I left Lake Charles following the route that were given me by Laura at the Cameron MDS site. As I pedaled south, I questioned my decision to go down to the Gulf Coast before turning east. The wind was blowing hard out of the west, hardest I had dealt with since Wyoming, I would say. A few miles south of Lake Charles I crossed Friesen Road, which made me chuckle a little. I took a picture and wondered what the relationship was between this road and my surname. Continuing south I rode through the Cameron Prairie National Wildlife Refuge. Along this road I saw several small, flattened alligators on the road before seeing one larger, more obviously three-dimensional alligator scurry across the road ahead of me. The creature was too quick and I was unable to get my camera out in time to get a picture. It was a short day on the bike and I got to the MDS site fairly early, but the day was not without its challenges. The stiff wind was more irritating that anything for most of the day, but it became a little more dangerous as I rode across the bridge spanning the Intracoastal Waterway. As I climbed (still locked into my large front chainring), the wind got stronger and tried to push me into traffic. I stopped to take a few pictures at the top, and it felt like I was going to get blown over the edge. Much of the ride this day had no shoulder to speak of, and off both sides of the road was stagnant, swampy water. The final 9 miles of the day were the most difficult. When I got to Creole, I turned west towards Cameron and straight into the wind. Without the ability to change my front gears, I was stuck cranking pretty hard on my pedals.
When I got to the MDS site, I stashed my belongings in the bunk trailer, had a bite to eat, then biked over to the work site another two miles down the road where I joined a group of men from the Goshen, Indiana, area that were building columns for two different houses. The houses were going to be about 8 feet off the ground. There were a few questions for me as I pulled up, but everyone seemed pretty focused on their tasks, so I just jumped in and tried to find a way to help. The next day when we showed up to work, a journalist arrived at the work site to interview me. As we worked throughout the day, one of the future home owners named Jeb did whatever he could to help us out. He had a tractor with forks on the front, so he moved pallets of brick and cement around. He also provided the entertainment during our breaks. He had some great stories about alligator hunting. Over lunch we went out to see a shrimping boat that a friend of his owned. The boat was docked because the engine was blown and needed to get fixed. It was pretty fascinating to learn about how that business works. We ended up getting all of the columns finished and ready to be filled with cement the following day. This trip to Cameron was not on my original itinerary, but I'm glad it worked out for me to stop there for a day. After cycling all over the country, repeating daily why I am doing this bike trip and telling people what MDS is, it was great to be able to be on a work site, see the people that are doing the work and the people that are benefiting from it, and to do something for MDS other than talk. During the day we were focused on building a house, so my trip was not the center of attention. I wasn't wearing tights and a helmet, so I didn't stick out in a crowd. And best of all, nobody knew it was my birthday, so I didn't get any special treatment on that front either. I don't think I could have had a better day.
The next morning I got up with everyone else, had breakfast, and hit the road about the same time they were all headed to the work site. I headed through the swamp toward Abbeville where I would meet my parents and maternal grandmother. On the way, I saw many more two- and three-dimensional alligators along the roadway. I stopped in Pecan Island to eat my packed lunch from the MDS site, and ended up talking to a couple of people about my trip. It was weird to tell the one man that I had been on the road for more than 5-1/2 months and that I'd be finishing the trip tomorrow. I was fully aware of how close I was to the finish, but it felt very different to say it out loud. The man was rather fascinated and seemed as though he needed to tell someone about this guy he had just met. He shouted over to his traveling companion in the truck that I was biking all over the country, but the other man didn't seem to care so much. From there I pedaled the rest of the way to Abbeville and checked into a hotel to wait for my family to arrive. When my parents have visited me during this trip, I tend to stay in nicer places and eat better food, so I didn't bother finding anything to eat before they arrived.
The next day I knew it was going to be a short day, so we didn't hurry to get out of the hotel. I needed to time my arrival at the New Iberia MDS site for about noon so I could be received appropriately. I think I would have arrived within about two minutes of noon, one way or the other, but road conditions forced me to take another route that extended my travel time by about 15 minutes. At the finish line, they actually had a finish line set up. My uncle Kim had joined my parents and his mother at the finish, and had even contacted a local news station. The news people were late, but they still came and interviewed me when they got there. The MDS volunteers prepared a fantastic lunch for the group of us, so we dined and celebrated over the lunch hour. Eventually I took a shower, packed up the bike, and we hit the road towards Henderson.
In the wake of this journey of a lifetime, I am now set with the task of figuring out how everything--everything I have seen, everyone I've met, everything I've felt--how it all fits together in the bigger picture. I've been living for 27 years. How does this 6 month trip fit with the 26 years and 6 months that preceded? What does this mean for the years to come? Obviously this has been on my mind as I have been biking, but being back into a stable environment after becoming accustom to instability and uncertainty, I am now confronted daily with questions I can't answer about what this trip has meant to me. Give me some time and I may come up with something a little more concrete to say in retrospect.
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Readers: I'm not a blogger. This blog is about the bike trip called CycleMDS. I will not continue to blog about my personal life outside of this trip. I may post once more if I come up with some sort of coherent reflection that makes more sense than that last paragraph. In the one week off the bike thus far, that hasn't come. Thank you all for reading, and I apologize for the rather anticlimactic final blog post.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
48 States: Check.
I left the RV park near Mena, Arkansas, in search of breakfast. The first little town I pulled up to was Hatfield, and lucky for me they have a small diner. Most mornings I've been trying to find a diner of some sort rather than cook on my camp stove. The first few miles of a day are really tough without coffee; once I get into a rhythm it doesn't matter.
My next stop for the day was in De Queen, Arkansas, where I pulled over for lunch. Pizza Hut had a buffet. As I was getting up to pay, some men sitting near me asked about my trip. I told them about it and gave them my card and moved to the register to pay. As I was digging through my bag for appropriate change, another group of men came in the door. One of them pointed at me and said, "That's that guy!" The others didn't seem to know what he was talking about. "That's that guy we were talking about, hey, are you riding your bike all over the country or something?" he went on. Apparently I had been featured on the website of their local radio station or something. This is the first time someone has recognized me because of the trip. I didn't expect that to happen.
From there I rolled on down to the Texas line, where I entered state number 48 on my way to New Boston, Texas, for the night. I decided to check into the Tex Inn, partly because I was wanting to celebrate my final state with a night inside, and partly because I thought the clever name should be rewarded.
The following morning I went to the Wal-Mart across the road before leaving town. I needed batteries for my GPS. After purchasing the batteries, I was outside standing next to my bike when I heard a sound like something had just hit my bike, like a small rock or something. After further inspection, I discovered that a small piece of very necessary plastic had broken off of my front derailleur, rendering the spring useless. This means that when I release tension from the cable attached to the derailleur, it does not shift itself into a smaller chain ring. This means that I'm riding the rest of the trip in my largest chain ring on the front, unless I can find a bike shop to fix it.
Surly's newest injury did not hinder my travels that day and I made it to Marshall, Texas in good time. From there I looked up bicycle repair shops in Shreveport, Louisiana, to see if anyone could help me out. I was hoping that such a small problem could be fixed without completely replacing the derailleur. As it turns out, the derailleur should be replaced, but I decided to keep on trucking as is. There are no more hills along my travels, so I should be alright. I'll fix it when I get a job.
The next morning I got up and headed for Shreveport, Louisiana. Entering Louisiana was my 48th state sign picture. When I got to Shreveport, I found a book store to hang out in for a while. I was running quite ahead of schedule and I needed something new to read anyway. From there I headed south to the small town of Stonewall, where I stayed with Steve and LaBetha. It's always nice to have a home to stay in. I ended up spending a second night at their place. During my day off I helped Steve move a few things around. He was grateful for the help, and I appreciated the opportunity to feel like I wasn't a total freeloader. It was certainly disappointing to find out how weak my arms have become. They don't do anything all day, so when I was helping Steve, I felt like a wimp. That evening (of my day off) I got to attend a production at the Back Ally Community Theater in Grand Cane, Louisiana. Grand Cane is a tiny spot on the map, but they have managed to support a community theater for 10 years now. The musical I saw is called "Smoke on the Mountain". Well done, Grand Cane.
The following morning I took off about the same time as my hosts. I had ambitions of covering more than 95 miles on a bike with 1/3 of the gear ratios it is meant to have, so I hit the ground running (pedaling?) and didn't stop much. My goal was Leesville. When I arrived in Leesville, it was just after 3:00pm, so I made pretty good time. I continued through town and down the highway to the Sandman Motel. Why did I get a motel room again? It was supposed to rain that night and the following day. I'm just about done with my trip. I've spent less money than I thought I would. I'm getting lazy about camping. Take your pick.
This morning when I roused from the Sandman, it was indeed raining. Nothing to do but throw on the rain gear and pedal. It drizzled for a good part of the morning, but eventually let up just before lunch. I arrived in Lake Charles at about 1:30pm and got another cheap motel room. If not for the Cowgirl sheets I encountered in Florida, this may have taken the cake for crappiest motel room all trip. Sketchy would be an understatement. The man that runs the place seemed like a very nice person and he personally came with me to the room to make sure everything was in order and to ensure that I was getting a wireless internet signal. For the price I paid, not a bad deal.
Tomorrow I will ride down towards the Gulf coast and the Cameron MDS site. It will be a very short day to get there, so I don't think I'll set an alarm for the morning. In Cameron, I plan to take a day off the bike to work with one of the crews before riding the final two days from there to the New Iberia MDS site. The end is near. Within a week I will be in my parents' basement. We'll see how my integration back into a community goes.
My next stop for the day was in De Queen, Arkansas, where I pulled over for lunch. Pizza Hut had a buffet. As I was getting up to pay, some men sitting near me asked about my trip. I told them about it and gave them my card and moved to the register to pay. As I was digging through my bag for appropriate change, another group of men came in the door. One of them pointed at me and said, "That's that guy!" The others didn't seem to know what he was talking about. "That's that guy we were talking about, hey, are you riding your bike all over the country or something?" he went on. Apparently I had been featured on the website of their local radio station or something. This is the first time someone has recognized me because of the trip. I didn't expect that to happen.
From there I rolled on down to the Texas line, where I entered state number 48 on my way to New Boston, Texas, for the night. I decided to check into the Tex Inn, partly because I was wanting to celebrate my final state with a night inside, and partly because I thought the clever name should be rewarded.
The following morning I went to the Wal-Mart across the road before leaving town. I needed batteries for my GPS. After purchasing the batteries, I was outside standing next to my bike when I heard a sound like something had just hit my bike, like a small rock or something. After further inspection, I discovered that a small piece of very necessary plastic had broken off of my front derailleur, rendering the spring useless. This means that when I release tension from the cable attached to the derailleur, it does not shift itself into a smaller chain ring. This means that I'm riding the rest of the trip in my largest chain ring on the front, unless I can find a bike shop to fix it.
Surly's newest injury did not hinder my travels that day and I made it to Marshall, Texas in good time. From there I looked up bicycle repair shops in Shreveport, Louisiana, to see if anyone could help me out. I was hoping that such a small problem could be fixed without completely replacing the derailleur. As it turns out, the derailleur should be replaced, but I decided to keep on trucking as is. There are no more hills along my travels, so I should be alright. I'll fix it when I get a job.
The next morning I got up and headed for Shreveport, Louisiana. Entering Louisiana was my 48th state sign picture. When I got to Shreveport, I found a book store to hang out in for a while. I was running quite ahead of schedule and I needed something new to read anyway. From there I headed south to the small town of Stonewall, where I stayed with Steve and LaBetha. It's always nice to have a home to stay in. I ended up spending a second night at their place. During my day off I helped Steve move a few things around. He was grateful for the help, and I appreciated the opportunity to feel like I wasn't a total freeloader. It was certainly disappointing to find out how weak my arms have become. They don't do anything all day, so when I was helping Steve, I felt like a wimp. That evening (of my day off) I got to attend a production at the Back Ally Community Theater in Grand Cane, Louisiana. Grand Cane is a tiny spot on the map, but they have managed to support a community theater for 10 years now. The musical I saw is called "Smoke on the Mountain". Well done, Grand Cane.
The following morning I took off about the same time as my hosts. I had ambitions of covering more than 95 miles on a bike with 1/3 of the gear ratios it is meant to have, so I hit the ground running (pedaling?) and didn't stop much. My goal was Leesville. When I arrived in Leesville, it was just after 3:00pm, so I made pretty good time. I continued through town and down the highway to the Sandman Motel. Why did I get a motel room again? It was supposed to rain that night and the following day. I'm just about done with my trip. I've spent less money than I thought I would. I'm getting lazy about camping. Take your pick.
This morning when I roused from the Sandman, it was indeed raining. Nothing to do but throw on the rain gear and pedal. It drizzled for a good part of the morning, but eventually let up just before lunch. I arrived in Lake Charles at about 1:30pm and got another cheap motel room. If not for the Cowgirl sheets I encountered in Florida, this may have taken the cake for crappiest motel room all trip. Sketchy would be an understatement. The man that runs the place seemed like a very nice person and he personally came with me to the room to make sure everything was in order and to ensure that I was getting a wireless internet signal. For the price I paid, not a bad deal.
Tomorrow I will ride down towards the Gulf coast and the Cameron MDS site. It will be a very short day to get there, so I don't think I'll set an alarm for the morning. In Cameron, I plan to take a day off the bike to work with one of the crews before riding the final two days from there to the New Iberia MDS site. The end is near. Within a week I will be in my parents' basement. We'll see how my integration back into a community goes.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Surly got hurt...
As I departed from the Yoder farm, Martha and I agreed that highway 71 was the best way to get south in a hurry. Now, during my approach to the Yoder farm, I spent a few more miles on some rough gravel roads than I would have liked, but I figured it was ok. Now, as I headed south on 71, my bike was making occasional funny noises when I would hit bumps. I looked at the back of my bike, checked to see if my bags were attached properly, picked up the back end and spun the wheel to see if I could find any explanation to the peculiar noise that came when I would hit a bump or have to cross the rumble strips. As I continued down 71, I came into a construction zone where they were repaving the road (not so much the shoulder). Things got a little rougher through this stretch. For a while, I rode on the new pavement in the lane that was coned off, but when that ended, I needed to return to the awful conditions of the shoulder. As I transitioned from the new pavement to the old, I had an awful case of deja vu as my heart sank into my gut. Back when I was in Delaware, I had a moment when, with little warning, my bicycle gave out a brief cry of pain, followed by a very sudden loss of momentum. Another awful sound came from the rear end of my bike, and I was quickly drug to a halt. In Delaware I had shelled out the bearings in my rear wheel. This time, the eyelets on the fork of my bike that the rear rack attach to had sheered off and the rack and fender were resting on top of the tire under the weight of my baggage. The sound I had been hearing prior was probably made because one side was broken and clanging every time I hit a bump, but the other side held the rack in place enough that I couldn't find the problem.
Well, technically speaking the bike was still functional, but I couldn't carry most of my gear without that rack. What do I do next? Stick out the thumb. As I waited for a kind passerby, I called my parents to see if there was any way for them to get my trailer out to southern Missouri. (There are two primary methods of carrying your gear when bicycle touring. One is racks and panniers like I have been traveling with, the other is a bicycle trailer. I own a single wheeled trailer called BOB.) As I was running through options with my parents, a pickup pulled over, so I hung up the phone. Frank came to my rescue. Frank drove me the last few miles of my day to get to Lamar, Missouri, and even helped me find a machine shop. My bicycle is made of steel, so it can be welded. Frank and I eventually found an old man with a shop, and he tacked things back together for me. It doesn't look pretty, but it's held up thus far. This whole ordeal took us a little while, which delayed Frank's commute home. I gave him my card with instructions to have his wife call and chew me out for his tardiness instead of him.
From the machine shop I headed back towards the highway to find food. As I was on my way out the door with my sandwich in hand, a small child walked up to me and handed me a bicycle inner tube. At first, I was very confused as to what was going on, but his father, Mark, was there and explained that they see a lot of cyclists in the area, and he always kept a few inner tubes in his truck to give to them. We chatted for a while and he gave me directions to the city park where I could camp. When we parted, I made my way in that direction, but wasn't really feeling like a night in the park. I was still pretty bummed about the mechanical failure and the scars that Surly now has from the old man in the machine shop. I made my way back to the highway and checked into the cheaper of the two options of hotels there. I made a few phone calls to explain the mechanical difficulties in more detail to the few people I had texted during the whole ordeal, but spent most of the evening looking at google maps and enjoying silence.
The following day I continued south, avoiding highway 71 where possible. It was a fairly uneventful and relatively short day, ending in Anderson, Missouri, at a small campground by Indian Creek. I spent the remaining daylight hours at a truck stop at the top of the hill, making a few phone calls and attempting to use the wireless internet that never actually connected. The creek was running at just the right volume to provide very relaxing white noise to block out the sounds of the old highway, which was not heavily trafficked after the bypass was built.
In the morning I got packed up and on the road in decent time, but I was in no rush. If I cover too many miles too quickly, I'll beat my parents to the finish line. I had been across the Arkansas border for several miles when lunch time came around. I pulled off in a McDonald's to use the internet for a bit. I also ate a Big Mac for the first time in a very long time. I think I'm ok with waiting a very long time to have another, though it wasn't an altogether unpleasant experience. Either I was very hungry or their food doesn't suck as bad as I remember. From the McDonald's I continued my trek against the wind to the south. When I got to Fayettville, AR, I was reminded that it is the home of the University of Arkansas Razorbacks. I had the misfortune of stumbling across their campus. I say it that way not because there is anything wrong with the University of Arkansas or their campus, but the street that Martha put me on was ridiculous. Somehow I ended up in this residential part of town, and when I made the turn that Martha wanted me to, it appeared as though the other end of the tunnel created by the bows of the trees was a concrete wall with two vertical yellow lines painted on it. Apparently in Fayettville they call walls like this streets and expect you to drive and bicycle up and down them. I have biked all over this country, and the only thing that I have seen that could compare to the grade of this street is the hill I came down from after Bob's birthday celebration at Sea View in California. This wall that they call a street went for only about a quarter mile I would say, but for that entire quarter mile I was in my lowest gear, standing on my pedals to make my heavy touring bike move. With every shift of my weight from one pedal to the other, my bike lurched forward about 2/5ths of one tire revolution. The split second between shifts of my weight from pedal to pedal, I was not moving. I had to shift my weight quickly so I wouldn't fall over or move backwards. I kind of wanted to stop and rest part way up, but I wasn't going to give the state of Arkansas that kind of satisfaction. Resting during a climb is something I reserve for mountains, not hills in Arkansas.
From Fayettville I pressed on a little further to an RV park that was pretty much in the middle of nowhere, south of another place that may not exist, West Fork, Arkansas. I don't know how anyone else found this RV park, but there were other people there. I had to knock on a few doors of campers to find change to pay my fee. The few people I talked to were very friendly, but I never asked how they ended up at this particular RV park that seemed so lonely. I spent much of the evening in the laundry room reading. It had lights, so I didn't need to use the batteries on my headlamp.
