Dark, heavy, galloping crust from the streets of London. AGNOSY is back to present us with a ferocious beast of an album that can only be forged by the anger and frustration of living in today’s world. “When Daylight Reveals The Torture” aggressively attacks evils such the current rise of fascism and animal abuse. It intelligently and passionately touches on the Afrin invasion and the revolution in Rojava and shows nothing but utter disgust toward the arrogance of humankind’s lust for greed and power that will inevitably lead us down paths of war and environmental devastation.
While lyrically AGNOSY are much more politicly straight forward this time around than on previous releases, musically they have expanded on their sound to create a dark and moody atmosphere while at the same time staying crust as fuck. To say they know what they are doing would be an understatement from this band of vets whose members have played in HIATUS, HEALTH HAZARD, and BEGINNING OF THE END.
Long galloping intros are followed up by traditional d-beat, fierce solo’s are then meet with vicious vocals and pulverizing bass in a brilliant recording captured by Lewis Johns at The Ranch Production House and was mastered by Brad Boatright at Portland’s legendary Audiosiege. We then pressed on deluxe heavyweight 150-gram vinyl, printed on reverse board jackets, and included an 11in x 22in gatefold insert to bring you a high quality and truly epic record.
The legendary crust classic is now available once again!
Authorized and released in cooperation with MISERY, S.D.S., & MCR Japan & Remastered by Jack Butcher at Enormous Door Studio we are beyond proud to make one one the most rare and sought after crust records available once again.
Fuck the scavengers charging punks exuberant amounts of cash on ebay and discogs. We worked meticulously with both bands and with Jack at Enormous door to bring you an updated version that kicks major audio ass while maintaining the original authenticity.
Released on deluxe 150 gram vinyl. With an 11×11 inner sleeve. Black Paper Jacket. Reverse Board Jacket.
Earlier this year we re-issued this legendary LP and sold over 950 copies in just 4 short months. For this second pressing we pressed 490 copies on Krystal Clear & 485 on Grey Vinyl with Black Mist.
Stench crust the way it was meant to be played!
The UK crust scene of the 1980’s inspired band after band but no other band has ever reincarnated the sound of that time as well as SWORDWIELDER. Quite simply if you like crust, then this the album you have waited decades for.
Review by Craig Hayes from “Your Last Rites”… Swordwielder – System Overlord Heavyweight punk fanatics take note: System Overlord is a fucking triumph. The long-awaited sophomore album from Gothenburg stenchcore band Swordwielder is a brooding behemoth, constructed from the filthiest and heftiest strains of punk and metal. System Overlord shimmers with apocalyptic visions, and it’s overflowing with all the grim atmospherics and intimidating intensity that defines consummate crushing crust.
Too much hype? No way… And no apologies, either. Swordwielder deal in definitive stenchcore on System Overlord, and much like their full-length debut, 2013’s Grim Visions of Battle, the band’s latest release is a knockout. Swordwielder’s harsh, gruff and dark sound owes a significant debt to old school icons like Amebix, Axegrinder, Deviated Instinct, and Antisect, and they mix and mangle their influences and leave ’em to rot on the battlefield.
Plenty of hammering rage drives System Overlord tracks like “Violent Revolution,” “Savage Execution” and “Cyborgs,” and thundering epics like “Corrupt Future” and “Northern Lights” exhibit subtler strengths, mixing guttural growls and clean vocals with crashing percussion and dirge-laden riffs. Connoisseurs of corpse-dragging crust will love the brute-force belligerence of “Absolute Fear,” “Nuclear Winter,” and “Second Attack,” which rain down like merciless mortar barrages. As a rule, all of System Overlord‘s mammoth tracks chug and churn with grinding muscle, while reeking of squalor and decay.
Swordwielder exudes tightly coiled aggression from start to finish here—songs rise from the ashes of desolation, and resounding calls for action and resistance ring loud. If you’re a fan of heavy-hitters like Fatum, War//Plague, Carnage, Zygome, Cancer Spreading or (insert your favorite hefty crust crew here), System Overlord‘s trampling tempo and strapping sound are bound to appeal.
WILT combine old school metal and crust in a perfect hybrid that very few others have ever achieved. Prepare for a LP thats equal parts galloping d-beat crust reminiscent of bands like HELLSHOCK, and INSTINCT OF SURVIVAL, meets old school death metal in the vein of BOLT THROWER, MEMORIAM (old) SEPULTURA.
