is to push a 90 lb. bike up stairs?

This was horsetail falls, right off the historic highway.