The following morning I meandered around on the old highway through some towns that probably wish the new highway hadn't been built to bypass them. I appreciated the lightened traffic, but pittied the drivers that took the new highway. Most of the time I was a few hundred feet above them, looking out over the rolling hills, blanketed in fall colors. The trees looked like they were rusting.
When I got near an active major highway again, I found another McDonald's to use the internet to decide where I should end up that day. It seemed like a good day to see a new state, so I angled towards Oklahoma. I rolled into Poteau, Oklahoma, with sunlight to spare and checked into a cheap motel to get a shower and wash my laundry.
The laundromat was just under a mile from my hotel, so I decided to walk it. It's good for my body to do something other than turn the pedals all day, right? As I walked along the highway with a trash bag full of clothes slung over my shoulder, it made me think about how I was perceived by those passing by. Most people probably didn't give me a second thought, but if asked what they imagined was my story, an unshaven man in grungy clothes carrying a trash bag full of really grungy clothes, what would they have said? What would I have said? I probably looked homeless. I mean, I am, sort of, but not in the usual sense.
Anyway, this morning I tried to get on the road early, but after I was already dressed and headed out the door, I noticed that my rear tire was low and I needed to change it. Luckily I'm pretty dang quick at changing tires by now, but it was still irritating to start a day out that way. From there things went pretty smoothly. There wasn't much temptation to stop, because there was really nowhere to stop. I did pull over to take another picture by the welcome to Oklahoma sign. On the way into the state I had a weird angle at the sign because I was on an access road next to the interstate. That sign wasn't trying to welcome me anyway, it was meant for the interstate travelers.
After a bite to eat in Mena, Arkansas, I continued a few more miles down the road to a nicely kept RV park on a hill. The woman charged me less than I paid for the one in the middle of nowhere and the facilities here are infinitely better. Tomorrow I intend to cross into Texas, which will be the 48th state my bicycle has ridden in since May 31st. Once I get there, all that's left is closing the loop and ending in New Iberia. I do have to make sure I put on enough miles to get to that 10,000 mark, so I am not necessarily taking the shortest route to New Iberia from here. I intend to stop at the Cameron, Louisiana, MDS site as well. I'm still on pace to finish on the 19th. 10 days to go!
Well, technically speaking the bike was still functional, but I couldn't carry most of my gear without that rack. What do I do next? Stick out the thumb. As I waited for a kind passerby, I called my parents to see if there was any way for them to get my trailer out to southern Missouri. (There are two primary methods of carrying your gear when bicycle touring. One is racks and panniers like I have been traveling with, the other is a bicycle trailer. I own a single wheeled trailer called BOB.) As I was running through options with my parents, a pickup pulled over, so I hung up the phone. Frank came to my rescue. Frank drove me the last few miles of my day to get to Lamar, Missouri, and even helped me find a machine shop. My bicycle is made of steel, so it can be welded. Frank and I eventually found an old man with a shop, and he tacked things back together for me. It doesn't look pretty, but it's held up thus far. This whole ordeal took us a little while, which delayed Frank's commute home. I gave him my card with instructions to have his wife call and chew me out for his tardiness instead of him.
From the machine shop I headed back towards the highway to find food. As I was on my way out the door with my sandwich in hand, a small child walked up to me and handed me a bicycle inner tube. At first, I was very confused as to what was going on, but his father, Mark, was there and explained that they see a lot of cyclists in the area, and he always kept a few inner tubes in his truck to give to them. We chatted for a while and he gave me directions to the city park where I could camp. When we parted, I made my way in that direction, but wasn't really feeling like a night in the park. I was still pretty bummed about the mechanical failure and the scars that Surly now has from the old man in the machine shop. I made my way back to the highway and checked into the cheaper of the two options of hotels there. I made a few phone calls to explain the mechanical difficulties in more detail to the few people I had texted during the whole ordeal, but spent most of the evening looking at google maps and enjoying silence.
The following day I continued south, avoiding highway 71 where possible. It was a fairly uneventful and relatively short day, ending in Anderson, Missouri, at a small campground by Indian Creek. I spent the remaining daylight hours at a truck stop at the top of the hill, making a few phone calls and attempting to use the wireless internet that never actually connected. The creek was running at just the right volume to provide very relaxing white noise to block out the sounds of the old highway, which was not heavily trafficked after the bypass was built.
In the morning I got packed up and on the road in decent time, but I was in no rush. If I cover too many miles too quickly, I'll beat my parents to the finish line. I had been across the Arkansas border for several miles when lunch time came around. I pulled off in a McDonald's to use the internet for a bit. I also ate a Big Mac for the first time in a very long time. I think I'm ok with waiting a very long time to have another, though it wasn't an altogether unpleasant experience. Either I was very hungry or their food doesn't suck as bad as I remember. From the McDonald's I continued my trek against the wind to the south. When I got to Fayettville, AR, I was reminded that it is the home of the University of Arkansas Razorbacks. I had the misfortune of stumbling across their campus. I say it that way not because there is anything wrong with the University of Arkansas or their campus, but the street that Martha put me on was ridiculous. Somehow I ended up in this residential part of town, and when I made the turn that Martha wanted me to, it appeared as though the other end of the tunnel created by the bows of the trees was a concrete wall with two vertical yellow lines painted on it. Apparently in Fayettville they call walls like this streets and expect you to drive and bicycle up and down them. I have biked all over this country, and the only thing that I have seen that could compare to the grade of this street is the hill I came down from after Bob's birthday celebration at Sea View in California. This wall that they call a street went for only about a quarter mile I would say, but for that entire quarter mile I was in my lowest gear, standing on my pedals to make my heavy touring bike move. With every shift of my weight from one pedal to the other, my bike lurched forward about 2/5ths of one tire revolution. The split second between shifts of my weight from pedal to pedal, I was not moving. I had to shift my weight quickly so I wouldn't fall over or move backwards. I kind of wanted to stop and rest part way up, but I wasn't going to give the state of Arkansas that kind of satisfaction. Resting during a climb is something I reserve for mountains, not hills in Arkansas.
From Fayettville I pressed on a little further to an RV park that was pretty much in the middle of nowhere, south of another place that may not exist, West Fork, Arkansas. I don't know how anyone else found this RV park, but there were other people there. I had to knock on a few doors of campers to find change to pay my fee. The few people I talked to were very friendly, but I never asked how they ended up at this particular RV park that seemed so lonely. I spent much of the evening in the laundry room reading. It had lights, so I didn't need to use the batteries on my headlamp.
The following morning I meandered around on the old highway through some towns that probably wish the new highway hadn't been built to bypass them. I appreciated the lightened traffic, but pittied the drivers that took the new highway. Most of the time I was a few hundred feet above them, looking out over the rolling hills, blanketed in fall colors. The trees looked like they were rusting.
When I got near an active major highway again, I found another McDonald's to use the internet to decide where I should end up that day. It seemed like a good day to see a new state, so I angled towards Oklahoma. I rolled into Poteau, Oklahoma, with sunlight to spare and checked into a cheap motel to get a shower and wash my laundry.
The laundromat was just under a mile from my hotel, so I decided to walk it. It's good for my body to do something other than turn the pedals all day, right? As I walked along the highway with a trash bag full of clothes slung over my shoulder, it made me think about how I was perceived by those passing by. Most people probably didn't give me a second thought, but if asked what they imagined was my story, an unshaven man in grungy clothes carrying a trash bag full of really grungy clothes, what would they have said? What would I have said? I probably looked homeless. I mean, I am, sort of, but not in the usual sense.
Anyway, this morning I tried to get on the road early, but after I was already dressed and headed out the door, I noticed that my rear tire was low and I needed to change it. Luckily I'm pretty dang quick at changing tires by now, but it was still irritating to start a day out that way. From there things went pretty smoothly. There wasn't much temptation to stop, because there was really nowhere to stop. I did pull over to take another picture by the welcome to Oklahoma sign. On the way into the state I had a weird angle at the sign because I was on an access road next to the interstate. That sign wasn't trying to welcome me anyway, it was meant for the interstate travelers.
After a bite to eat in Mena, Arkansas, I continued a few more miles down the road to a nicely kept RV park on a hill. The woman charged me less than I paid for the one in the middle of nowhere and the facilities here are infinitely better. Tomorrow I intend to cross into Texas, which will be the 48th state my bicycle has ridden in since May 31st. Once I get there, all that's left is closing the loop and ending in New Iberia. I do have to make sure I put on enough miles to get to that 10,000 mark, so I am not necessarily taking the shortest route to New Iberia from here. I intend to stop at the Cameron, Louisiana, MDS site as well. I'm still on pace to finish on the 19th. 10 days to go!
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Bittersweet Arrival in Hesston
I hit the road from Walsenburg, Colorado, and continued down a familiar highway 10 that I had just traveled in a car a few days before. From Walsenburg to the La Junta area is a very desolate stretch of road for about 70 miles. I hit the ground running, not sure where I would end up for the night. I knew I wanted to try for a longer day, so I only dismounted the bike once during the morning to water some of the local vegetation. As I neared La Junta, I noticed a rhythmic sound coming from the rear of my bicycle, so I pulled over to investigate. I found that the sidewall of my rear tire had started to give way and the tube was about to push through and rupture. I knew it needed to be dealt with quickly, but I was so close to town that I was hoping it would hold until I got there. Rather, it gave way less than a mile from where I discovered the problem. I had been making such good time that I was a little irritated by the sudden snag, but I've gotten so quick at changing tires that it didn't really impact my day too negatively. The tire and tube were both shot at this point. I got my spare out of my bag and threw it on the bike, then bungied the failed tire and tube on the back with my tent.
After a bite to eat in a diner in La Junta, I hit the road hard again, seeing how far I could get before sunset. I thought about stopping at John Martin Reservoir State Park, but things were going too well to stop. I kept on cranking the pedals to Lamar Sportsman's Campground, just outside of Lamar, Colorado. Nobody was there to check in with, so I did the self register thing. Nobody was there when I got up, either, so I probably could have gotten away with squatting for the night. There was even a small heated cabin next to the tent sights that was unlocked that I could have definitely hidden in for the evening. It certainly would have been warmer than the tent. Rather, I paid for and used only a tent sight.
In the morning I got up early, packed, and found a diner for breakfast. The diner was connected to a large truck plaza and had a pretty well stocked breakfast buffet. That was perfect. I hadn't eaten too much the night before, opting for tortillas with peanut butter instead of cooking beans and rice in the dark. As I left the diner, I heard the song "Friends in Low Places" blaring from a semi parked at one of the pumps. That song has some significance with me and my former Hesston College coworkers, so I quickly texted the group of them, letting them know I was thinking of them.
Just before reaching the Kansas border I passed through the town of Holly, Colorado. Nothing about this town really stood out to me as I rode into town. Then, I slammed on my breaks. I wasn't quite sure why I hit my breaks or what I had just seen on the side of the road, but I needed to stop and look back. It was so out in the open and so still that I glazed over it on my way by. I had ridden my bicycle within about 6 feet of an elk. It was standing in the front yard of a house in the middle of town, right on the sidewalk. There shouldn't even be elk in that part of the state, much less standing in the front yard of a house in the middle of a small town. I got off my bike, walked around it (at a distance) and took a couple of pictures. It just stood there looking at me, turning occasionally to keep an eye on me. It was so calm that I almost wanted to try to pet the thing, but I imagined what an elk hoof would feel like hitting me in the face and decided against it. I saddled back up and took off for the border.
The next town I rolled through was Syracuse, Kansas. The only reason I mention this town is because this was the first time I had seen a semi hauling a wind turbine blade through a town. Not only was it passing through town, but it was making a left turn in the middle of town. The "wide load" car that drove ahead made the corner first, then stopped with it's hazards on. The driver got out with a hand held stop sign, and kept traffic from approaching the intersection, preventing the semi from dragging it's rear tires across the hood of some poor Civic or something. It was quite the sight.
Speaking of wind turbines, there are few places that I've seen with the sheer quantity of wind turbines than along highway 50. There were huge fields of them stretching into the distance, and evidence of more to come. I got to a bend in the road where there were neatly organized parts to wind turbines laid out, covering about 20 acres. Not much else to do out there, may as well use the wind.
The day seemed to drag on, but I was pretty motivated to cover more miles. I knew that Hesston, Kansas, my former home, was waiting for me. I pushed on into the evening, covering the last four or five miles in the dark to get to Cimarron, Kansas. I don't recommend cycling at night in general, and what is worse I was on highway 50. I had one eye glued to my rear view mirror at all times, just in case.
In Cimarron, I found a small diner where I could grab a bite to eat. While I was there they were preparing a very large burger for someone who called in the order. It's some kind of eating challenge. The burger itself is something like 5 lbs of beef and what appeared to be about a full block of cheese sliced up and put on the patty. The burger was enormous. They said they had to bake the patty because it wouldn't cook all the way through on the griddle. It looked like a round meatloaf between the halves of a round loaf of bread. I was not interested. I was hungry, but that looked gross.
Eventually people started asking me what the heck I was doing, so I explained. As I was about to head to the city park to set up the tent, Paula and Steve, a couple that hadn't said much yet, stopped me. They told me that they didn't live in town, but Paula's parents did, and they were out of town. They offered to let me have the house for the evening. I couldn't turn that down. It was dark and getting chilly already. They drove ahead and I met Paula at the house. She let me in, showed me to a bedroom and told me to make myself at home. It's amazing to find such trusting people. They knew nothing about me but what I had claimed about my trip, and Paula felt comfortable enough to leave me alone in her parents' house.
The following morning I had breakfast at another local establishment and was entertained by how familiar the morning coffee crowd felt. After Breakfast, I don't really have a whole lot to say about the day on the bike. I didn't really spend much time off the bike, and I don't remember seeing anything really worth noting. This was my longest day on the bike to date, covering about 141 miles to get to Yoder, Kansas, where I stayed with my friends Kendra and Mark who run a bed and breakfast in town. It was a good place to be when I received a phone call from my friend Alyssa (who I stayed with in Americus, GA, a few months ago).
Alyssa called and told me that our friend Chole Weaver had been riding her bicycle that morning and was struck from behind by a car. She died shortly thereafter. I hadn't paid attention to where so many of the students had gone to after leaving Hesston. Chloe had been living in La Jara, Colorado, and was in Alamosa, Colorado when the accident happened. I had ridden my bicycle through Alamsoa three days earlier.
The next day I got up early and rode to Hesston from Yoder, arriving just in time for chapel at the college. I had spoken with the campus pastor, Todd, about possibly making the announcements at the beginning of chapel if I arrived in time. When I walked out from in back, the sophomores were all pretty shocked and cheered a little, but the freshmen were all very confused (or so said the sophomores). I just read the announcements and left the stage with no explanation. I spent the next several days looking up as many of my friends in the area as I could, spreading my time relatively thin. I did my best to single people out so I wouldn't be caught in huge groups.
Then on Thursday I got in a car with Emily and Katie, two of my former coworkers, and we drove to Colorado for Chloe's funeral. It was really good to see that group of friends again, but it was not easy. The funeral was Friday, after which Emily, Katie, and I drove back to Hesston.
I stayed in Kansas through the weekend so I could go to New Creation Fellowship Church, where I had been attending for the three years, and to see a few more people I hadn't been able to meet up with yet. My friend Adam drove down from Henderson, Nebraska, for the weekend, and we made Indian food one night. By "we" I mean he cooked and I enjoyed the product. I should really pay attention one of these times and take notes.
I didn't go to bed very early Sunday night, so I slept in Monday and had lunch on campus before hitting the road. I expected to cover a shorter day due to the late start, but it was one of those days where I sort of found a zone and just stayed there. I ended up knocking out 76 miles that afternoon. The down side to getting into a zone like that is that I don't really appreciate what's around me, I just bike. It's ok though, I was in Kansas.
I found a cheap hotel room on the edge of Emporia, Kansas, and took care of some overdue business I had neglected while I was in Hesston. When I woke, my quads were quite unhappy with me. I spent a full week off the bike in Hesston, then pushed out 76 miles against the wind in one afternoon. I think they wanted a warm up day, or at least a warning of what was to come. I moved a little slower and took a few more breaks that day. It was still pretty uneventful on the grand scheme of things. It's hard for me to really appreciate the view. I do think that Kansas is a beautiful state, but I have lived 6 out of the last 8 years of my life before this trip in the state of Kansas. It's hard to see it with fresh eyes, especially when I get in my zone. I spent the night at Hillsdale State Park, where the camp host gave me some firewood at no charge. It was pretty cold, and I was the only one in the park without the rigid walls of a camper.
In the morning I woke with Garden City, Missouri, in my sights. Emily, one of the former coworkers that I went to the funeral with, lives near Garden City. It turned out to be less than 50 miles to get to her place, but my travels were delayed a bit because Martha (GPS) doesn't know which roads are paved and which ones are not. I took her directions anyway, but we got into a little snag when we came upon some railroad crossing maintenance. Eventually I was allowed to walk my bike through the work area, but I had to sit for about 20 minutes first.
Emily's sister, Megan, is married to my former college roommate, Brandon, so we had supper at Megan and Brandon's house last night. I really appreciated the opportunity to catch up with Brandon again. He's all grown up and working full time and then some. I, however, am delaying the conventional lifestyle of employment as long as my bank account can support it.
Today I am sitting in a coffee shop, trying to plot out the remainder of my trip. I intend to arrive in New Iberia, Louisiana on November 19th. I still need to pass through parts of Arkansas, Oklahoma, and Texas, and take a picture of myself entering Louisiana. I also need to make sure my route covers at least 900 miles so that I get my total mileage over 10,000 miles. I'm pretty comfortable with that. The idea of biking 900 miles sounds like a lot to many people, but at this point in my trip I feel like I'm almost tripping over the finish line. I had better live it up out here on the road while I still can.
After a bite to eat in a diner in La Junta, I hit the road hard again, seeing how far I could get before sunset. I thought about stopping at John Martin Reservoir State Park, but things were going too well to stop. I kept on cranking the pedals to Lamar Sportsman's Campground, just outside of Lamar, Colorado. Nobody was there to check in with, so I did the self register thing. Nobody was there when I got up, either, so I probably could have gotten away with squatting for the night. There was even a small heated cabin next to the tent sights that was unlocked that I could have definitely hidden in for the evening. It certainly would have been warmer than the tent. Rather, I paid for and used only a tent sight.
In the morning I got up early, packed, and found a diner for breakfast. The diner was connected to a large truck plaza and had a pretty well stocked breakfast buffet. That was perfect. I hadn't eaten too much the night before, opting for tortillas with peanut butter instead of cooking beans and rice in the dark. As I left the diner, I heard the song "Friends in Low Places" blaring from a semi parked at one of the pumps. That song has some significance with me and my former Hesston College coworkers, so I quickly texted the group of them, letting them know I was thinking of them.