Here is a track from the upcoming LP
“Sermon for the Bootlickers”
Despite the inculcation of helplessness within each there remains great power. Ill at ease with such makes us ill. Learn to see the hand that feeds for what it is. You’ve been fooled if you think you’ve got no power. Refuse to be reduced to a consumer you’re a human being. Define yourself by more than wealth. Define yourself as a human. You don’t need what you’re being sold. Bend your knee to no authority but your own mind. You have the power to avoid the gilded trap. Avarice is what you’re conditioned for. Break the mold discover what’s really valuable to you.
Wed, July 12 Hanover / Germany / Confirmed Thu, July 13 Bremen Fri, July 14 Mulhem / Germany / Confirmed Sat, July 15 Gent, Belgium / CrustPicnic / Confirmed Sun, July 16 Paris / France or Amsterdam / Nederland July 18 North-East France or West Germany July 19 Freiburg / Germany TBC July 20 Winterthur / Switzerland Fri, July 21 Zurich / Switzerland Sat, July 22 Biel / Switzerland July 23 Lausanne or Geneva / Switzerland
July 24 Geneva / Switzerland or Grenoble france
July 25 Treviso (or Milano or Bologna or Verona) / Italy
July 26 Ljubljana Slovenia Confirmed
July 27 No Sanctuary chilling day
Fri, July 28 NoSanctuary Confirmed
Sat, July 29 NoSanctuary Confirmed
July 30 Ilirska Bistrica/Slovenia or Vienna/Austria or Budapest/Hungary.
July 31 Wiena / Austrai or Budapest or / Slovakia
August 1 Brno / Czech Republic.
August 2 Prague / Czech Republic
August 3 Finsterwalde / Germany TBC
Fri, August 4 Leipzig / Germany TBC
Sat, August 5 Berlin / Germany / confirmed
August 6 Dresden
August 7 Wroclaw / Poland
August 8 Warsaw / Poland
August 9 Poznan / Poland
August 10 Szczecin/Poland TBC
Fri, August 11 Rostock / confirmed
Sat, August 12 Hamburg TBC
Brace yourself for one of the most uncompromising hard hitting and politically outspoken records of this era. STORM OF SEDITION are an anti-civilization anarchist crust punk band based out of Victoria BC. Sharing members with the mighty ISKRA you can definitely expect some serious blackened crust, and yes a huge metal influence is prevalent however STORM OF SEDITION are a bit more reminiscent of bands like CONTRAVENE & NAUSEA. “Decivilize” brings a heavy anarcho punk dynamic to the table combined with over the top blackened crust grind thats littered with blistering solo’s, insanely powerful drumbeats, and thought productive lyrics that challenge our current state of human civilization. All in all this is an absolute monster of a release!
Comes with a 12 page booklet containing lyrics, notes, and song explanations.
STORM OF SEDITION WILL TOURING THE WEST COAST THIS SUMMER!!!
Keep you eye’s peeled for a list of tour dates soon!
Listen to the song “Disconnect” here…
Living a domesticated existence Starves people of meaning in their lives Everyone feels the void beneath the surface Of everyday activities and routines
Miserable, exploited, mass populations Feeding the industrial systems endless hunger Treated like machines, living beings Enslaved and kept passive in a technological noose
We live in these cages Made of concrete, glass, and steel A functioning human made hell Complete with natural scenery
Yet there is no community Deprived of connection with real people Technology perpetuates alienation But promises to connect us
And fill the void in our lives In constant need of escape and distraction From this fucking ugly world Technology creeping into our lives
Pop culture, pacifying shit Endless distractions to curb dissent A society of lonely domesticated beings Attempting social interaction behind a digital screen
Clinging to the feeling of connectedness Personalized profiles, mass communication tools Monitored and funded by pigs Spying on people, on movements While corporations profit off government control Microsoft, apple, fedbook Endless lists of corporations Infiltrating our everyday lives The NSA, the CSE Databases created from what you share Information for incrimination Millions of people on terrorist watch lists Technology’s a weapon used against us
Its function is to propel their ability To efficiently exploit us and the natural world While doing so capitalizing off selling us Gadgets to distract us from the lives we live and hate
Turn off that shit, enter the real world You are not connected You are alone staring into a fucking a screen
Get outside, meet with real people! Even if we use these tools We must never forget
Technology is a system created by and for those in power And it will only exist with Division of labor, exploitation, and death
Becoming connected through technology Is a sick fucking joke
PROFANE EXISTENCE RECORDS – PO BOX 647 – HUNTINGTON WV – 25711 – UNITED STATES
It is very sad news to hear that Todd Serious, the vocalist of Vancouver’s The Rebel Spell passed away March 7 2015 in a tragic rock climbing accident.
