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.