Just before reaching the Kansas border I passed through the town of Holly, Colorado. Nothing about this town really stood out to me as I rode into town. Then, I slammed on my breaks. I wasn't quite sure why I hit my breaks or what I had just seen on the side of the road, but I needed to stop and look back. It was so out in the open and so still that I glazed over it on my way by. I had ridden my bicycle within about 6 feet of an elk. It was standing in the front yard of a house in the middle of town, right on the sidewalk. There shouldn't even be elk in that part of the state, much less standing in the front yard of a house in the middle of a small town. I got off my bike, walked around it (at a distance) and took a couple of pictures. It just stood there looking at me, turning occasionally to keep an eye on me. It was so calm that I almost wanted to try to pet the thing, but I imagined what an elk hoof would feel like hitting me in the face and decided against it. I saddled back up and took off for the border.
The next town I rolled through was Syracuse, Kansas. The only reason I mention this town is because this was the first time I had seen a semi hauling a wind turbine blade through a town. Not only was it passing through town, but it was making a left turn in the middle of town. The "wide load" car that drove ahead made the corner first, then stopped with it's hazards on. The driver got out with a hand held stop sign, and kept traffic from approaching the intersection, preventing the semi from dragging it's rear tires across the hood of some poor Civic or something. It was quite the sight.
Speaking of wind turbines, there are few places that I've seen with the sheer quantity of wind turbines than along highway 50. There were huge fields of them stretching into the distance, and evidence of more to come. I got to a bend in the road where there were neatly organized parts to wind turbines laid out, covering about 20 acres. Not much else to do out there, may as well use the wind.
The day seemed to drag on, but I was pretty motivated to cover more miles. I knew that Hesston, Kansas, my former home, was waiting for me. I pushed on into the evening, covering the last four or five miles in the dark to get to Cimarron, Kansas. I don't recommend cycling at night in general, and what is worse I was on highway 50. I had one eye glued to my rear view mirror at all times, just in case.
In Cimarron, I found a small diner where I could grab a bite to eat. While I was there they were preparing a very large burger for someone who called in the order. It's some kind of eating challenge. The burger itself is something like 5 lbs of beef and what appeared to be about a full block of cheese sliced up and put on the patty. The burger was enormous. They said they had to bake the patty because it wouldn't cook all the way through on the griddle. It looked like a round meatloaf between the halves of a round loaf of bread. I was not interested. I was hungry, but that looked gross.
Eventually people started asking me what the heck I was doing, so I explained. As I was about to head to the city park to set up the tent, Paula and Steve, a couple that hadn't said much yet, stopped me. They told me that they didn't live in town, but Paula's parents did, and they were out of town. They offered to let me have the house for the evening. I couldn't turn that down. It was dark and getting chilly already. They drove ahead and I met Paula at the house. She let me in, showed me to a bedroom and told me to make myself at home. It's amazing to find such trusting people. They knew nothing about me but what I had claimed about my trip, and Paula felt comfortable enough to leave me alone in her parents' house.
The following morning I had breakfast at another local establishment and was entertained by how familiar the morning coffee crowd felt. After Breakfast, I don't really have a whole lot to say about the day on the bike. I didn't really spend much time off the bike, and I don't remember seeing anything really worth noting. This was my longest day on the bike to date, covering about 141 miles to get to Yoder, Kansas, where I stayed with my friends Kendra and Mark who run a bed and breakfast in town. It was a good place to be when I received a phone call from my friend Alyssa (who I stayed with in Americus, GA, a few months ago).
Alyssa called and told me that our friend Chole Weaver had been riding her bicycle that morning and was struck from behind by a car. She died shortly thereafter. I hadn't paid attention to where so many of the students had gone to after leaving Hesston. Chloe had been living in La Jara, Colorado, and was in Alamosa, Colorado when the accident happened. I had ridden my bicycle through Alamsoa three days earlier.
The next day I got up early and rode to Hesston from Yoder, arriving just in time for chapel at the college. I had spoken with the campus pastor, Todd, about possibly making the announcements at the beginning of chapel if I arrived in time. When I walked out from in back, the sophomores were all pretty shocked and cheered a little, but the freshmen were all very confused (or so said the sophomores). I just read the announcements and left the stage with no explanation. I spent the next several days looking up as many of my friends in the area as I could, spreading my time relatively thin. I did my best to single people out so I wouldn't be caught in huge groups.
Then on Thursday I got in a car with Emily and Katie, two of my former coworkers, and we drove to Colorado for Chloe's funeral. It was really good to see that group of friends again, but it was not easy. The funeral was Friday, after which Emily, Katie, and I drove back to Hesston.
I stayed in Kansas through the weekend so I could go to New Creation Fellowship Church, where I had been attending for the three years, and to see a few more people I hadn't been able to meet up with yet. My friend Adam drove down from Henderson, Nebraska, for the weekend, and we made Indian food one night. By "we" I mean he cooked and I enjoyed the product. I should really pay attention one of these times and take notes.
I didn't go to bed very early Sunday night, so I slept in Monday and had lunch on campus before hitting the road. I expected to cover a shorter day due to the late start, but it was one of those days where I sort of found a zone and just stayed there. I ended up knocking out 76 miles that afternoon. The down side to getting into a zone like that is that I don't really appreciate what's around me, I just bike. It's ok though, I was in Kansas.
I found a cheap hotel room on the edge of Emporia, Kansas, and took care of some overdue business I had neglected while I was in Hesston. When I woke, my quads were quite unhappy with me. I spent a full week off the bike in Hesston, then pushed out 76 miles against the wind in one afternoon. I think they wanted a warm up day, or at least a warning of what was to come. I moved a little slower and took a few more breaks that day. It was still pretty uneventful on the grand scheme of things. It's hard for me to really appreciate the view. I do think that Kansas is a beautiful state, but I have lived 6 out of the last 8 years of my life before this trip in the state of Kansas. It's hard to see it with fresh eyes, especially when I get in my zone. I spent the night at Hillsdale State Park, where the camp host gave me some firewood at no charge. It was pretty cold, and I was the only one in the park without the rigid walls of a camper.
In the morning I woke with Garden City, Missouri, in my sights. Emily, one of the former coworkers that I went to the funeral with, lives near Garden City. It turned out to be less than 50 miles to get to her place, but my travels were delayed a bit because Martha (GPS) doesn't know which roads are paved and which ones are not. I took her directions anyway, but we got into a little snag when we came upon some railroad crossing maintenance. Eventually I was allowed to walk my bike through the work area, but I had to sit for about 20 minutes first.
Emily's sister, Megan, is married to my former college roommate, Brandon, so we had supper at Megan and Brandon's house last night. I really appreciated the opportunity to catch up with Brandon again. He's all grown up and working full time and then some. I, however, am delaying the conventional lifestyle of employment as long as my bank account can support it.
Today I am sitting in a coffee shop, trying to plot out the remainder of my trip. I intend to arrive in New Iberia, Louisiana on November 19th. I still need to pass through parts of Arkansas, Oklahoma, and Texas, and take a picture of myself entering Louisiana. I also need to make sure my route covers at least 900 miles so that I get my total mileage over 10,000 miles. I'm pretty comfortable with that. The idea of biking 900 miles sounds like a lot to many people, but at this point in my trip I feel like I'm almost tripping over the finish line. I had better live it up out here on the road while I still can.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
10,857
Well, I rode out of Durango towards Pagosa Springs, accompanied by my friend Mark, who happened to have the day off work. Just as we got out of town, Mark presented me with an option: continue on the shoulder of the busy highway or climb a steep hill to a road that parallels the highway with little traffic. I figured that I should ride up the hill, especially since I was just coming off of the longest break (4 days off) since I started on May 31st. Mark had his cycling GPS on for the ride, and by the time we got to Pagosa Springs, we had climbed about 3,000 feet for the day. The road between Durango and Pagosa isn't exactly flat. When we got to town, we stopped to have a bite to eat and check out a bike shop before Mark turned around to head back home, giving him close to 120 miles for the day (with a little bit of climbing). I kept going through town along hwy 160 towards Wolf Creek Pass.
The valley that approaches Wolf Creek Pass from the west is very beautiful, but also a little ominous for a cyclist. As I biked through the valley, the mountains kept getting bigger and closer on every side. Eventually I reached the point in the road where I would start to really climb. Lucky for me, there is a campground there. At the time it was inhabited by a bunch of elk hunters. When I pulled up I saw three men standing by the tailgate of a pickup. Resting on the tailgate was the severed head of an elk, upside down with it's antlers resting on the ground. As I explained how I got there on a bicycle and what I was doing, two of the men went to work with a battery powered saw, removing the antlers from the skull.
After registering for a site, I set up camp for the evening and headed for the shower. Later, when I was preparing my usual camp meal of beans and rice on tortillas, a man came from his camper across the way to offer me a lantern to use while I camped that evening. I readily accepted his offer. A while later he came back over and asked if I'd like to join he and the others for supper, but I had already prepared my meal. I agreed to come over for dessert when I was done. I ended up spending most of the evening with their hunting party, reluctant to leave the warmth to crawl into my tent. They said that the temperature would get down to 26 degrees.
When I woke in the morning, everything outside my tent was covered in frost, including the rain fly of my tent. I, however, stayed quite warm. I've been impressed with my 20 degree bag thus far. I was moving pretty slowly that morning, a little intimidated by the two huge hairpin turns looming up the road, visible from the campsite. After a late start, I began the crawl up the mountain. I stopped at the second hairpin turn to look out over the valley and chat with some more tourists. According to the signs at the top, it was 9 miles of 7% grade that I climbed to get to the top of Wolf Creek Pass, crossing the continental divide for the last time at 10,857 feet above sea level, my highest elevation of the trip.
At the top I chatted with a few people that probably thought I was out of my mind and to layer up for the descent. It was a beautiful, clear day despite the weather forecast, so I worked up quite the sweat crawling up the mountain, but the air had a bite to it when the wind blew. Coming down off of a pass like that at 40+ miles per hour, the wind is in your face. I cruised down the mountain and into the San Luis Valley to Monte Vista, Colorado. In town I stopped at a grocery store to get some breakfast for the morning before heading to the edge of town to look for a place to camp.
At the edge of town I saw Calvary Baptist Church. The front door was propped open, there was a truck parked in the lot, and their lawn looked soft. I wandered inside and eventually found the pastor, Tommy who readily agreed to let me camp behind the building and even offered me a shower. They were scheduled to have a service at 7pm, and Tommy said I was welcome to attend. After getting myself cleaned up and getting camp set up, I headed inside for the service. I really appreciated what Tommy shared with the sparse crowd, sticking mostly to Ephesians with a brief jaunt into Revelation. After the service I stayed and mingled a little. As I was getting ready to go out to the tent to make up another batch of my beans and rice, Tommy asked if I was interested in a warm place to stay. I told him my tent would likely keep me alive for the night, but if he had another option, I'd probably take him up on it. I ended up packing my camp up and throwing everything in the back of his SUV for a drive back into town to the Rio Grande Motel. A woman from church runs the place, and they gave me a room for the night. It was a wonderful surprise. I especially appreciated the room when I woke this morning to find rain.
I wheeled my bicycle out of the room just before 8am to hit the road in the rain. After I dropped the key in the drop box, I noticed that one of my tires was low. It's pretty disappointing to start a day by changing a flat tire before you even cover a single mile. I changed it out and hit the road. In Alamosa, I saw a clock in front of a bank at 10:00am that read 44 degrees. Cold rain. It was 43 miles from my starting location to Fort Garland where I had lunch. About the time I ducked in for lunch the rain quit. After Fort Garland was a 47 mile stretch with no services. In the middle of that 47 miles was La Veta Pass at 9,413 feet elevation. I was back on the road just before 1:00pm to get the last 47 miles knocked out. La Veta Pass is pretty mild coming from the west, so it wasn't a bad climb. The descent went by pretty quickly. The sign at the top said "6% downgrade next 4 miles" but to me it may as well have said "downgrade next 1,600 miles". Needless to say, I was pretty excited to see that sign.
I rolled down and down until I got to Walsenburg, Colorado. At this point I am at a junction. My route I had formerly drawn up had me turning south, working towards the norther corner of Texas and the panhandle of Oklahoma. I think I'm going to go straight into Kansas, then when I get to Missouri and turn south, I can hit the eastern edges of Oklahoma and Texas, and the eastern edge of Arkansas on my way down to my final destination of New Iberia, Louisiana. This route will give me a little more flexibility with my time in Kansas, and I'll spend less time in the desert.
Next stop: Hesston, Kansas
The valley that approaches Wolf Creek Pass from the west is very beautiful, but also a little ominous for a cyclist. As I biked through the valley, the mountains kept getting bigger and closer on every side. Eventually I reached the point in the road where I would start to really climb. Lucky for me, there is a campground there. At the time it was inhabited by a bunch of elk hunters. When I pulled up I saw three men standing by the tailgate of a pickup. Resting on the tailgate was the severed head of an elk, upside down with it's antlers resting on the ground. As I explained how I got there on a bicycle and what I was doing, two of the men went to work with a battery powered saw, removing the antlers from the skull.
After registering for a site, I set up camp for the evening and headed for the shower. Later, when I was preparing my usual camp meal of beans and rice on tortillas, a man came from his camper across the way to offer me a lantern to use while I camped that evening. I readily accepted his offer. A while later he came back over and asked if I'd like to join he and the others for supper, but I had already prepared my meal. I agreed to come over for dessert when I was done. I ended up spending most of the evening with their hunting party, reluctant to leave the warmth to crawl into my tent. They said that the temperature would get down to 26 degrees.
When I woke in the morning, everything outside my tent was covered in frost, including the rain fly of my tent. I, however, stayed quite warm. I've been impressed with my 20 degree bag thus far. I was moving pretty slowly that morning, a little intimidated by the two huge hairpin turns looming up the road, visible from the campsite. After a late start, I began the crawl up the mountain. I stopped at the second hairpin turn to look out over the valley and chat with some more tourists. According to the signs at the top, it was 9 miles of 7% grade that I climbed to get to the top of Wolf Creek Pass, crossing the continental divide for the last time at 10,857 feet above sea level, my highest elevation of the trip.
At the top I chatted with a few people that probably thought I was out of my mind and to layer up for the descent. It was a beautiful, clear day despite the weather forecast, so I worked up quite the sweat crawling up the mountain, but the air had a bite to it when the wind blew. Coming down off of a pass like that at 40+ miles per hour, the wind is in your face. I cruised down the mountain and into the San Luis Valley to Monte Vista, Colorado. In town I stopped at a grocery store to get some breakfast for the morning before heading to the edge of town to look for a place to camp.
At the edge of town I saw Calvary Baptist Church. The front door was propped open, there was a truck parked in the lot, and their lawn looked soft. I wandered inside and eventually found the pastor, Tommy who readily agreed to let me camp behind the building and even offered me a shower. They were scheduled to have a service at 7pm, and Tommy said I was welcome to attend. After getting myself cleaned up and getting camp set up, I headed inside for the service. I really appreciated what Tommy shared with the sparse crowd, sticking mostly to Ephesians with a brief jaunt into Revelation. After the service I stayed and mingled a little. As I was getting ready to go out to the tent to make up another batch of my beans and rice, Tommy asked if I was interested in a warm place to stay. I told him my tent would likely keep me alive for the night, but if he had another option, I'd probably take him up on it. I ended up packing my camp up and throwing everything in the back of his SUV for a drive back into town to the Rio Grande Motel. A woman from church runs the place, and they gave me a room for the night. It was a wonderful surprise. I especially appreciated the room when I woke this morning to find rain.
I wheeled my bicycle out of the room just before 8am to hit the road in the rain. After I dropped the key in the drop box, I noticed that one of my tires was low. It's pretty disappointing to start a day by changing a flat tire before you even cover a single mile. I changed it out and hit the road. In Alamosa, I saw a clock in front of a bank at 10:00am that read 44 degrees. Cold rain. It was 43 miles from my starting location to Fort Garland where I had lunch. About the time I ducked in for lunch the rain quit. After Fort Garland was a 47 mile stretch with no services. In the middle of that 47 miles was La Veta Pass at 9,413 feet elevation. I was back on the road just before 1:00pm to get the last 47 miles knocked out. La Veta Pass is pretty mild coming from the west, so it wasn't a bad climb. The descent went by pretty quickly. The sign at the top said "6% downgrade next 4 miles" but to me it may as well have said "downgrade next 1,600 miles". Needless to say, I was pretty excited to see that sign.
I rolled down and down until I got to Walsenburg, Colorado. At this point I am at a junction. My route I had formerly drawn up had me turning south, working towards the norther corner of Texas and the panhandle of Oklahoma. I think I'm going to go straight into Kansas, then when I get to Missouri and turn south, I can hit the eastern edges of Oklahoma and Texas, and the eastern edge of Arkansas on my way down to my final destination of New Iberia, Louisiana. This route will give me a little more flexibility with my time in Kansas, and I'll spend less time in the desert.
Next stop: Hesston, Kansas
Monday, October 18, 2010
Big Push to Durango
After spending the night at Pipe Spring National Monument, AZ, I hit the road for a jaunt back into Utah before dipping back down to Page, AZ. There was a stretch in the middle of the day that was about 70 miles with no services. I knew that Page was right by the dam that created Lake Powell, so I thought the day was almost over when I started to see water. I didn't know Lake Powell was HUGE, and I only saw a tiny fraction of the thing. It stretches on forever. After crossing the dam to get to Page, I had to climb back out of the canyon to get into town and to the campground. I've got mixed feelings about the tent sites at this campground. They're sand. It wasn't bad for sleeping on, but it sure made for a mess in the morning. I think I'm still shaking sand out of my tent, sleeping bag, and everything else, but some of that sand probably came from the next day of riding.
The following morning I got up and hit the road earlier than usual, because I was going to be meeting my friend John at Navajo National Monument. From Page, AZ, to Navajo National Monument I was going to gain almost 3,000 feet in elevation. Despite the climbing, I was making pretty good time all morning. When I got close to the town of Shonto, NV, I had a little conversation with Martha (GPS) to decide the best route to get to the monument. After some deliberating, we decided to take a "short cut" that would save 17 miles off the trip for the day. I looked at a map that I purchased a few days ago for a second opinion, and it showed the road I planned to take. I started down the road, on which the pavement quickly ended. Now, I grew up in Nebraska and lived in Kansas for a while after that, and our roads that are not paved are generally still navigable by bicycle. Out here, they don't really have dirt. Anywhere. It's all sand. Have any of my readers ever tried to ride a bicycle on the beach? Of course not. It's a horrible idea. I, however, am a bit stubborn and was maybe a little overconfident in my cycling abilities. I pressed on down the sandy road. A few grueling miles down the road I came across a pickup on the side of the road with two teenage men in it. I asked them if the road got any better up ahead, or if it was sandy the whole way. They assured me that it wasn't so bad further up, and that they had seen the road maintenance guy working to make it better further up.