Todd was a wonderful human being a dedicated activist, excellent vocalist, and a good friend to many people. He contributed immensely to the punk community and positively impacted the lives of everyone he came in contact with. It is always widely felt when we loose another a member of our tight knit community; and Todd was definitely a positive part of this community. His passing will be mourned by many people across the continent.
I want to take a moment to reflect on my own interactions with Todd and share those experiences. I first met Todd and Rebel Spell in about 2006. I primarily knew Todd through his band, who I worked with back when I was a promoter setting up DIY punk shows in Victoria, a west coast town on occupied Coast Salish Territories. I believe I first met them when traveling with another favorite band of mine, Leper, on a mini tour with 2 other Victoria bands, Grey Army and Blood Nasty. Right from the beginning it was Todd and Erin who were the ones I felt genuine friendship from. Todd was great at making sure that all the outcasts felt included, and had a genuineness I have rarely seen in anyone else. This was a wonderful relief from the often clique and elitist aspects that are all too common in the underground music subcultures.
The Rebel Spell has always been a band who exhibits a lot of integrity; both as a band and as individuals. Despite this they have often received more than their share of criticism from diy-anarcho punks and crusties for not sounding dirty enough, or for playing with more mainstream bands like Rancid; yet from what I have witnessed the Rebel Spell more than any other band seemed to take accountability for making sure their shows were inclusive and safe. Often Todd would make time between songs to remind people to make the pit a place everyone who wanted to could use, or to call out shitty behaviors that others would have been content to ignore. He was committed to his values, and inspired many others with his compassion for both animals and people.
I consider myself lucky to have known him and worked with him, Todd and Rebel Spell were alway wonderful to work with. To his family, his bandmates, his close friends and the rest of his community; we send our condolences from PE. Todd has and deserves our deepest our respect. Let’s make sure to support those who are greiving this loss and to continue his work in building community and helping animals.
For the last few years I have been giving workshops to activists on prisoner support for movement prisoners. I believe strongly that we have an obligation to do support for people who have been imprisoned for their involvement and dedication to creating positive change in this fucked up world. Why should anyone risk their freedom if we are not going to support our prisoners who get punished by the state for taking actions that need to be taken?
People often tell me they would like to write to prisoners but that they don’t know what to say and are afraid of making mistakes. The reality is it is super simple, so in hopes of stopping any more excuses and persuading you to pick up the pen I figured I would outline the very few things you will want to avoid if writing to an inmate.
# 1 – Don’t Make Promises You Can’t Keep
Everyone hates waiting for a friend that doesn’t show up to meet you, or being stood up by that cute boy who promised he would call after last night. Well for people locked up behind bars, it is far worse because you may be the only contact they have to the outside world; so if you don’t follow through they become even more isolated. You may have great intentions when you write someone, so promising to write them every week or send them every book by Ursula K Le Guin seems like a sweet thing to do, but when you don’t come through you are not only failing a friend, you are also reinforcing those prison bars and the isolation they are designed to create. You would be far better off to just not promise them anything in the first place. That way when you send them a letter, it is like a lovely surprise that will brighten their day, rather than waiting for something that is never coming. Those Ursula Le Guin books then becomes Gifts, rather than making them feel Dispossessed. The short of it is, only make promises to prisoner IF you know for sure you can live up to them, and if you promise something you must follow through.
# 2 –Don’t Complain – Stay Posi
The point of writing someone inside is to help them feel connected, to help them escape; if not literally them metaphorically (If you try to hide a file in your letter it will get confiscated and the prisoner will get in shit for it). Remember why you are writing. We all have shitty days, and often want someone to wine about it to who will listen, but no matter how long you had to stand in line at the bank or be put on hold by your cell phone company – it will never compare to how much time a prisoner spends waiting in lines. Send your complaints to the editor, not the prisoner. A prisoner doesn’t want to hear about your shitty day and petty drama that they can’t effect; they would likely much rather hear about the awesome dog you played with, the rally you went to, the great book you just read, or the cute baby who beat your ass at chess yesterday. Hell, if you can’t think of anything to write, draw them a picture or cut out some photos of wildlife or cute kitties from a magazine. Some folks also love crosswords or sudokus.
