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!