I continued down the sandy road, which turned to pavement for a short stretch where it descended into a canyon. At the bottom of the canyon, there was a little convenience store to the right, and a very narrow, very steep road going up to the left. The sign said the monument was up and to the left. I watched a couple vehicles crawl up and down the hill, taking turns because there was only room for one at a time. At this point, I stopped and held out my thumb. The next vehicle headed up the hill was a man with a pickup full of children. I asked if he had room for my bicycle and I, and his short response was, "Yep." I loaded up in back of his truck, where I found two more children riding under the topper. As I climbed in with them, they said nothing, but laughed a little at me. When we got to the top of the hill, the man pulled over to let me off before making his turn to his destination. I thanked him for the ride, and he responded with, "Yep." I hopped back on the bike and tried to continue down the sandy road. Now, I'm riding a bicycle that weighs more than 100 lbs and has tires about an inch or an inch and a half wide. When I say that I continued to "ride" down the road, that's a pretty loose definition. About every 15 feet my bike would slide out from under me, and each time I would barely catch myself. For the first time on my whole trip, I got off of my bike and pushed it for some stretches. I don't remember being this frustrated in my life, and all because I thought I could handle the "short cut" to the monument.
I found the man in the road maintainer up ahead, and he looked at me like I was a bit crazy. He was actually making the road much nicer to drive on, but much worse to bike on. Some places the sand had become packed into washboard, and he was tearing that up and returning it to about 6" of sand. After a while he passed me with the blade up, finished for the day. About 30 minutes later, the same man came down the road in his pickup and offered me a ride. He told me that at the rate I was moving, I'd be wrestling with my bike in that sand for another 3 hours before I would get to the monument. As he drove me down the road, I saw what would have been to come if I had kept riding. He said that every year people see this road on their maps and try to drive their RVs on it and almost always get stuck.
He dropped me off at the monument, and I thanked him several more times before heading to the campground to set up the tent. My friend John that was meeting me at the monument hadn't arrived yet, so I went about picking out a site on my own. As I pulled into the campground, I stopped to ask some people how I was supposed to register and pay for a site. Newell and Katherine told me that there was no fee for camping, and that I should just pick a site and set up. I stood and talked with them for a while, and also met Sam and Anne, neighboring campers.
After I was all set up for the evening, and John still wasn't there, Newell and Katherine invited me to join them for supper. It ended up that the three of us also ate with Sam and Anne over at their site. We ate a great meal as the sun set in the distance, still without John. As we sat and chatted over some hot chocolate, we heard a motorcycle approach. I ran out to meet John. He had ridden up from Phoenix to camp with me for the night. As it turns out, he had a similarly frustrating experience getting to the monument, wrestling with his motorcycle on a nasty sandy road. We commiserated for a while about our experiences trying to ride two wheeled vehicles through that sandy mess as our new friends reheated some leftovers from our meal to feed John.
When John and I got up in the morning, we were on our way out when we were stopped by our fellow campers who offered us coffee and a little something to eat for breakfast. We ended up sitting and chatting for a while again and posing for some pictures. This caused a bit of a late start for the day, but I wasn't too concerned, as much of the morning was going to be down hill. I rode the 9 miles from the monument to the highway where I stopped to get a few more calories in me from the gas station. When I left the gas station, it was after 11:00am already. I knew that if I was to cover the miles I wanted to, I needed to really step on it. I kept looking at my watch and looking at mile markers to try to decide how far I could get before the sun went down. Martha didn't have any campgrounds for me, and I hadn't seen any on the internet the last time I checked, so I wasn't sure where I was going to be sleeping that night. I figured that if I could make it to Peec Nos Pos, AZ, that there would at least be a gas station where I could fill with water for the night. I got to the little town about 30 minutes before the sun was scheduled to sink below the horizon, and sure enough there was a little service station called the Peec Nos Pos Trading Post. Apparently they've had a couple of cyclists stop through and they've allowed them to camp in a little fenced in area beside the gas station.
The next morning I got up and waited for the store to open. As I waited, a truck pulled up and told me that if I was wanting breakfast, that a man around the corner sold breakfast burritos out of his truck, and that they were pretty good and I could get on the road a little quicker that way. I found the man selling burritos, and I was surprised at his English accent. He was from England, met a Navajo woman online, came to the U.S. and married her, and eventually became a U.S. citizen, though not without a whole series of headaches and being revoked the first time around. His wife made the burritos and he worked the early shift selling them out of the back of his truck. Many of the locals preferred the Spam and egg burrito, so I decided to try one. I don't think I've ever had Spam before. It wasn't as gross as I had imagined, but I wouldn't call it my favorite or probably order it ever again.
After breakfast, I headed down the road 5 miles towards Four Corners Monument. It cost me $3, but I went in and got my picture of me standing on the giant X on the ground representing the Four Corners border. I marked that point on my GPS. I've heard so many people talk about how it's not actually in the right spot, but my GPS said that it's only off by about 30 feet. The lines are just made up by people in the first place, so I don't think it matters so much that it's not in the exact right place. The other tourists there were a bit curious about seeing a cyclist in the middle of nowhere. They really thought I was crazy when I told them where I was coming from and going to.
Again, it was going to be a long day with a bit of a climb in the middle, so I hit the road again. When I was about 10 miles from Cortez I got a flat. I really wanted to make it to Durango that day, so I changed the tire as quick as I ever have and got back on the road. When I got to Cortez, I got a phone call from their newspaper. They asked a few questions and then said an article would probably run on Saturday. Between Cortez and Durango was where the climb was. There wasn't an elevation sign at the top, but I know it was over 8,000 feet. On my way up I got another flat. Again, a very quick change on the side of the road and I was back at it, climbing a mountain and racing the sunset. I made it to the top in plenty of time, and as I coasted down into Durango, my friend Mark rode out to meet me and led me to his place. Upon arriving at Mark's house, I have completed my longest mileage week of my life, with 651.6 miles in 7 days, averaging more than 93 miles a day from Ely, Nevada, to Durango, Colorado, all on a loaded touring bike. I needed this break.
Mark works for the train that goes from Durango to Silverton, so he got me a ride on it for the following day. I took a TON of pictures on the train. They're really repetitive, so if you go look at my pictures, you can skip through a bunch of those. You should look at some of them, because the view was amazing. It was also neat to go back to Silverton. I was out there a little over 4 years ago for History of the Southwest, a class through Goshen College. It's beautiful out there, and it's really tempting to come back with my bike (probably carrying a little less gear) to tour the area.
On Saturday morning I pedaled out to the car rental place about 6 miles out of town to get a car. Part of my rush to get to Durango as quickly as I did was so I could rent a car and drive to my friend Brent's wedding in La Junta, Colorado. After a brief scare where the employee of the car rental place showed up almost half an hour late, I got in a fancy little SUV, bike and gear loaded in back, and headed off towards La Junta. This gave me a chance to preview the terrain that I may end up cycling, depending on what the weather does. Wolf Creek Pass is going to be a bit of a hike.
I'm very glad I was able to make it to Brent's wedding. Brent is a Resident Director at Hesston College, so he and I worked together for three years before I started this trip. I can't say that I know his new wife, Angie, very well at all. I met her through Brent, but my interactions with her have been very limited. This social gathering was also the first time that I was that engulfed in familiar faces in a very long time. After spending 4-1/2 months out on my bike, mostly by myself with occasional interactions with one or two people at a time that I know, it was a bit overwhelming. I didn't have anything to talk about except the bike trip, which may seem like a great conversation piece, but I don't know how to talk about it yet. If you've been keeping up with the blog, you'll know that I've got a bunch of stories, but I don't think I've figured out a unifying theme throughout the whole narrative yet, making it not much more than a bunch of mildly entertaining stories without a point. I'm ok with that for now, as I'm kind of looking at this trip as living out a story. I've still got 18% of the story left to live, so of course I don't know the ending yet, but with my almost complete detachment from current events and the "real world" I felt a bit socially debilitated. I'm looking forward to these last 1,800 miles, but I'm also looking forward to being a functional part of society and a social circle when I'm done. I know that this trip has had an impression on me, but until I reintegrate into society, I can't really say how.
Also, I don't like traveling by car. It felt like cheating, and the scenery went by way too fast. I'm glad that I turned in the keys to that SUV this morning and I'm back to just my bicycle.
Tomorrow I intend to ride my bicycle towards Pagosa Springs, at which point I will decide whether to try Wolf Creek Pass, or to turn south into New Mexico. If I ride Wolf Creek Pass, that will definitely be the highest elevation I've ridden both on this trip and in my life. It is 10,857 feet elevation. After that, I would cruise across a high plain for a while before climbing back up to La Veta Pass at around 9,400 feet. After La Veta Pass, it's all down hill. Seriously, I'll be going down hill until I get to Louisiana. And hopefully I'll get an occasional tail wind.
5 more weeks?
The following morning I got up and hit the road earlier than usual, because I was going to be meeting my friend John at Navajo National Monument. From Page, AZ, to Navajo National Monument I was going to gain almost 3,000 feet in elevation. Despite the climbing, I was making pretty good time all morning. When I got close to the town of Shonto, NV, I had a little conversation with Martha (GPS) to decide the best route to get to the monument. After some deliberating, we decided to take a "short cut" that would save 17 miles off the trip for the day. I looked at a map that I purchased a few days ago for a second opinion, and it showed the road I planned to take. I started down the road, on which the pavement quickly ended. Now, I grew up in Nebraska and lived in Kansas for a while after that, and our roads that are not paved are generally still navigable by bicycle. Out here, they don't really have dirt. Anywhere. It's all sand. Have any of my readers ever tried to ride a bicycle on the beach? Of course not. It's a horrible idea. I, however, am a bit stubborn and was maybe a little overconfident in my cycling abilities. I pressed on down the sandy road. A few grueling miles down the road I came across a pickup on the side of the road with two teenage men in it. I asked them if the road got any better up ahead, or if it was sandy the whole way. They assured me that it wasn't so bad further up, and that they had seen the road maintenance guy working to make it better further up.
I continued down the sandy road, which turned to pavement for a short stretch where it descended into a canyon. At the bottom of the canyon, there was a little convenience store to the right, and a very narrow, very steep road going up to the left. The sign said the monument was up and to the left. I watched a couple vehicles crawl up and down the hill, taking turns because there was only room for one at a time. At this point, I stopped and held out my thumb. The next vehicle headed up the hill was a man with a pickup full of children. I asked if he had room for my bicycle and I, and his short response was, "Yep." I loaded up in back of his truck, where I found two more children riding under the topper. As I climbed in with them, they said nothing, but laughed a little at me. When we got to the top of the hill, the man pulled over to let me off before making his turn to his destination. I thanked him for the ride, and he responded with, "Yep." I hopped back on the bike and tried to continue down the sandy road. Now, I'm riding a bicycle that weighs more than 100 lbs and has tires about an inch or an inch and a half wide. When I say that I continued to "ride" down the road, that's a pretty loose definition. About every 15 feet my bike would slide out from under me, and each time I would barely catch myself. For the first time on my whole trip, I got off of my bike and pushed it for some stretches. I don't remember being this frustrated in my life, and all because I thought I could handle the "short cut" to the monument.
I found the man in the road maintainer up ahead, and he looked at me like I was a bit crazy. He was actually making the road much nicer to drive on, but much worse to bike on. Some places the sand had become packed into washboard, and he was tearing that up and returning it to about 6" of sand. After a while he passed me with the blade up, finished for the day. About 30 minutes later, the same man came down the road in his pickup and offered me a ride. He told me that at the rate I was moving, I'd be wrestling with my bike in that sand for another 3 hours before I would get to the monument. As he drove me down the road, I saw what would have been to come if I had kept riding. He said that every year people see this road on their maps and try to drive their RVs on it and almost always get stuck.
He dropped me off at the monument, and I thanked him several more times before heading to the campground to set up the tent. My friend John that was meeting me at the monument hadn't arrived yet, so I went about picking out a site on my own. As I pulled into the campground, I stopped to ask some people how I was supposed to register and pay for a site. Newell and Katherine told me that there was no fee for camping, and that I should just pick a site and set up. I stood and talked with them for a while, and also met Sam and Anne, neighboring campers.
After I was all set up for the evening, and John still wasn't there, Newell and Katherine invited me to join them for supper. It ended up that the three of us also ate with Sam and Anne over at their site. We ate a great meal as the sun set in the distance, still without John. As we sat and chatted over some hot chocolate, we heard a motorcycle approach. I ran out to meet John. He had ridden up from Phoenix to camp with me for the night. As it turns out, he had a similarly frustrating experience getting to the monument, wrestling with his motorcycle on a nasty sandy road. We commiserated for a while about our experiences trying to ride two wheeled vehicles through that sandy mess as our new friends reheated some leftovers from our meal to feed John.
When John and I got up in the morning, we were on our way out when we were stopped by our fellow campers who offered us coffee and a little something to eat for breakfast. We ended up sitting and chatting for a while again and posing for some pictures. This caused a bit of a late start for the day, but I wasn't too concerned, as much of the morning was going to be down hill. I rode the 9 miles from the monument to the highway where I stopped to get a few more calories in me from the gas station. When I left the gas station, it was after 11:00am already. I knew that if I was to cover the miles I wanted to, I needed to really step on it. I kept looking at my watch and looking at mile markers to try to decide how far I could get before the sun went down. Martha didn't have any campgrounds for me, and I hadn't seen any on the internet the last time I checked, so I wasn't sure where I was going to be sleeping that night. I figured that if I could make it to Peec Nos Pos, AZ, that there would at least be a gas station where I could fill with water for the night. I got to the little town about 30 minutes before the sun was scheduled to sink below the horizon, and sure enough there was a little service station called the Peec Nos Pos Trading Post. Apparently they've had a couple of cyclists stop through and they've allowed them to camp in a little fenced in area beside the gas station.
The next morning I got up and waited for the store to open. As I waited, a truck pulled up and told me that if I was wanting breakfast, that a man around the corner sold breakfast burritos out of his truck, and that they were pretty good and I could get on the road a little quicker that way. I found the man selling burritos, and I was surprised at his English accent. He was from England, met a Navajo woman online, came to the U.S. and married her, and eventually became a U.S. citizen, though not without a whole series of headaches and being revoked the first time around. His wife made the burritos and he worked the early shift selling them out of the back of his truck. Many of the locals preferred the Spam and egg burrito, so I decided to try one. I don't think I've ever had Spam before. It wasn't as gross as I had imagined, but I wouldn't call it my favorite or probably order it ever again.
After breakfast, I headed down the road 5 miles towards Four Corners Monument. It cost me $3, but I went in and got my picture of me standing on the giant X on the ground representing the Four Corners border. I marked that point on my GPS. I've heard so many people talk about how it's not actually in the right spot, but my GPS said that it's only off by about 30 feet. The lines are just made up by people in the first place, so I don't think it matters so much that it's not in the exact right place. The other tourists there were a bit curious about seeing a cyclist in the middle of nowhere. They really thought I was crazy when I told them where I was coming from and going to.
Again, it was going to be a long day with a bit of a climb in the middle, so I hit the road again. When I was about 10 miles from Cortez I got a flat. I really wanted to make it to Durango that day, so I changed the tire as quick as I ever have and got back on the road. When I got to Cortez, I got a phone call from their newspaper. They asked a few questions and then said an article would probably run on Saturday. Between Cortez and Durango was where the climb was. There wasn't an elevation sign at the top, but I know it was over 8,000 feet. On my way up I got another flat. Again, a very quick change on the side of the road and I was back at it, climbing a mountain and racing the sunset. I made it to the top in plenty of time, and as I coasted down into Durango, my friend Mark rode out to meet me and led me to his place. Upon arriving at Mark's house, I have completed my longest mileage week of my life, with 651.6 miles in 7 days, averaging more than 93 miles a day from Ely, Nevada, to Durango, Colorado, all on a loaded touring bike. I needed this break.
Mark works for the train that goes from Durango to Silverton, so he got me a ride on it for the following day. I took a TON of pictures on the train. They're really repetitive, so if you go look at my pictures, you can skip through a bunch of those. You should look at some of them, because the view was amazing. It was also neat to go back to Silverton. I was out there a little over 4 years ago for History of the Southwest, a class through Goshen College. It's beautiful out there, and it's really tempting to come back with my bike (probably carrying a little less gear) to tour the area.
On Saturday morning I pedaled out to the car rental place about 6 miles out of town to get a car. Part of my rush to get to Durango as quickly as I did was so I could rent a car and drive to my friend Brent's wedding in La Junta, Colorado. After a brief scare where the employee of the car rental place showed up almost half an hour late, I got in a fancy little SUV, bike and gear loaded in back, and headed off towards La Junta. This gave me a chance to preview the terrain that I may end up cycling, depending on what the weather does. Wolf Creek Pass is going to be a bit of a hike.
I'm very glad I was able to make it to Brent's wedding. Brent is a Resident Director at Hesston College, so he and I worked together for three years before I started this trip. I can't say that I know his new wife, Angie, very well at all. I met her through Brent, but my interactions with her have been very limited. This social gathering was also the first time that I was that engulfed in familiar faces in a very long time. After spending 4-1/2 months out on my bike, mostly by myself with occasional interactions with one or two people at a time that I know, it was a bit overwhelming. I didn't have anything to talk about except the bike trip, which may seem like a great conversation piece, but I don't know how to talk about it yet. If you've been keeping up with the blog, you'll know that I've got a bunch of stories, but I don't think I've figured out a unifying theme throughout the whole narrative yet, making it not much more than a bunch of mildly entertaining stories without a point. I'm ok with that for now, as I'm kind of looking at this trip as living out a story. I've still got 18% of the story left to live, so of course I don't know the ending yet, but with my almost complete detachment from current events and the "real world" I felt a bit socially debilitated. I'm looking forward to these last 1,800 miles, but I'm also looking forward to being a functional part of society and a social circle when I'm done. I know that this trip has had an impression on me, but until I reintegrate into society, I can't really say how.
Also, I don't like traveling by car. It felt like cheating, and the scenery went by way too fast. I'm glad that I turned in the keys to that SUV this morning and I'm back to just my bicycle.
Tomorrow I intend to ride my bicycle towards Pagosa Springs, at which point I will decide whether to try Wolf Creek Pass, or to turn south into New Mexico. If I ride Wolf Creek Pass, that will definitely be the highest elevation I've ridden both on this trip and in my life. It is 10,857 feet elevation. After that, I would cruise across a high plain for a while before climbing back up to La Veta Pass at around 9,400 feet. After La Veta Pass, it's all down hill. Seriously, I'll be going down hill until I get to Louisiana. And hopefully I'll get an occasional tail wind.