# 3 – Don’t Say Stupid Shit
Maybe that sounds too obvious, but let me explain. Every letter you write to a prisoner is going to likely be read, and especially if you are using email through prisoner correspondence sites like Corrlinks which are recorded and copies are kept. So if you decide to tell Ted Kazcinski you think he is a hottie so your going to make bombs to send to people he doesn’t like, not only will you likely get raided by the FBI, but he will also end up in the hole. Yup, prisons read your letters for a reason, and if you say anything about illegal shit you are involved in or people you know are involved in, the prisoner will get punished for it and it could even be used against them in later court dates. I know this might sound like common sense and thus not need to be stated, but lets be honest here – common sense is anything but common.
# 4 Don’t Be a Creepy
I remember when my friend Kelly went to jail for G20 bullshit, she started getting these letters from some fucking creep hitting on her and telling her she was hot (from the photos the media was using of her from the riot). THIS IS NOT OK. It is not OK to be a creep, whether it is hitting on the cashier at the grocery store who is paid to smile and be pleasant, the waitress at the caffe who needs her paycheck and tips, or in this case, a prisoner. These folks are literally a captive audience unable to smack the fuck out of creeps who deserve it do to their situation. So even if you do think old Uncle Ted is the bomb, keep it to yourself. Sending a letter with uninvited sexual content is like sending them an emotional letter bomb.
If you are truly intent on having that type of correspondence with a prisoner to fulfill some sexual kink that turns you on, OK; there are actually websites for prisoners looking for a flirty pen pal or relationship. In the end it is about consent; if they want that type of contact, let them seek it out. Don’t harass prisoners who are not asking for you to objectify them while they are locked up.
# 5 – Have No Expectations
I started writing to prisoners a few years back now, and I have been lucky to get a few really good pen pals out of it, and to form real friendships that I believe will outlast their prison sentences. I have had prisoners send me artwork, poetry they wrote, books they wrote while inside and of course many letters. However I have also written many letters to which I have never seen a reply – and that is totally OK. The reality is that prisoners have far less access to resources than we do. Even if you are poor as fuck like me, and run out of money every month, or work some minimum wage shit job, you will have far more money than most prisoners. In the colonial nation state that calls itself “Canada”, an average prisoner makes around $2-$3 a day… Yes, you read that right, per day, not per hour. Unlike prisoners south of that imaginary colonial line, all stationary, toiletries, and personal care items must be purchased using what the prison labels “earned income.” What this means is that for a prisoner to write you a letter they must use their prison wages to buy the paper, pen, envelope, and stamp; at whatever price the prison canteen sets for these items since there is not competing businesses inside a prison. On top of that, time might seem like something a prisoner would seem to have an endless supply of, but really from people I have known who served ‘time’, it doesn’t seem to feel that way when you are on the inside. So what I am saying here is when you write a letter to a prisoner, have no expectations. Teat it like you are sending your words on the wings of angels, and if you do get a reply, remember how much that person had to give up in order to return your correspondence. Often many of us tend to take our relationships for granted, you simply can not do that with someone who is a captive of the state.
Beyond that remember the basics, your letter will need to have a return address (I often write my return address on each page in case the prison decides to fuck with them by “loosing” a page, It is also a good practice to number your pages for this reason), as well as the prisoners legal name (and number in the US) needs to be on the letter. Don’t put stickers, stamps, perfume, glue or glitter, on the pages or the prison may confiscate the letter or deny it. A less obvious one is that most prisons do not allow you to send blank paper, art supplies, or extra envelopes or stamps – demanding instead that the prisoner purchases those from the prison itself.
There is a story we never hear. It is the story of the wealthy developer who procures a piece of land to build on, and then upon finding out the land is sacred to local Indigenous people and has heritage sites on it, chooses to not build go ahead with construction. Instead the developer chooses one of many other paths open to them, they try to find other ways to get money back out of their investment or perhaps they go after the previous land owner for not disclosing this information previous to sale. Or maybe they even try to find ways to return at least a portion of that land to the Indigenous.
Yesterday I sat in on the Grace Islet injunction hearing; where an injunction was being sought by a wealthy land owner named Barry Slawsky against protesters – specifically Indigenous people – from being allowed near the site where he is constructing his dream home on top of a native burial ground.