5 more weeks?
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Through Utah and into Arizona
After watching the Nebraska Cornhuskers manhandle the Kansas State Wildcats on Thursday night in the El Ranchero Motel in Ely, NV, I hit the sack, anticipating a long day on the bike Friday. In the morning I found a little diner down the street to grab a bite to eat for breakfast, but not before getting sprinkled on a little bit. The weather forecast said that the rain was past and that it was supposed to be clear, but I think the state of Nevada just couldn't allow me even one day without getting wet while within it's borders. At the diner, I inhaled the food rather quickly, and before I could get to the cash register, a woman named Crystal asked if I was biking for a cause. She had seen my jersey, but didn't quite catch the organization before I sat down. When I told her what I was doing, she said she wanted to pick up my tab for breakfast.
As I was leaving town, I picked up a few more provisions at the grocery store. It was going to be 63 miles before I saw any kind of civilization. Leaving Ely, I continued through the valley for 15 or 20 miles before hitting the first climb for the day. This was also the highest elevation I would hit while in the state of Nevada at 7,722 feet. At the top of this climb, there was a construction zone that limited traffic on the downhill side to one lane. The traffic flagger allowed me to leave before the rest of the traffic. Cruising down a mountain with a guarantee of no traffic in either lane is a very nice way to spend the next several minutes after a rough climb. As I coasted along, I saw a giant, snow-covered peak across the next valley. When I got to the bottom, I asked the other traffic flagger what mountain that was. It was Wheeler Peak, standing somewhere over 13,000 feet. Wheeler Peak was surrounded by other large mountains, so I was a little concerned about how I was going to get across the next range. My route took me several miles down the valley, away from Wheeler Peak, before cutting into the range and up Sacramento Pass.
As I coasted off of Sacramento Pass I entered the town of Baker, 63 miles from Ely. It was still pretty early in the day, so I stopped for a bite to eat. From the town of Baker, Nevada, to the next town on the route, Milford, Utah, there was another gap between services. This time it was 84 miles. I made sure I was full on water as I left Baker and continued down the road and into a new state. The last climb for the day was over Halfway Summit, which proved to be pretty mild compared to everything else I had seen thus far. As I cruised into Pine Valley, between the Halfway Hills and the Wah Wah Mountains, I was looking for a place to camp for the night. The immensity of Pine Valley still sort of blows my mind. I could clearly see straight down the road, all the way to the other side of the valley to where it climbs into the Wah Wah Mountains. It looked like it was all just right there. About 45 minutes later, it appeared as though I had not gotten any closer to the Wah Wah Mountains. It felt like I was on a giant treadmill. There was a dark spot in the distant valley that, at first sighting, I thought was a dark colored pickup on the side of the road with something white in the bed. When I got my camera out and used it's 15x zoom, I saw that it was not a truck, but a gigantic tree shading over a white house. It really stood out, as it was the only thing taller than knee high in the whole valley, other than myself. I thought about camping near this house, but it looked like uninhabited private property. I don't like the idea of squatting on private property without speaking to the owner.
I pulled off the road about a mile into the desert and set up my tent. I would have had to go about 30 miles if I wanted to get to a place where people wouldn't see me from the road. To conserve water, I did not cook that night. I ate peanut butter tortillas, trail mix, sesame sticks, and drank some V-8 that I had brought from Ely. I had traveled more than 100 miles that day, so I laid down pretty early, as the sun was setting. Given the amount of liquids I take in daily, I can't make it through the night without having to get out of my tent to relieve myself. This was the first night that I was glad to get out of my warm sleeping bag. When I got out of the tent, I saw stars that I've never seen before. It was incredible. I was camping at about 5,000 feet elevation, and there wasn't even a light bulb within 40 miles in any direction. That night's sky is something that will stick with me for a long time.
In the morning I ate more of the same thing I had the night before and packed up my one night desert home. As I rode, I finally came to the white house that was dwarfed by the giant tree. It felt like I had been approaching this landmark for days. The house was approximately where the valley floor started back up again towards the Wah Wah Mountains. As I descended into Wah Wah Valley, I saw a very large farm at the bottom. This was the first attempt at agriculture I had seen in a very long time. As I got closer, I saw a sign pointing towards the farm that said, "Wah Wah Well". Further down the valley, at the very bottom, there was a dry creek bed labeled "Wah Wah Wash". The rest of the valleys didn't have everything named. I think someone appreciated the alliteration a little too much.
On the other side of the valley I climbed over Frisco Summit, which I thought was the worst climb of the whole week since Carson Pass. On the other side I coasted down to Milford, Utah, where I was ready for a large meal. I ordered a double cheeseburger with bacon, egg, and just about whatever else they had in the kitchen. The cook said I was going to have a heart attack half way through the burger. From there it was another 50+ miles to get to Cedar City, UT, where I had made arrangements to stay with a family through the website www.warmshowers.org. It was motivating to have a bed and a shower waiting for me. There was one last climb between Minersville and Cedar City that rose rather slowly, then descended all the way to Cedar City and beyond.
Ian, a member of the family I stayed with (and owner of a maroon Surly LHT), advised me on my route out of Cedar City. From town I went south on I-15, turned off towards Hurricane, UT, and Colorado City, AZ, before arriving at Pipe Spring National Monument in Arizona. I got to the monument just in time for the last tour of the day. It was interesting and quite sad to hear the history of this spring. A group of Native Americans were living here, but then the Spanish came and started selling their children into slavery, so they became nomadic to retain their children at the expense of their home. Then the Mormons moved in and built on top of the spring. It sounds as though the U.S. government wasn't very nice to the Mormons, and the Mormons weren't very nice to the Native people who's land they were on.
Anyway, I'm at a campground a quarter mile down the road. $5 for a site with water and electric, the biggest and nicest bathroom I've seen at a campground, and there's wireless internet. Nice.
As I was leaving town, I picked up a few more provisions at the grocery store. It was going to be 63 miles before I saw any kind of civilization. Leaving Ely, I continued through the valley for 15 or 20 miles before hitting the first climb for the day. This was also the highest elevation I would hit while in the state of Nevada at 7,722 feet. At the top of this climb, there was a construction zone that limited traffic on the downhill side to one lane. The traffic flagger allowed me to leave before the rest of the traffic. Cruising down a mountain with a guarantee of no traffic in either lane is a very nice way to spend the next several minutes after a rough climb. As I coasted along, I saw a giant, snow-covered peak across the next valley. When I got to the bottom, I asked the other traffic flagger what mountain that was. It was Wheeler Peak, standing somewhere over 13,000 feet. Wheeler Peak was surrounded by other large mountains, so I was a little concerned about how I was going to get across the next range. My route took me several miles down the valley, away from Wheeler Peak, before cutting into the range and up Sacramento Pass.
As I coasted off of Sacramento Pass I entered the town of Baker, 63 miles from Ely. It was still pretty early in the day, so I stopped for a bite to eat. From the town of Baker, Nevada, to the next town on the route, Milford, Utah, there was another gap between services. This time it was 84 miles. I made sure I was full on water as I left Baker and continued down the road and into a new state. The last climb for the day was over Halfway Summit, which proved to be pretty mild compared to everything else I had seen thus far. As I cruised into Pine Valley, between the Halfway Hills and the Wah Wah Mountains, I was looking for a place to camp for the night. The immensity of Pine Valley still sort of blows my mind. I could clearly see straight down the road, all the way to the other side of the valley to where it climbs into the Wah Wah Mountains. It looked like it was all just right there. About 45 minutes later, it appeared as though I had not gotten any closer to the Wah Wah Mountains. It felt like I was on a giant treadmill. There was a dark spot in the distant valley that, at first sighting, I thought was a dark colored pickup on the side of the road with something white in the bed. When I got my camera out and used it's 15x zoom, I saw that it was not a truck, but a gigantic tree shading over a white house. It really stood out, as it was the only thing taller than knee high in the whole valley, other than myself. I thought about camping near this house, but it looked like uninhabited private property. I don't like the idea of squatting on private property without speaking to the owner.
I pulled off the road about a mile into the desert and set up my tent. I would have had to go about 30 miles if I wanted to get to a place where people wouldn't see me from the road. To conserve water, I did not cook that night. I ate peanut butter tortillas, trail mix, sesame sticks, and drank some V-8 that I had brought from Ely. I had traveled more than 100 miles that day, so I laid down pretty early, as the sun was setting. Given the amount of liquids I take in daily, I can't make it through the night without having to get out of my tent to relieve myself. This was the first night that I was glad to get out of my warm sleeping bag. When I got out of the tent, I saw stars that I've never seen before. It was incredible. I was camping at about 5,000 feet elevation, and there wasn't even a light bulb within 40 miles in any direction. That night's sky is something that will stick with me for a long time.
In the morning I ate more of the same thing I had the night before and packed up my one night desert home. As I rode, I finally came to the white house that was dwarfed by the giant tree. It felt like I had been approaching this landmark for days. The house was approximately where the valley floor started back up again towards the Wah Wah Mountains. As I descended into Wah Wah Valley, I saw a very large farm at the bottom. This was the first attempt at agriculture I had seen in a very long time. As I got closer, I saw a sign pointing towards the farm that said, "Wah Wah Well". Further down the valley, at the very bottom, there was a dry creek bed labeled "Wah Wah Wash". The rest of the valleys didn't have everything named. I think someone appreciated the alliteration a little too much.
On the other side of the valley I climbed over Frisco Summit, which I thought was the worst climb of the whole week since Carson Pass. On the other side I coasted down to Milford, Utah, where I was ready for a large meal. I ordered a double cheeseburger with bacon, egg, and just about whatever else they had in the kitchen. The cook said I was going to have a heart attack half way through the burger. From there it was another 50+ miles to get to Cedar City, UT, where I had made arrangements to stay with a family through the website www.warmshowers.org. It was motivating to have a bed and a shower waiting for me. There was one last climb between Minersville and Cedar City that rose rather slowly, then descended all the way to Cedar City and beyond.
Ian, a member of the family I stayed with (and owner of a maroon Surly LHT), advised me on my route out of Cedar City. From town I went south on I-15, turned off towards Hurricane, UT, and Colorado City, AZ, before arriving at Pipe Spring National Monument in Arizona. I got to the monument just in time for the last tour of the day. It was interesting and quite sad to hear the history of this spring. A group of Native Americans were living here, but then the Spanish came and started selling their children into slavery, so they became nomadic to retain their children at the expense of their home. Then the Mormons moved in and built on top of the spring. It sounds as though the U.S. government wasn't very nice to the Mormons, and the Mormons weren't very nice to the Native people who's land they were on.
Anyway, I'm at a campground a quarter mile down the road. $5 for a site with water and electric, the biggest and nicest bathroom I've seen at a campground, and there's wireless internet. Nice.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Desert?
My stay in San Francisco was pleasantly uneventful. I stayed with my friend Jenna, and I think her and her housemates lives went on as planned, despite having a homeless man sleeping in their kitchen. I spent a lot of time sleeping, eating, and running the few errands I needed to take care of while in the city. The evening of my first full day off the bike in San Francisco, I was working on laundry when I realized that the sun would be setting soon. As soon as my laundry was finished, I jumped on my bike (laundry strapped to the back) and pedaled as quickly as I could to the west. I didn't really know how far I was from the beach at that point, but it didn't matter. I wanted to see the sunset. I arrived just in time to sit on a bench at the beach to watch the sun sink into the Pacific. I had paid little attention to how I got there, so on the way back, I was mostly wandering aimlessly in an easterly direction until I found something familiar.
On the morning of my departure, I had breakfast with Jenna and didn't end up on the ferry across the bay to Vallejo until the 9:55am boat. It's an hour ferry ride, so I was not really expecting to cover as much ground as I had previously hoped. While pedaling away from San Francisco, I passed through the town of Davis, which is apparently known as the “Bicycle Capital of the World.” I had never heard that, but some locals told me, and it says so on the Adventure Cycling Association map. I biked through a little bit of the University of California – Davis campus, and their sidewalks/bike paths had roundabouts. Pretty good idea to avoid those awkward who-goes-first moments when two bicycles meet on intersecting paths.
That evening I ended up staying in a hostel in Sacramento. Aside from a snoring bunk-mate, it was a good place to stay. I also overheard a very interesting response to the question, “what do you do?” while I was there. I heard a man say, “I'm a non-skating official for women's flat track roller derby.” That might be the last possible thing I would have guessed I'd hear come from any given individual in response to the stated question.
The following morning I tried to get out early, but I ended up running around a bit. First I went to the post office to mail a box of stuff home that I no longer needed, and to mail a pair of socks back to Diane in Bend, OR. She let me borrow them to get me through the inclement weather. I still have ten toes, thanks to that woman and her socks. They're waterproof socks. Sounds weird, but they're fantastic. I purchased a pair of my own in San Francisco. Anyway, after the mail run, I had a difficult time finding and staying on the path to get me out of town. It really wasn't a tough thing to find or stay on, I just took a wrong turn once and ended up several blocks in the wrong direction.
The day out of Sacramento started off pretty flat, winding around on a trail that went for several miles out of the city. Eventually I ended up on the road again about when it was time to start climbing towards Carson Pass. At about 2,400 ft. elevation I got a flat tire. I took the tube out, replaced it, and started pumping the tire back up to pressure. When I was nearly to the desired pressure, my pump gave out. It just stopped pushing air. With my tire slightly under-inflated, I pressed onward to a service station where I used an adapter that I carry with me at all times to allow me to fill my tires with their air hose (fyi: my bicycle tires have a different valve than car tires). At this station, I turned off of the Adventure Cycling Association route and started climbing straight up. It was quite the climb. I reached the top just in time to see an incredible sunset over Jenkinson Lake. That evening I found out that the two women tent camping next to me were also cycling around the area. They had both of their bicycles along, but were taking turns driving and riding. When I told them about my pump failure, they gave me a CO2 adapter and cartridge to fill a tire. Then one of the women gave me the pump from her own bicycle and said I could use it as long as I needed to, and to mail it back when I had my own. I'm still impressed by how generous and trusting people continue to be along this trip.
The next morning I tanked up on a special blend of oatmeal I learned about from my friend Russ in Idaho, then hit the climb again. I got onto a road called Mormon Emigrant Trail. It wasn't the steepest road I've ridden, but it was pretty unrelenting. I just kept climbing. It wasn't too bad, because I knew it was coming. This was my climb up to Carson Pass. I camped at around 3,500 feet, felt my ears start to pop at about 5,000 feet, got a nose bleed at around 7,000 feet, and then, in the rain at about 8,000 feet, just before the top of Carson Pass, I blew the sidewall out of my front tire. After filling my tires up to capacity below 3,000 feet elevation, my tires behaved something like a bag of chips as you drive up to the mountains to go skiing/snowboarding. Both of my tires had way too much pressure at this point, but only the front one gave way when I slammed on the brakes to try to make a turn. My weight shifting forward was enough extra pressure that the sidewall blew.
Now it's raining, my tire is shot, and the only thing in the area is a ski resort. I hitched a ride in the back of a pickup to the ski lodge to ask about a room. The woman at the desk did what she could as far as discounting the price of the room, but it was still more than I was ready to pay. Eventually a guest of the lodge offered me shelter in the back of his pickup that has a topper. I thought this sounded like a great place to spend a night, so we went outside and, after I had fixed my tire, I crawled in the back of his truck and made myself at home for the night while the storm continued. In the end, I had covered less than 40 miles and climbed 5,770 feet that day. My mileage would have looked a lot better if I had been able to cash in on the descent from all the climbing.
In the morning the rain was still lingering. I wasn't sure where to find breakfast, so I just hit the road and kept my eyes open. I didn't find anything before the top of Carson Pass. At the top I met a man that warned me to keep my brakes and rims dry, because it's a pretty steep descent. He said cyclists have hit 60 mph on it before. Given my tire escapade from the day before and my lack of trust in my spare tire, I stopped to tighten up my brakes before heading downward in the rain.
I used to think of the descent as a reward for all of the hard work that went into the climb, but coming over Carson Pass in the rain was about as painful as it was frightening. Rain in October at 8,500 feet is cold. As I cruised down the mountain, I kept my eyes open for a place to get breakfast. I saw a place, but a combination of wet brakes/rims and cold hands that didn't want to do what I told them caused me to slide past. I did get stopped in time for the second place, which ended up being a sweet turn of events. The place was called the Hope Valley Cafe.
A couple that was at an adjacent table, that had asked about my cycling trip, tried to pay for my breakfast, but were too late in getting there. The man, Hal, proceeded to get out his wallet and contribute to the “Feed Neal Fund”, with instructions to have a good lunch. After Hal and his wife were on their way, a man named Zach spoke up from the breakfast bar and asked me if I needed anything. He had overheard my story about my tire and offered me a tire. I couldn't turn that down. I didn't know when I would be going past an open bike shop to get a new tire. I followed him back to his place a few miles down the road, and he proceeded to pull a tire off of his own bike to put on mine, all the while refusing payment for the tire. On top of it all, he cleaned up my chain and cassette while I worked on my tires. His living room was a mess when we were done, but he said not to worry about it. Hal and Zach have helped the small community of Woodfords, CA, stick in my mind.
After getting the tire put on, I continued down hill (the rain had let up) to the Nevada border and eventually in to Carson City where I met up with Highway 50: The Loneliest Highway in America. I made it to Dayton before looking for a laundromat and a campsite. The laundromat ended up being a few miles past Dayton and the only campground in the area, so I rode out to the laundromat, then threw up the tent about a mile off the road behind a sand dune. It's a desert, this should be a fine place to camp, right? Well, it rained all night and I had to basically dig myself out in the morning. It was not a fun experience.
When I had earned my freedom from the mess of wet sand, I headed to a casino for breakfast. They had the weather on the TV, and that's when I found out how much I was going to hate Nevada. The forecast said rain all week. Again, isn't this supposed to be a desert? I hit the road, pedaling through my frustration at the weather forecast. It remained dreary all day, only occasionally precipitating on me. I ended up making it to a small spot on the map called Middlegate. Middlegate consists of a bar and a motel. Oh, and a tree covered in shoes. Google it, I didn't get any pictures.
When I arrived in Middlegate, it was drizzling. I walked into the bar and asked if there was a dry place I could crash for the night. One of the men at the bar suggested that I spend the night in the “drunk tank”. He urged the owner to give me a good deal on that. She never referred to it as the drunk tank, but rather as the bunk house. It was a small shack with one queen bed and one set of bunk beds. I could see through the cracks in the door, which was held shut by leaning a 2x4 against it. The lighting came from a lamp, plugged into an extension cord that was strung through a hole in the wall. It earned it's name, the “drunk tank” because that is where they put people too drunk to hobble out to their cars to drive home drunk. Lucky for me, it was a slow night at the bar. For less than many campsites I've stayed at, I had four walls, a roof that didn't leak, and a shower. I did not use their bedding, but slept in my sleeping bag on top of the blankets.
The following morning I got up and was in the bar just after 7:00am when they're supposed to be serving breakfast, but the cook didn't show up. The man that opened the place up told me that if I continued 14 miles down the road to Cold Springs Station I would be able to find breakfast. I don't function so well on an empty stomach, and there was a nasty headwind, but I had little choice. I hopped on the bike, lowered my head, and pedaled down the road.
At Cold Springs Station I found out about two cyclists that had spent the previous night camping there. The owner of the place told me that if I was quick, I could probably catch them before the first pass. I hit the road pretty hard after hearing that there were other cyclists out on this lonely stretch of road. I did catch them just before the first pass. Cate and Katharine were the cyclists. I got to the top of the climb and waited for them. We exchanged pleasantries and then continued at our own paces. Both they and I intended to stop in Austin that evening, so when I got to town, I scoped out the lodging options and decided on a lean-to type shelter in the park. It had lights and live outlets to charge electronics, and best of all it was free. Across the street was an RV park that allowed people a shower for $2. I passed on the option, since I had just bathed the night before (I suppose to normal people that sounds kind of gross...). Cate and Katharine arrived sometime later and set up camp. They shared their dehydrated vegetable beef stew with me for supper as we chatted about our respective trips and learned a bit about each other.
In the morning I chose to eat breakfast at a diner in town after realizing I was carrying only enough oatmeal for one more good sized breakfast. The two women and I left at roughly the same time, but the day started off with a particularly rough climb, and that was the last I saw of them.
The weather in the morning was actually quite beautiful, despite the forecast for overcast skies and rain. It even got warm enough that I went without a jacket for a while. In the afternoon a few storms skirted past me, dropping a few sprinkles here and there, but nothing too noteworthy until I got closer to my destination of Eureka, NV. As I approached the end of a long, flat stretch of road, leading into yet another mountain range, I saw storm clouds ahead that I knew I would probably not be able to avoid. With about 15 miles to go to Eureka, I pulled over to put on my rain gear as it sprinkled on me. Not more than 2 miles later, as I approached Devil's Gate (canyon-like geographical feature leading through a ridge), I was hit with a gust of wind that brought me and my bicycle from about 12 mph to 0 mph instantly. I had to stand on my pedals to regain any forward momentum to stay upright. The wind then shifted to a cross wind that just about knocked me into traffic. The rain proceeded to turn into sleet, then to small hail, a little bigger than pea sized. I kept on pedaling, as there was really no place to go. Highway 50 really is the loneliest highway in America. The hail stung like hell, but I knew that was it, it was just going to sting me. The thing that had me really concerned was the lightning and thunder all around. Again, on the loneliest highway, in a desert, riding a steel bicycle. Since I am writing this, it is apparent that I made it through in one, un-electrified piece. When I rolled into Eureka, I checked out the city park for camping, but they had already “winterized” the restrooms and locked them for the season. It had been such a crappy day that I decided to pony up for a hotel room. I've managed to keep things pretty cheap and to stay in some pretty sketchy places, but here there was only one option with rooms still available, so I ended up dropping more than I have for lodging this whole trip.
Today I got up before dawn and got all of my stuff packed up and ready to roll before heading to the continental breakfast to load up on calories for the 77 miles with no services to Ely, NV. I am now realizing that I haven't said a whole lot about the terrain out here. It's a desert. At least, it's supposed to be a desert. There are a whole bunch of mountain ranges that run north to south with basins or valleys in between. So far I have climbed over 11 mountain passes in the state of Nevada alone. When I have a stretch with no services, like I did today, I have to carry a lot of water. Water adds a lot of weight, and weight is not my friend when climbing several passes a day. Tomorrow I have 63 miles before I get to Baker, NV, and from Baker to Milford, UT, is 84 miles.
Anyway, I'm currently in a room in the El Ranchero Motel in Ely, NV, watching Nebraska abuse Kansas State University. When I remembered that the game was today, I found the cheapest place that had cable TV. If I remember correctly, this place ties for the lowest price I've paid for a motel room, but it is definitely the biggest room I've ever stayed in. It's huge.
On the morning of my departure, I had breakfast with Jenna and didn't end up on the ferry across the bay to Vallejo until the 9:55am boat. It's an hour ferry ride, so I was not really expecting to cover as much ground as I had previously hoped. While pedaling away from San Francisco, I passed through the town of Davis, which is apparently known as the “Bicycle Capital of the World.” I had never heard that, but some locals told me, and it says so on the Adventure Cycling Association map. I biked through a little bit of the University of California – Davis campus, and their sidewalks/bike paths had roundabouts. Pretty good idea to avoid those awkward who-goes-first moments when two bicycles meet on intersecting paths.
That evening I ended up staying in a hostel in Sacramento. Aside from a snoring bunk-mate, it was a good place to stay. I also overheard a very interesting response to the question, “what do you do?” while I was there. I heard a man say, “I'm a non-skating official for women's flat track roller derby.” That might be the last possible thing I would have guessed I'd hear come from any given individual in response to the stated question.
The following morning I tried to get out early, but I ended up running around a bit. First I went to the post office to mail a box of stuff home that I no longer needed, and to mail a pair of socks back to Diane in Bend, OR. She let me borrow them to get me through the inclement weather. I still have ten toes, thanks to that woman and her socks. They're waterproof socks. Sounds weird, but they're fantastic. I purchased a pair of my own in San Francisco. Anyway, after the mail run, I had a difficult time finding and staying on the path to get me out of town. It really wasn't a tough thing to find or stay on, I just took a wrong turn once and ended up several blocks in the wrong direction.
The day out of Sacramento started off pretty flat, winding around on a trail that went for several miles out of the city. Eventually I ended up on the road again about when it was time to start climbing towards Carson Pass. At about 2,400 ft. elevation I got a flat tire. I took the tube out, replaced it, and started pumping the tire back up to pressure. When I was nearly to the desired pressure, my pump gave out. It just stopped pushing air. With my tire slightly under-inflated, I pressed onward to a service station where I used an adapter that I carry with me at all times to allow me to fill my tires with their air hose (fyi: my bicycle tires have a different valve than car tires). At this station, I turned off of the Adventure Cycling Association route and started climbing straight up. It was quite the climb. I reached the top just in time to see an incredible sunset over Jenkinson Lake. That evening I found out that the two women tent camping next to me were also cycling around the area. They had both of their bicycles along, but were taking turns driving and riding. When I told them about my pump failure, they gave me a CO2 adapter and cartridge to fill a tire. Then one of the women gave me the pump from her own bicycle and said I could use it as long as I needed to, and to mail it back when I had my own. I'm still impressed by how generous and trusting people continue to be along this trip.
The next morning I tanked up on a special blend of oatmeal I learned about from my friend Russ in Idaho, then hit the climb again. I got onto a road called Mormon Emigrant Trail. It wasn't the steepest road I've ridden, but it was pretty unrelenting. I just kept climbing. It wasn't too bad, because I knew it was coming. This was my climb up to Carson Pass. I camped at around 3,500 feet, felt my ears start to pop at about 5,000 feet, got a nose bleed at around 7,000 feet, and then, in the rain at about 8,000 feet, just before the top of Carson Pass, I blew the sidewall out of my front tire. After filling my tires up to capacity below 3,000 feet elevation, my tires behaved something like a bag of chips as you drive up to the mountains to go skiing/snowboarding. Both of my tires had way too much pressure at this point, but only the front one gave way when I slammed on the brakes to try to make a turn. My weight shifting forward was enough extra pressure that the sidewall blew.
Now it's raining, my tire is shot, and the only thing in the area is a ski resort. I hitched a ride in the back of a pickup to the ski lodge to ask about a room. The woman at the desk did what she could as far as discounting the price of the room, but it was still more than I was ready to pay. Eventually a guest of the lodge offered me shelter in the back of his pickup that has a topper. I thought this sounded like a great place to spend a night, so we went outside and, after I had fixed my tire, I crawled in the back of his truck and made myself at home for the night while the storm continued. In the end, I had covered less than 40 miles and climbed 5,770 feet that day. My mileage would have looked a lot better if I had been able to cash in on the descent from all the climbing.
In the morning the rain was still lingering. I wasn't sure where to find breakfast, so I just hit the road and kept my eyes open. I didn't find anything before the top of Carson Pass. At the top I met a man that warned me to keep my brakes and rims dry, because it's a pretty steep descent. He said cyclists have hit 60 mph on it before. Given my tire escapade from the day before and my lack of trust in my spare tire, I stopped to tighten up my brakes before heading downward in the rain.
I used to think of the descent as a reward for all of the hard work that went into the climb, but coming over Carson Pass in the rain was about as painful as it was frightening. Rain in October at 8,500 feet is cold. As I cruised down the mountain, I kept my eyes open for a place to get breakfast. I saw a place, but a combination of wet brakes/rims and cold hands that didn't want to do what I told them caused me to slide past. I did get stopped in time for the second place, which ended up being a sweet turn of events. The place was called the Hope Valley Cafe.
A couple that was at an adjacent table, that had asked about my cycling trip, tried to pay for my breakfast, but were too late in getting there. The man, Hal, proceeded to get out his wallet and contribute to the “Feed Neal Fund”, with instructions to have a good lunch. After Hal and his wife were on their way, a man named Zach spoke up from the breakfast bar and asked me if I needed anything. He had overheard my story about my tire and offered me a tire. I couldn't turn that down. I didn't know when I would be going past an open bike shop to get a new tire. I followed him back to his place a few miles down the road, and he proceeded to pull a tire off of his own bike to put on mine, all the while refusing payment for the tire. On top of it all, he cleaned up my chain and cassette while I worked on my tires. His living room was a mess when we were done, but he said not to worry about it. Hal and Zach have helped the small community of Woodfords, CA, stick in my mind.
After getting the tire put on, I continued down hill (the rain had let up) to the Nevada border and eventually in to Carson City where I met up with Highway 50: The Loneliest Highway in America. I made it to Dayton before looking for a laundromat and a campsite. The laundromat ended up being a few miles past Dayton and the only campground in the area, so I rode out to the laundromat, then threw up the tent about a mile off the road behind a sand dune. It's a desert, this should be a fine place to camp, right? Well, it rained all night and I had to basically dig myself out in the morning. It was not a fun experience.
When I had earned my freedom from the mess of wet sand, I headed to a casino for breakfast. They had the weather on the TV, and that's when I found out how much I was going to hate Nevada. The forecast said rain all week. Again, isn't this supposed to be a desert? I hit the road, pedaling through my frustration at the weather forecast. It remained dreary all day, only occasionally precipitating on me. I ended up making it to a small spot on the map called Middlegate. Middlegate consists of a bar and a motel. Oh, and a tree covered in shoes. Google it, I didn't get any pictures.
When I arrived in Middlegate, it was drizzling. I walked into the bar and asked if there was a dry place I could crash for the night. One of the men at the bar suggested that I spend the night in the “drunk tank”. He urged the owner to give me a good deal on that. She never referred to it as the drunk tank, but rather as the bunk house. It was a small shack with one queen bed and one set of bunk beds. I could see through the cracks in the door, which was held shut by leaning a 2x4 against it. The lighting came from a lamp, plugged into an extension cord that was strung through a hole in the wall. It earned it's name, the “drunk tank” because that is where they put people too drunk to hobble out to their cars to drive home drunk. Lucky for me, it was a slow night at the bar. For less than many campsites I've stayed at, I had four walls, a roof that didn't leak, and a shower. I did not use their bedding, but slept in my sleeping bag on top of the blankets.
The following morning I got up and was in the bar just after 7:00am when they're supposed to be serving breakfast, but the cook didn't show up. The man that opened the place up told me that if I continued 14 miles down the road to Cold Springs Station I would be able to find breakfast. I don't function so well on an empty stomach, and there was a nasty headwind, but I had little choice. I hopped on the bike, lowered my head, and pedaled down the road.
At Cold Springs Station I found out about two cyclists that had spent the previous night camping there. The owner of the place told me that if I was quick, I could probably catch them before the first pass. I hit the road pretty hard after hearing that there were other cyclists out on this lonely stretch of road. I did catch them just before the first pass. Cate and Katharine were the cyclists. I got to the top of the climb and waited for them. We exchanged pleasantries and then continued at our own paces. Both they and I intended to stop in Austin that evening, so when I got to town, I scoped out the lodging options and decided on a lean-to type shelter in the park. It had lights and live outlets to charge electronics, and best of all it was free. Across the street was an RV park that allowed people a shower for $2. I passed on the option, since I had just bathed the night before (I suppose to normal people that sounds kind of gross...). Cate and Katharine arrived sometime later and set up camp. They shared their dehydrated vegetable beef stew with me for supper as we chatted about our respective trips and learned a bit about each other.
In the morning I chose to eat breakfast at a diner in town after realizing I was carrying only enough oatmeal for one more good sized breakfast. The two women and I left at roughly the same time, but the day started off with a particularly rough climb, and that was the last I saw of them.
The weather in the morning was actually quite beautiful, despite the forecast for overcast skies and rain. It even got warm enough that I went without a jacket for a while. In the afternoon a few storms skirted past me, dropping a few sprinkles here and there, but nothing too noteworthy until I got closer to my destination of Eureka, NV. As I approached the end of a long, flat stretch of road, leading into yet another mountain range, I saw storm clouds ahead that I knew I would probably not be able to avoid. With about 15 miles to go to Eureka, I pulled over to put on my rain gear as it sprinkled on me. Not more than 2 miles later, as I approached Devil's Gate (canyon-like geographical feature leading through a ridge), I was hit with a gust of wind that brought me and my bicycle from about 12 mph to 0 mph instantly. I had to stand on my pedals to regain any forward momentum to stay upright. The wind then shifted to a cross wind that just about knocked me into traffic. The rain proceeded to turn into sleet, then to small hail, a little bigger than pea sized. I kept on pedaling, as there was really no place to go. Highway 50 really is the loneliest highway in America. The hail stung like hell, but I knew that was it, it was just going to sting me. The thing that had me really concerned was the lightning and thunder all around. Again, on the loneliest highway, in a desert, riding a steel bicycle. Since I am writing this, it is apparent that I made it through in one, un-electrified piece. When I rolled into Eureka, I checked out the city park for camping, but they had already “winterized” the restrooms and locked them for the season. It had been such a crappy day that I decided to pony up for a hotel room. I've managed to keep things pretty cheap and to stay in some pretty sketchy places, but here there was only one option with rooms still available, so I ended up dropping more than I have for lodging this whole trip.
Today I got up before dawn and got all of my stuff packed up and ready to roll before heading to the continental breakfast to load up on calories for the 77 miles with no services to Ely, NV. I am now realizing that I haven't said a whole lot about the terrain out here. It's a desert. At least, it's supposed to be a desert. There are a whole bunch of mountain ranges that run north to south with basins or valleys in between. So far I have climbed over 11 mountain passes in the state of Nevada alone. When I have a stretch with no services, like I did today, I have to carry a lot of water. Water adds a lot of weight, and weight is not my friend when climbing several passes a day. Tomorrow I have 63 miles before I get to Baker, NV, and from Baker to Milford, UT, is 84 miles.
Anyway, I'm currently in a room in the El Ranchero Motel in Ely, NV, watching Nebraska abuse Kansas State University. When I remembered that the game was today, I found the cheapest place that had cable TV. If I remember correctly, this place ties for the lowest price I've paid for a motel room, but it is definitely the biggest room I've ever stayed in. It's huge.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
ADDENDUM: Video from Seaview and Scott's blog.
While I was at Seaview celebrating the birthday of a once complete stranger, a video was thrown together. Here's the guys I spent the evening with!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GdOmWSy9W_o
I rode with Scott for a few days and had some excellent conversation with the guy, so here's a link to his blog if you're interested in checking out his travels.
http://thelonghaul.posterous.com/
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GdOmWSy9W_o
I rode with Scott for a few days and had some excellent conversation with the guy, so here's a link to his blog if you're interested in checking out his travels.
http://thelonghaul.posterous.com/
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Dreary Oregon Coast, Sunny California
When I woke up in Clatskanie, Oregon, there was a thick haze in the air. It wasn't actually raining, but I got as wet as if it had been within the first few minutes. My glasses were catching water droplets and fogging as I rode, but I eventually dropped out of the clouds and into Astoria, Oregon. As I approached Astoria, I couldn't help but think of the movie Goonies. I felt like I had already been there. I found a little coffee shop to get my caffeine buzz going again and to browse the internet for lodging options ahead. While I was inside it started to rain. I threw on the rain gear and headed back out to the bike to knock out a few more miles. Though I had reached Astoria, my turning point to head south, I had not yet actually seen the Pacific Ocean.
I hit the pedals pretty hard and made my way to the town of Seaside, Oregon. When I got there, I made as direct a line to the coast as I could, which put me on a boardwalk that followed the beach. I asked a man that was passing by if he would snap a picture of me by the Seaside, Oregon, sign. He obliged, and was also rather interested in my travels and the route that had brought me to the coast. He suggested a place to stop to eat in Cannon Beach, just down the coast, so I held off on lunch until I got there.
By the time I reached Cannon Beach, I had forgotten where my Seaside photographer had suggested I eat, so I pulled off at the first place I found that had an overhang where I could try to get my bike out of the rain. It was rather difficult to get myself motivated to leave the restaurant once I was somewhat dried off and warmed up, but I had to get back out on the road.
As I rode south of Cannon Beach, the weather stayed pretty dreary. I pulled off of the road at Manzanita to see what kind of lodging options were in the area. I pulled into a grocery store and asked the cashier if there was a cheap place to stay in town. The woman that was checking out at the time, Carol, spoke up and said that there was a hostel in Rockaway Beach, just to the south, that had opened within the last month or so. Carol said that it would be about 8 more miles down the road to get to this hostel. She was driving a van, and offered to drive me and my gear the remaining distance to the hostel. At first I was reluctant to accept her generosity, mostly because I'm stubborn and wanted to tough it out on my own, but when she told me that in the waning daylight hours, many of the curves ahead would not be the safest, especially with the wet conditions, I threw my bike and bags in her van and we were off. She drove me out to the coast to show me the view of the climb I had just completed prior to pulling in at that grocery store, but the weather didn't allow any kind of view. I remember being at the top, wishing I could see down to the ocean.
Soon enough we had arrived at the Sea Haven hostel in Rockaway Beach. Maureen showed me to my sleeping quarters and explained how everything worked and where everything was. Regardless of price, this was the best place I have stayed (other than at private residences with friends). That being said, I paid about the same to stay here as I did for some campsites east of the Mississippi River, so the price was right, too. The rain outside was not helping my motivation on the road, so when Maureen told me that a group of cyclists had made reservations for the following night and suggested that I take a day off and wait for them so I have people to ride with, I decided that was a good idea. This was the first time I took a day off where I was not staying with friends. That evening I spoke with a man who was a photographer for NASA's jet propulsion laboratory.