I find that nearly every time discussion comes up about this conflict; someone (generally a white person) will inevitably make a joke that the developer clearly has never read a Steven King novel or watched a horror movie. For the most part I find the joke seems rather tasteless and insulting given that it is easy to joke about for people with nothing at stake, but if it was their own families graves they wouldn’t likely be making bad jokes about it. Yet there is a reason why these classic stories have become such a genre cliché; and the reason is simply because there is such a long history of rich people metaphorically shitting on the sacred sites of Indigenous people. If developers didn’t so routinely say “fuck the Indians,” King and others wouldn’t have made a career out of stories involving people getting terrorized by ghosts for doing precisely that. Perhaps those books should be through of more as wishful thinking…? Or perhaps it’s time to write a new story?
Yet todays court proceedings had more parallels to fiction and TV dramas. The lawyer for Barry Slawsky lived up to every negative stereotype of a lawyer in court today. He came off as utterly despicable, slimy, and dishonest. He was such a caricature he seemed almost like a real life version of the blue haired lawyer often seen representing Mr Burns on The Simpson’s.
His tone was repeatedly condescending, his arguments were colonial and racist, and on a number of occasions he was accused of presenting his speculations as accepted facts. He began by trying to undermine any claims to Aboriginal Title or Treaty Rights and asserting it was simply a case of private property rights and trespass. He was also caught for misrepresenting his own evidence at least once, and on another occasion for trying to cite as evidence a media article quoting unnamed people who were claiming the Cheif’s said something, as proof. In the end he even tried to accuse the judge of bias because the judge lives on Salt Spring Island, where the protests have been taking place. At another point, he claimed that the entire defense was a red herring because if they were trying to stop damage to the burial site – and damage meant work being done – it was a mute point cause the work had already been started. but the one that really got me was when he tried to claim the injunction was necessary for the protection and safety of the protesters who might get hurt…. Yet he was also exceptionally dull to listen to, to the point that I saw two people sitting near me fall asleep. The defense council were far better orators and had a strong case that more time was needed as they presented numerous thick affidavits that had just been filed or were still coming in.
In the end, the judge ruled in favor of adjournment; that the defendants (which included 2 First Nation Cheif’s amongst others) would have 4 weeks to prepare arguments before the injunction hearing moves forward. Many people including myself will be watching to see what comes of this. I am by no means an expert of any sort in the matters of law, nor in the traditions and practices of any of the local indigenous peoples, I presume from my limited knowledge of other supreme court cases that this will be a long and drawn out process, and todays court hearing will be one of many. I also would presume this won’t be the last of the protests, which I hope will continue until work is permanently stopped. It is an interesting time though, with recent court rulings that acknowledge the land as being stolen and sovereignty never having been extinguished which may influence the outcome of this case. While I remain cynical that a court system of a state built on stolen native lands and a history of genocide and ongoing colonization will suddenly rule in favor of Indigenous lands rather than capitalist development; It is only my hope that we as a society can choose to write a different story than the cliché ones we have been enacting for so long.
These are just my observations as an interested and concerned outsider. If you want to learn more about this conflict, the court case, the lands it is taking place on or the history, I highly suggest checking out the Grace Islet facebook page where the people organizing to stop this shit have been posting updates. I am sure that they will be needing support, which can come in many ways
Everyone knows I’m not into veganism for health reasons. That’s just a bonus. So it’s time to take out that deep fryer. There is nothing better than good deep fried food. But it’s far from healthy. So eat in moderation and invite friends over to help. For those that abstain from beer you can also use soda water in this recipe.
1 can/bottle (12 oz) – Beer (or Soda Water)
3 cups – all purpose flour
1 – Tablespoon – Nutritional Yeast
1 – teaspoon – Black Pepper
1/2 teaspoon – Garlic Powder
1/2 teaspoon – Chili Powder
1/4 teaspoon – Salt
(optional) – Spices of Choice
2-3 cups – Veggie Oil (for deep frying)
5 Large – Pickles (Sliced into Chips)
3 Large – Potatoes (Cut into Fries)
(optional) – Whatever else you feel like frying
Heat oil to 375º F in either a deep fryer or large saucepan.
Set aside 1 1/2 Cups of Flour into a Medium Bowl.
Whisk the remaining ‘Batter’ ingredients in a separate large bowl.