I bummed around the whole next day. I read, walked on the beach, ate, and slept throughout the day. It was great. Eventually the cyclists started to show up, so I had plenty of people to chat with that evening. There were at least 8 other cyclists present in the hostel that evening. There was a group of older men that were traveling together that played cards most of the evening. It was entertaining to be on the sidelines for their conversation.
The next morning I got on the road relatively early. Around noon I was looking for a place to stop for a bite to eat and found a place with three loaded bicycles out front. I ended up joining them at their table: Scott, Scott, and Mark. When we left the restaurant, one of the Scotts and I pulled away from the other Scott and Mark. We pushed onward to eventually reach Newport, Oregon, where we found another hostel. This one was a little more expensive than the previous, but it certainly had a lot of character. There were books and literature references everywhere (including what I believe to be a quote from "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" above the toilet, reminding us to wash our hands). Scott and I had one other roommate for the night, and before we took off in the morning, he asked me about my ride. When I told him, he pulled out his wallet and contributed to the "Feed Neal Fund" with instructions to find a decent place to stay down the road.
Scott and I kept on rolling through the mist and rain to arrive at Honeyman Memorial State Park near Florence, OR, to camp for the night. Fortunately the rain let up long enough to get the tent set up. Since my tent is gigantic, there were a couple of times we both slept in it so we wouldn't have to pack up two wet tents in the morning.
There isn't a whole lot that stands out in my mind about the Florence area, other than purchasing better rain gear. It was not a small chunk of money that came from my wallet, but it was necessary. When we left the following day we were riding along some very large sand dunes. I'm sure they would have been much more impressive had it not been raining. I was crabby. When we got to the North Bend/Coos Bay area, the Adventure Cycling Association route that we had been following had us turn off of hwy 101 to go closer to the coast. Scott and I followed the route. As we were about to leave town, the sky opened up and it rained harder than it had in the past couple of days. It was discouraging, but we pressed on. It let up a bit as we turned onto 7 Devils Road. We should have known better than to take a road called 7 Devils. It was ridiculous. That was the steepest grade I've seen in a very long time. We found out after the fact that it is called 7 Devils because of the 7 very steep climbs. It was so hazy that we couldn't see more than a couple hundred feet in any direction, so if there was an impressive view to go along with all of the work we put into climbing, we did not get to experience it. The descent on the other side wasn't even worth it. we never really dropped. We just kept going up and down until we were back at sea level. We stopped at Bullards Beach State Park for the night. It is worth mentioning that state parks through Oregon and California were all $5 for cyclists.
The following morning we got on the road and had a pretty dry (but still overcast) day for the first time. My favorite part of the day was when we approached Humbug Mountain. It's not the biggest mountain I've ever seen, but the way we approached it made it look pretty impressive. That night we rolled in to Gold Beach, OR, and camped at the fairgrounds under their band shell. That evening the sun even poked through for a little bit. Just enough to get our hopes up. Scott was definitely the optimist. I figured that mother nature was just messing with us, and just wanted to give us a little taste of what we had been missing before dumping on us again. That night while we were in town we did laundry, which was sorely needed at that point. Everything was wet. It's pretty difficult to get motivated in the morning when you have to put on a wet jersey, socks, cycling shoes, and worst of all cycling shorts.
On our way south from Gold Beach we went through Samuel H. Boardman State Park, which had some amazing sights if you're willing to get off the bike or out of the car and walk 40 feet. I snapped a few pictures, but I think you all just need to go there sometime. As we crossed the border into California, I got my picture by the Oregon and California signs, and decreasing the number of states remaining to be pedaled through to 10. We made it as far south as Klamath, CA, where we found giant statues of Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox. We stopped for some pictures, then started calling campgrounds to compare prices, ending up at the Mystic Forest RV Park and Campground.
In the morning, just south of Klamath, we turned off of hwy 101 onto Newton B. Drury Scenic Highway. On this jaunt off the main highway Scott and I saw some of the biggest trees we'd ever seen. They were enormous. We stopped for a few pictures with the giants as we rode through. This was also the first day that we really had clear skies. Thanks for nothing, Oregon.
There were a few other places that the map instructed us to turn off of 101. My favorite for the day was called Trnidad Scenic Drive. Parts of it were pretty steep, parts of it were narrowed down to one lane, and parts of it were gravel, but it was definitely worth the work. It was a sheer drop off the side of the road down to the ocean for most of it. Scott and I had gotten split up for a bit during this stretch, but when we met back up, he had two more cyclists with him. The four of us hit the pedals pretty hard for the last stretch into Eureka, CA. At that point, Scott and I found an Indian food buffet. It was amazing. I stuffed myself stupid. I love Indian food. After that we found the cheapest hotel in town and used the money our hostel friend had given me to pay for it. There was a big food co-op across the street, so we did some grocery shopping and I found some more of the dehydrated re-fried beans that I've been eating. They also had a sale on Cliff bars, so I bought a dozen of those.
Scott and I discussed our plans for the next few days, and we decided to split up. He wanted to ride a section of the road called the Lost Coast. I was more looking at getting down to San Francisco to take some time off a little quicker, so I bypassed that part. Props to Scott for riding it; it's about 8,500 feet of climb in about 60 miles according to the Adventure Cycling Association maps. I took 101 out of town and eventually turn onto Avenue of the Giants. Again, a worth while turnoff to see some really huge trees, as well as to avoid some of the 101 traffic. I stopped to camp at Richardson Grove State Park, where I met several other cyclists. One was a man from Athens, GA. Oddly enough, I biked through Athens, GA a few months ago. They had better bike lanes than much of what I found out east. There was also a couple from Norway biking down the coast, and a man from Eugene that was working his way around the country to end up in Pennsylvania to see his family.
The next morning I took off in search of a place for breakfast and with the intentions of covering a lot of miles. Basil, the man from Athens, GA, had left before me. I caught up to him a little ways down the road, where he was taking a break with two of his friends that were choosing to find lodging each night instead of camp. We all ended up at the same market in Leggett, CA, for a food break. This ended up eating away my entire morning. They were fun people to talk to. The road past Leggett was the longest climb of my coastal ride, reaching just over 2,000 ft in elevation. Part way up I stopped to take a picture. As I mounted the bike to continue climbing, I noticed my rear tire was very low. As I took the wheel off, the Norwegian couple, Basil and his friends, the man from Eugene, and two more cyclists caught up to me and all pulled over, making an impromptu party on the side of the road. The two cyclists I had not met yet were Scott and Dan. At the moment they were riding unloaded because Dan's mother had come to SAG for them. The whole group of them trickled away while I was still fixing the tire. When I had the tire back on, I pumped hard to catch up to everyone.
I ended up passing all of the loaded cyclists and meeting Scott and Dan at the top of the hill, where they had pulled over to get a picture at the top of the climb. At that point, I decided to try to keep up with the two of them for a while. This proved quite difficult, as I was riding a 110 lb. bicycle (including gear and whatnot) compared to their presumably 18-23 lb. rides. At the top of the next big climb they had to wait a little for me, but after that I did alright at keeping up. They seemed somewhat impressed at my ability to keep up, but I don't think they really realized how much it was killing me to keep up. They said I was in the running for the nickname "Manimal" which had been reserved for a man in their cycling club with very large thighs. We knocked out some good miles in the afternoon, and when we got to Mendocino, Dan's mother had found a cottage with a hot tub for the night. They graciously offered me a spot on the floor and food for the evening and morning. It was an evening well spent, chatting with my new traveling companions.
The next morning we ate breakfast and hit the road relatively early. Scott and Dan had aspirations of pushing through some long miles, so we hit the road pretty fast in the morning and had about 50 miles done before noon. That's no easy task on the coast. Some of the grades get pretty steep. At one point, just south of Elk, CA, I was in my lowest gear and standing on my pedals. I can still say I have never had to get off my bike to push, but that one got close. Anyway, around lunch time I took a lengthier break than my fellow travelers and proceeded at my own pace. I was not in the same rush that they were. I was pretty excited about how well I had done keeping up with them for the last 24 hours.
Down the road a ways I stopped at a convenience store near Fort Ross. As I sat on the curb outside, snacking, a man in a wetsuit walked up and asked me about my ride. I told him what I was doing and where I planned on camping that night. He told me that he and some friends were celebrating a birthday near there and that I was welcome to join. He and his companions insisted that I throw my bike in the back of the truck, and in hind sight, I appreciate the ride up the hill. As we approached the climb up to the house, there was a sign reading "18% Grade Next 2 Miles". Holy crap.
They were wearing wetsuits because I met them on their way in from fishing from their kayaks and diving for abalone. I had never heard of abalone before this. Apparently it is a delicacy. Wikipedia calls abalone a large sea snail. Anyway, we arrived at the house and hung out while fish and abalone were cleaned and prepared. One of the guests raises duck for several restaurants and brought some to contribute. Not only did I have shelter and engaging conversation for the evening, but I ate like a king!
There were far too many names to try to match with faces, but I do remember Eric, the host. Once it came out that I got my bachelors degree in Bible/Religion/Philosophy, that seemed to take over the conversation for the rest of the evening. It was very entertaining, but a bit frustrating when Eric tried to put me on the spot as the truth source on all questions about Christianity because of my major. For a while we were caught up on language, failing to clearly distinguish atheism and agnosticism. Eric defined himself as an atheist, but at the end of the night I think I'd call him more of a pantheistic agnostic, but hey, we're probably just splitting hairs here. At one point I mentioned that many Mennonites really dig four part harmony. I shouldn't have done that. Eric was then convinced that we needed to find three more people to join me in forming a quartet for some evening entertainment. Thank God that didn't happen. There was a fantastic sunset over the ocean, visible from the deck. I tried to take a picture, but sunsets are hard to convey through a picture.
In the morning I was well fed yet again before hitting the road en route to San Francisco. As I left their house (they referred to it as Sea View) I dropped and climbed a few times on top of the ridge before reaching a sign warning me of the impending downward slope, again 18% for the next two miles. Climbing up would have been pretty awful, but descending with a loaded touring bike was frightening. I must have burned up half of my break pads on that one hill. At the top it felt like I was approaching the initial drop of an advanced ski slope. After making it to the bottom of that, I kept going downhill into Russian Gulch. It wasn't the steepest gulch I had ridden through on the coast, but this was probably the most windy road I had been on along the coast.
It was a nice ride along the coast towards Bodega Bay, where I turned inland for a ways. On this stretch of the road I started to get a little nervous because I saw that traffic was backed up for several miles. It was kind of funny to cruise past miles and miles of cars, nearly stopped on the road. There had been a fire at the top of the hill, so the fire engines were blocking one lane, making traffic take turns. There was a lot of traffic trying to get through. When I got to the other side of the single lane section, I stopped several times to cars that were waving to me to tell them what was causing the holdup. They were grateful, but I think I ended up descending the hill slower than I had climbed it. I pedaled on further towards San Francisco and reached Samuel P. Taylor State Park, where I set up camp for the night.
In the morning I got up and took off towards the Golden Gate Bridge. It wasn't a long ride to get there, and it was great to arrive on a clear day, so I could actually see the bridge. I was worried I'd get there on an overcast day. The pedestrian walkway was very crowded, but navigable. Once I got across the bridge, I took the quickest route to Jenna's house that my GPS could give me. I don't like wandering around hilly places with lots of stop signs with a loaded bicycle. It's kind of tiring. Apparently I completely missed Golden Gate Park. I'll have to check that out later today, as I enjoy a day or so off the bike.
From here I'll be heading into the desert. I'm going to cross the Sierras, basically following hwy 50, into Nevada where I will actually be on hwy 50 through the whole state. Apparently hwy 50 has been called "America's Loneliest Highway". I think the longest stretch between services is about 84 miles. I'll have a few other lengthy stretches, but that's the big one, near the Nevada/Utah border. We'll see how that all goes. The good news is that I shouldn't get rained on any time soon! This last large gap between blog posts was mostly because there was so much to do along the coast. This next lull in activity on my blog will be due to no internet services, I'm guessing. I'll try to get something typed up as I ride so that if I do happen to come across a library or something along the way, I have something ready to post. I can't imagine that there will be much to do in the evenings in my tent in the middle of a desert. Strangely enough, I'm looking forward to it. I'm not sure what that means.
I hit the pedals pretty hard and made my way to the town of Seaside, Oregon. When I got there, I made as direct a line to the coast as I could, which put me on a boardwalk that followed the beach. I asked a man that was passing by if he would snap a picture of me by the Seaside, Oregon, sign. He obliged, and was also rather interested in my travels and the route that had brought me to the coast. He suggested a place to stop to eat in Cannon Beach, just down the coast, so I held off on lunch until I got there.
By the time I reached Cannon Beach, I had forgotten where my Seaside photographer had suggested I eat, so I pulled off at the first place I found that had an overhang where I could try to get my bike out of the rain. It was rather difficult to get myself motivated to leave the restaurant once I was somewhat dried off and warmed up, but I had to get back out on the road.
As I rode south of Cannon Beach, the weather stayed pretty dreary. I pulled off of the road at Manzanita to see what kind of lodging options were in the area. I pulled into a grocery store and asked the cashier if there was a cheap place to stay in town. The woman that was checking out at the time, Carol, spoke up and said that there was a hostel in Rockaway Beach, just to the south, that had opened within the last month or so. Carol said that it would be about 8 more miles down the road to get to this hostel. She was driving a van, and offered to drive me and my gear the remaining distance to the hostel. At first I was reluctant to accept her generosity, mostly because I'm stubborn and wanted to tough it out on my own, but when she told me that in the waning daylight hours, many of the curves ahead would not be the safest, especially with the wet conditions, I threw my bike and bags in her van and we were off. She drove me out to the coast to show me the view of the climb I had just completed prior to pulling in at that grocery store, but the weather didn't allow any kind of view. I remember being at the top, wishing I could see down to the ocean.
Soon enough we had arrived at the Sea Haven hostel in Rockaway Beach. Maureen showed me to my sleeping quarters and explained how everything worked and where everything was. Regardless of price, this was the best place I have stayed (other than at private residences with friends). That being said, I paid about the same to stay here as I did for some campsites east of the Mississippi River, so the price was right, too. The rain outside was not helping my motivation on the road, so when Maureen told me that a group of cyclists had made reservations for the following night and suggested that I take a day off and wait for them so I have people to ride with, I decided that was a good idea. This was the first time I took a day off where I was not staying with friends. That evening I spoke with a man who was a photographer for NASA's jet propulsion laboratory.
I bummed around the whole next day. I read, walked on the beach, ate, and slept throughout the day. It was great. Eventually the cyclists started to show up, so I had plenty of people to chat with that evening. There were at least 8 other cyclists present in the hostel that evening. There was a group of older men that were traveling together that played cards most of the evening. It was entertaining to be on the sidelines for their conversation.
The next morning I got on the road relatively early. Around noon I was looking for a place to stop for a bite to eat and found a place with three loaded bicycles out front. I ended up joining them at their table: Scott, Scott, and Mark. When we left the restaurant, one of the Scotts and I pulled away from the other Scott and Mark. We pushed onward to eventually reach Newport, Oregon, where we found another hostel. This one was a little more expensive than the previous, but it certainly had a lot of character. There were books and literature references everywhere (including what I believe to be a quote from "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" above the toilet, reminding us to wash our hands). Scott and I had one other roommate for the night, and before we took off in the morning, he asked me about my ride. When I told him, he pulled out his wallet and contributed to the "Feed Neal Fund" with instructions to find a decent place to stay down the road.
Scott and I kept on rolling through the mist and rain to arrive at Honeyman Memorial State Park near Florence, OR, to camp for the night. Fortunately the rain let up long enough to get the tent set up. Since my tent is gigantic, there were a couple of times we both slept in it so we wouldn't have to pack up two wet tents in the morning.
There isn't a whole lot that stands out in my mind about the Florence area, other than purchasing better rain gear. It was not a small chunk of money that came from my wallet, but it was necessary. When we left the following day we were riding along some very large sand dunes. I'm sure they would have been much more impressive had it not been raining. I was crabby. When we got to the North Bend/Coos Bay area, the Adventure Cycling Association route that we had been following had us turn off of hwy 101 to go closer to the coast. Scott and I followed the route. As we were about to leave town, the sky opened up and it rained harder than it had in the past couple of days. It was discouraging, but we pressed on. It let up a bit as we turned onto 7 Devils Road. We should have known better than to take a road called 7 Devils. It was ridiculous. That was the steepest grade I've seen in a very long time. We found out after the fact that it is called 7 Devils because of the 7 very steep climbs. It was so hazy that we couldn't see more than a couple hundred feet in any direction, so if there was an impressive view to go along with all of the work we put into climbing, we did not get to experience it. The descent on the other side wasn't even worth it. we never really dropped. We just kept going up and down until we were back at sea level. We stopped at Bullards Beach State Park for the night. It is worth mentioning that state parks through Oregon and California were all $5 for cyclists.
The following morning we got on the road and had a pretty dry (but still overcast) day for the first time. My favorite part of the day was when we approached Humbug Mountain. It's not the biggest mountain I've ever seen, but the way we approached it made it look pretty impressive. That night we rolled in to Gold Beach, OR, and camped at the fairgrounds under their band shell. That evening the sun even poked through for a little bit. Just enough to get our hopes up. Scott was definitely the optimist. I figured that mother nature was just messing with us, and just wanted to give us a little taste of what we had been missing before dumping on us again. That night while we were in town we did laundry, which was sorely needed at that point. Everything was wet. It's pretty difficult to get motivated in the morning when you have to put on a wet jersey, socks, cycling shoes, and worst of all cycling shorts.
On our way south from Gold Beach we went through Samuel H. Boardman State Park, which had some amazing sights if you're willing to get off the bike or out of the car and walk 40 feet. I snapped a few pictures, but I think you all just need to go there sometime. As we crossed the border into California, I got my picture by the Oregon and California signs, and decreasing the number of states remaining to be pedaled through to 10. We made it as far south as Klamath, CA, where we found giant statues of Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox. We stopped for some pictures, then started calling campgrounds to compare prices, ending up at the Mystic Forest RV Park and Campground.
In the morning, just south of Klamath, we turned off of hwy 101 onto Newton B. Drury Scenic Highway. On this jaunt off the main highway Scott and I saw some of the biggest trees we'd ever seen. They were enormous. We stopped for a few pictures with the giants as we rode through. This was also the first day that we really had clear skies. Thanks for nothing, Oregon.
There were a few other places that the map instructed us to turn off of 101. My favorite for the day was called Trnidad Scenic Drive. Parts of it were pretty steep, parts of it were narrowed down to one lane, and parts of it were gravel, but it was definitely worth the work. It was a sheer drop off the side of the road down to the ocean for most of it. Scott and I had gotten split up for a bit during this stretch, but when we met back up, he had two more cyclists with him. The four of us hit the pedals pretty hard for the last stretch into Eureka, CA. At that point, Scott and I found an Indian food buffet. It was amazing. I stuffed myself stupid. I love Indian food. After that we found the cheapest hotel in town and used the money our hostel friend had given me to pay for it. There was a big food co-op across the street, so we did some grocery shopping and I found some more of the dehydrated re-fried beans that I've been eating. They also had a sale on Cliff bars, so I bought a dozen of those.
Scott and I discussed our plans for the next few days, and we decided to split up. He wanted to ride a section of the road called the Lost Coast. I was more looking at getting down to San Francisco to take some time off a little quicker, so I bypassed that part. Props to Scott for riding it; it's about 8,500 feet of climb in about 60 miles according to the Adventure Cycling Association maps. I took 101 out of town and eventually turn onto Avenue of the Giants. Again, a worth while turnoff to see some really huge trees, as well as to avoid some of the 101 traffic. I stopped to camp at Richardson Grove State Park, where I met several other cyclists. One was a man from Athens, GA. Oddly enough, I biked through Athens, GA a few months ago. They had better bike lanes than much of what I found out east. There was also a couple from Norway biking down the coast, and a man from Eugene that was working his way around the country to end up in Pennsylvania to see his family.
The next morning I took off in search of a place for breakfast and with the intentions of covering a lot of miles. Basil, the man from Athens, GA, had left before me. I caught up to him a little ways down the road, where he was taking a break with two of his friends that were choosing to find lodging each night instead of camp. We all ended up at the same market in Leggett, CA, for a food break. This ended up eating away my entire morning. They were fun people to talk to. The road past Leggett was the longest climb of my coastal ride, reaching just over 2,000 ft in elevation. Part way up I stopped to take a picture. As I mounted the bike to continue climbing, I noticed my rear tire was very low. As I took the wheel off, the Norwegian couple, Basil and his friends, the man from Eugene, and two more cyclists caught up to me and all pulled over, making an impromptu party on the side of the road. The two cyclists I had not met yet were Scott and Dan. At the moment they were riding unloaded because Dan's mother had come to SAG for them. The whole group of them trickled away while I was still fixing the tire. When I had the tire back on, I pumped hard to catch up to everyone.
I ended up passing all of the loaded cyclists and meeting Scott and Dan at the top of the hill, where they had pulled over to get a picture at the top of the climb. At that point, I decided to try to keep up with the two of them for a while. This proved quite difficult, as I was riding a 110 lb. bicycle (including gear and whatnot) compared to their presumably 18-23 lb. rides. At the top of the next big climb they had to wait a little for me, but after that I did alright at keeping up. They seemed somewhat impressed at my ability to keep up, but I don't think they really realized how much it was killing me to keep up. They said I was in the running for the nickname "Manimal" which had been reserved for a man in their cycling club with very large thighs. We knocked out some good miles in the afternoon, and when we got to Mendocino, Dan's mother had found a cottage with a hot tub for the night. They graciously offered me a spot on the floor and food for the evening and morning. It was an evening well spent, chatting with my new traveling companions.
The next morning we ate breakfast and hit the road relatively early. Scott and Dan had aspirations of pushing through some long miles, so we hit the road pretty fast in the morning and had about 50 miles done before noon. That's no easy task on the coast. Some of the grades get pretty steep. At one point, just south of Elk, CA, I was in my lowest gear and standing on my pedals. I can still say I have never had to get off my bike to push, but that one got close. Anyway, around lunch time I took a lengthier break than my fellow travelers and proceeded at my own pace. I was not in the same rush that they were. I was pretty excited about how well I had done keeping up with them for the last 24 hours.
Down the road a ways I stopped at a convenience store near Fort Ross. As I sat on the curb outside, snacking, a man in a wetsuit walked up and asked me about my ride. I told him what I was doing and where I planned on camping that night. He told me that he and some friends were celebrating a birthday near there and that I was welcome to join. He and his companions insisted that I throw my bike in the back of the truck, and in hind sight, I appreciate the ride up the hill. As we approached the climb up to the house, there was a sign reading "18% Grade Next 2 Miles". Holy crap.
They were wearing wetsuits because I met them on their way in from fishing from their kayaks and diving for abalone. I had never heard of abalone before this. Apparently it is a delicacy. Wikipedia calls abalone a large sea snail. Anyway, we arrived at the house and hung out while fish and abalone were cleaned and prepared. One of the guests raises duck for several restaurants and brought some to contribute. Not only did I have shelter and engaging conversation for the evening, but I ate like a king!
There were far too many names to try to match with faces, but I do remember Eric, the host. Once it came out that I got my bachelors degree in Bible/Religion/Philosophy, that seemed to take over the conversation for the rest of the evening. It was very entertaining, but a bit frustrating when Eric tried to put me on the spot as the truth source on all questions about Christianity because of my major. For a while we were caught up on language, failing to clearly distinguish atheism and agnosticism. Eric defined himself as an atheist, but at the end of the night I think I'd call him more of a pantheistic agnostic, but hey, we're probably just splitting hairs here. At one point I mentioned that many Mennonites really dig four part harmony. I shouldn't have done that. Eric was then convinced that we needed to find three more people to join me in forming a quartet for some evening entertainment. Thank God that didn't happen. There was a fantastic sunset over the ocean, visible from the deck. I tried to take a picture, but sunsets are hard to convey through a picture.
In the morning I was well fed yet again before hitting the road en route to San Francisco. As I left their house (they referred to it as Sea View) I dropped and climbed a few times on top of the ridge before reaching a sign warning me of the impending downward slope, again 18% for the next two miles. Climbing up would have been pretty awful, but descending with a loaded touring bike was frightening. I must have burned up half of my break pads on that one hill. At the top it felt like I was approaching the initial drop of an advanced ski slope. After making it to the bottom of that, I kept going downhill into Russian Gulch. It wasn't the steepest gulch I had ridden through on the coast, but this was probably the most windy road I had been on along the coast.
It was a nice ride along the coast towards Bodega Bay, where I turned inland for a ways. On this stretch of the road I started to get a little nervous because I saw that traffic was backed up for several miles. It was kind of funny to cruise past miles and miles of cars, nearly stopped on the road. There had been a fire at the top of the hill, so the fire engines were blocking one lane, making traffic take turns. There was a lot of traffic trying to get through. When I got to the other side of the single lane section, I stopped several times to cars that were waving to me to tell them what was causing the holdup. They were grateful, but I think I ended up descending the hill slower than I had climbed it. I pedaled on further towards San Francisco and reached Samuel P. Taylor State Park, where I set up camp for the night.
In the morning I got up and took off towards the Golden Gate Bridge. It wasn't a long ride to get there, and it was great to arrive on a clear day, so I could actually see the bridge. I was worried I'd get there on an overcast day. The pedestrian walkway was very crowded, but navigable. Once I got across the bridge, I took the quickest route to Jenna's house that my GPS could give me. I don't like wandering around hilly places with lots of stop signs with a loaded bicycle. It's kind of tiring. Apparently I completely missed Golden Gate Park. I'll have to check that out later today, as I enjoy a day or so off the bike.
From here I'll be heading into the desert. I'm going to cross the Sierras, basically following hwy 50, into Nevada where I will actually be on hwy 50 through the whole state. Apparently hwy 50 has been called "America's Loneliest Highway". I think the longest stretch between services is about 84 miles. I'll have a few other lengthy stretches, but that's the big one, near the Nevada/Utah border. We'll see how that all goes. The good news is that I shouldn't get rained on any time soon! This last large gap between blog posts was mostly because there was so much to do along the coast. This next lull in activity on my blog will be due to no internet services, I'm guessing. I'll try to get something typed up as I ride so that if I do happen to come across a library or something along the way, I have something ready to post. I can't imagine that there will be much to do in the evenings in my tent in the middle of a desert. Strangely enough, I'm looking forward to it. I'm not sure what that means.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
About to Turn South
One of the nice things about being at the MDS meeting in Albany, OR, was that I could finally use the acronym "MDS" and not meet very confused expressions. It was great to meet more people associated with MDS at various levels, and to see some familiar faces in the organization that I haven't seen since my trip through Pennsylvania. I received many invitations to stay with people throughout the western states, but unfortunately most of them will not really be along my route. I also received several generous donations to the "Feed Neal Fund," which felt alright since these funds were coming from people who have already invested so much into MDS as an organization already. I hope that the people that have given me money along the way didn't forget about MDS. This trip is about much more than raising money, but the most tangible sign of progress for the cause at hand is that running total. As of my arrival at that meeting (6,000 miles in) the total raised is something around $3,300. I didn't know how to set a goal for this trip at the beginning, but I thought it would be cool if $1 per mile would come in. There's more miles to travel and more people to meet. We'll see what happens.
After a sizable lunch with the MDS crowd, I hit the road north towards Portland. My friend and cycling partner from two years ago, Dustin, left from Portland at the same time to come meet me and guide me to his place for the evening. Given the late departure, it was kind of late when we rolled into town, but the sun hadn't quite set yet. Some of Dustin's classmates from law school were getting together that evening, so Dustin brought me along to meet his new friends from his new school (he just transferred).
Since Dustin doesn't have any furniture in his place yet, I was on my sleeping pad in his living room. I'm actually quite used to it, and I sometimes prefer it to other sleeping surfaces. Anyway, when we got up, Dustin and I pedaled down town to check out REI and some bike shops for some gear upgrades, including a few better provisions for riding in the rain. I ended up bumming around town for a good chunk of the afternoon before going to Beth and Marcos' place for supper and a game of Settlers of Catan. I don't get to play quite so often now that I'm not working at Hesston College. It was a welcomed treat. I ended up crashing on their couch.
The next morning I had breakfast with my friend Laurel, then made my way to this huge bookstore called Powell's. It's definitely the biggest bookstore I've ever seen. I've traveled more than 6,000 miles without a book. I thought it was time to pack some reading material. Hopefully I actually read the books I bought so they're not just wasted weight I'm carrying. I got back in touch with Dustin, because all of my stuff was still at his place. He and his siblings were about to go grocery shopping, so I headed back to his place to join in the fun. Afterward, I packed my equipment and groceries onto my bike and headed for Logan and Jake's place to make humus with them and our friend Kaitlin. At the end of the night, I got a ride back to Kaitlin's ritzy suburb abode to sleep on a very nice futon.
When I woke, I was a little bit torn between leaving or staying for another day. By the time I got back to Jake and Logan's place to pick up my bike, it was late enough that I decided to stick around, do some laundry, and plot out my route a little bit better. About a block from their place there was a laundromat/coffee shop. Honestly, that's a genius idea. I drank coffee and mapped out a route while my laundry was in. It was great. I bummed around town a little more, checking out the bike paths by the river, before settling into a chair outside of a coffee shop to make a few phone calls and to start on a book. When Laurel got off work, I headed for her place for an evening on her couch, involving the movie "The Bucket List". Quality film, if anyone is interested.
Today I actually hit the road and left the city. Before I did, I met a high school classmate, Annie, for breakfast. We hadn't seen each other in a few years, so we caught up on life for quite a while over some biscuits and gravy and coffee. The ride north through the city could have been quicker, but when I'm not really sure where I'm going, I tend to go there slower. I just wandered north to the I-5 bridge where I crossed into Vancouver, Washington. I saw neither a welcome to Oregon or a welcome to Washington sign to take my picture by. As with north Portland, I didn't really know where I was going in Vancouver, other than north, so I was moving a little slower until I found the highway I was looking for. While meandering through the city, I wandered into a residential suburban part of town. At one of the intersections, I slowed down to look for traffic, then pedaled through. There was a stop sign, but I didn't completely stop. As I went through the intersection, a car about a half block behind me gave one short beep from their horn. I glanced back to see if I was in some way impeding his travels. He beeped his horn again as he got closer. Next, he pulled up beside me and said, "You ran that stop sign back there." I responded, "Yeah, I slowed down and looked for traffic." He repeated, "You ran that stop sign back there," this time with an intonation of impatience. I said, "There were no cars." He repeated himself one more time, "You ran that stop sign back there," this time sounding almost angry. "Thank you, sir, have a nice day," I responded. At this he drove away. I would have preferred to say, "Your confrontation style will only aggravate and irritate others, likely not affecting any change," but he drove away too quickly. I think I slowed enough that nobody, including myself, was in danger. It's not easy to get that 300+ lbs. moving again when I completely stop. Whatever.
I took a break in Longview, WA, before crossing the river back into Oregon. The bridge to get across was not a friendly one. There were a ton of logging trucks coming and going from the mill in Longview, and there was not a shoulder. I should also mention that the Columbia River is not narrow, and the bridge was tall enough to allow barges through underneath. It was not a fun bridge. On the bridge, there was a very small sign that said "Entering Oregon" on one side and "Entering Washington" on the other, but not in a place where I could stop to take a picture. I still have another chance to get a picture of me being welcomed into Oregon as I leave to go to California, but I have no picture of me entering Washington. I improvised a little, but it is quite disappointing to come this far, getting a picture entering each state, and finally miss one. There's a bridge near Astoria, OR, that I could try riding across to get a picture, but it's a really long bridge. Maybe if the morning is going smoothly I'll give that a shot.
I'm currently stopped at the Clatskanie River Inn, where the manager gave me a break on the cost of the room. Tomorrow night I should be sleeping on the coast of the Pacific Ocean. When I turn south tomorrow, I will no longer be moving away from Louisiana. I will finally be on the return trip. I've got about 800 miles of coast to ride between here and San Francisco, so the next two weeks should be great. I'm supposed to be catching some rain later this week that might last a few days, but things will eventually dry out, right? I just hope that doesn't mess up the view!
After a sizable lunch with the MDS crowd, I hit the road north towards Portland. My friend and cycling partner from two years ago, Dustin, left from Portland at the same time to come meet me and guide me to his place for the evening. Given the late departure, it was kind of late when we rolled into town, but the sun hadn't quite set yet. Some of Dustin's classmates from law school were getting together that evening, so Dustin brought me along to meet his new friends from his new school (he just transferred).
Since Dustin doesn't have any furniture in his place yet, I was on my sleeping pad in his living room. I'm actually quite used to it, and I sometimes prefer it to other sleeping surfaces. Anyway, when we got up, Dustin and I pedaled down town to check out REI and some bike shops for some gear upgrades, including a few better provisions for riding in the rain. I ended up bumming around town for a good chunk of the afternoon before going to Beth and Marcos' place for supper and a game of Settlers of Catan. I don't get to play quite so often now that I'm not working at Hesston College. It was a welcomed treat. I ended up crashing on their couch.
The next morning I had breakfast with my friend Laurel, then made my way to this huge bookstore called Powell's. It's definitely the biggest bookstore I've ever seen. I've traveled more than 6,000 miles without a book. I thought it was time to pack some reading material. Hopefully I actually read the books I bought so they're not just wasted weight I'm carrying. I got back in touch with Dustin, because all of my stuff was still at his place. He and his siblings were about to go grocery shopping, so I headed back to his place to join in the fun. Afterward, I packed my equipment and groceries onto my bike and headed for Logan and Jake's place to make humus with them and our friend Kaitlin. At the end of the night, I got a ride back to Kaitlin's ritzy suburb abode to sleep on a very nice futon.
When I woke, I was a little bit torn between leaving or staying for another day. By the time I got back to Jake and Logan's place to pick up my bike, it was late enough that I decided to stick around, do some laundry, and plot out my route a little bit better. About a block from their place there was a laundromat/coffee shop. Honestly, that's a genius idea. I drank coffee and mapped out a route while my laundry was in. It was great. I bummed around town a little more, checking out the bike paths by the river, before settling into a chair outside of a coffee shop to make a few phone calls and to start on a book. When Laurel got off work, I headed for her place for an evening on her couch, involving the movie "The Bucket List". Quality film, if anyone is interested.
Today I actually hit the road and left the city. Before I did, I met a high school classmate, Annie, for breakfast. We hadn't seen each other in a few years, so we caught up on life for quite a while over some biscuits and gravy and coffee. The ride north through the city could have been quicker, but when I'm not really sure where I'm going, I tend to go there slower. I just wandered north to the I-5 bridge where I crossed into Vancouver, Washington. I saw neither a welcome to Oregon or a welcome to Washington sign to take my picture by. As with north Portland, I didn't really know where I was going in Vancouver, other than north, so I was moving a little slower until I found the highway I was looking for. While meandering through the city, I wandered into a residential suburban part of town. At one of the intersections, I slowed down to look for traffic, then pedaled through. There was a stop sign, but I didn't completely stop. As I went through the intersection, a car about a half block behind me gave one short beep from their horn. I glanced back to see if I was in some way impeding his travels. He beeped his horn again as he got closer. Next, he pulled up beside me and said, "You ran that stop sign back there." I responded, "Yeah, I slowed down and looked for traffic." He repeated, "You ran that stop sign back there," this time with an intonation of impatience. I said, "There were no cars." He repeated himself one more time, "You ran that stop sign back there," this time sounding almost angry. "Thank you, sir, have a nice day," I responded. At this he drove away. I would have preferred to say, "Your confrontation style will only aggravate and irritate others, likely not affecting any change," but he drove away too quickly. I think I slowed enough that nobody, including myself, was in danger. It's not easy to get that 300+ lbs. moving again when I completely stop. Whatever.
I took a break in Longview, WA, before crossing the river back into Oregon. The bridge to get across was not a friendly one. There were a ton of logging trucks coming and going from the mill in Longview, and there was not a shoulder. I should also mention that the Columbia River is not narrow, and the bridge was tall enough to allow barges through underneath. It was not a fun bridge. On the bridge, there was a very small sign that said "Entering Oregon" on one side and "Entering Washington" on the other, but not in a place where I could stop to take a picture. I still have another chance to get a picture of me being welcomed into Oregon as I leave to go to California, but I have no picture of me entering Washington. I improvised a little, but it is quite disappointing to come this far, getting a picture entering each state, and finally miss one. There's a bridge near Astoria, OR, that I could try riding across to get a picture, but it's a really long bridge. Maybe if the morning is going smoothly I'll give that a shot.
I'm currently stopped at the Clatskanie River Inn, where the manager gave me a break on the cost of the room. Tomorrow night I should be sleeping on the coast of the Pacific Ocean. When I turn south tomorrow, I will no longer be moving away from Louisiana. I will finally be on the return trip. I've got about 800 miles of coast to ride between here and San Francisco, so the next two weeks should be great. I'm supposed to be catching some rain later this week that might last a few days, but things will eventually dry out, right? I just hope that doesn't mess up the view!
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