Dip the pickle chips/fries (or whatever you are deep frying) into the wet batter.
Coat it with the dry flour.
Fry for about 5 Mins.
Enjoy! Make yourself a sauce! My go to is a spicy mayo! Some Spoonfuls of Vegenaise and some squirts of Sriracha to taste. Invite your friends over! Play some games! Eat some food! Have fun!
Jordan Halliday is a long time vegan, animal activist and former movement prisoner. His passion for cooking & food grew from the necessity of having to make his own vegan meals as a child. Besides cooking Jordan is a web and graphic designer. He also hosts the radical radio show Which Side Podcast.
I just want to take this time to give a round of thanks to the people who helped me make this trip possible. I want to thank Starmichael and Kenton Cycle Repair for all their help and support in getting my bike ready by offering me the parts, tools and education to make it happen. I want to thank my dear friend Lindsay for taking the time to read every single one of these entries, fixing punctuation errors and syntax, and giving me helpful advice all along the way. I want to thank my partner Helene for all the encouragement and support I received along the way even though she was terribly afraid (and somewhat convinced) that I wouldn’t make it home alive. I want to thank Profane Existence for asking me and giving me the opportunity to post my journal through their blog; which by extension motivated me to get my stuff together and make a real project out of this journal. Lastly, I want to thank everyone who read the entries of this journal as they were posted, there were a lot more of you than I would have expected!
This trip was a real challenge, and when folks ask me if I had a “good” experience the answer is always a complicated one. The tour was certainly enriching in many ways, but “good” is a very subjective word in this context because there were many times on this trip that I sincerely wanted to give up. The 3 days of the storm were really, really intense and I can’t compartmentalize that when I relive this experience. On the other end, I met a lot of really genuine people and saw one of the most beautiful coastlines in the world from my bicycle. Whether this trip can be solidly classified as good one or not, I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything in the world.
So, all I have left to say is thank you for taking the time to read about a small portion of my life. I appreciate the positive responses I’ve received so far. I look forward to my next adventure and I hope that you’re planning yours right now as well. Sometimes the most satisfying trips are the ones that are spur of the moment, somewhat reckless and ones that you are terribly unprepared for. Stay safe, but have fun. Always.
Take care my friends,
Mike XVX, August 10th, 2014
Sunday, June 29th, 2014
“Cause I’ve seen blue skies / through the tears in my eyes / and I realize… I’m going home” – The Rocky Horror Picture Show
Oh shit, I overslept! I think as I awake in the dense redwood forest. The canopy in here is so thick that it’s almost impossible to guess as to what time it is. Thankfully once I calm down I realize it’s not even 8 am yet, and I’m still on the schedule I set myself to hitch back to Portland today. I wanted to wake up and be out on the road no later than 9, and it’s still looking likely that I’ll be able to do just that. I pack my camp up and a more relaxed pace as my knee still has a slight twinge when it shifts from side to side. Walking and jogging doesn’t bother my knee at all, but any movement that recreates the motion of riding my bike sends a lightning bolt of pain up my left side. Really, really glad I don’t have to get back on my bike today, not sure that I’d even make it 20 miles on this knee.
After getting packed up I say goodbye to my redwood friend that I shared my campsite with, and took one last, crane-necked look at the top of this massive tree. I felt so very gracious to have been born on this planet in this moment. I hop on my bike and pedal across the campground, and the pain in my knee rises from a mild annoyance to an almost unbearable, searing bolt of pain driving north from my kneecap. The grimace on my face certainly would have scared off some children had there been any, but instead I roll past the check-in station and out onto Highway 99 where I’ll be trying my luck hitchhiking.
Last night by flashlight I made two signs out of old maps I had taken from the ranger station. I used a ballpoint pen to scribble on each sign “GRANTS PASS – IN A HURRY” and “PORTLAND”, respectively. The maps had writing on both sides to begin with, so in reality I wasn’t even sure that anyone would be able to read them. I flew my “GRANTS PASS” sign first, as I’m thinking it’s more likely that I’ll get a ride directly up the 99 to GP, and the “PORTLAND” sign might deter people from picking me up if they’re not going that far. I do my usual hitching routine; big smile, thumb out, passive stance and maintaining eye contact with the driver as they pass, as if to say “Yeah dude, I’m cool, don’t even worry about it.” Typically this works pretty well, but unfortunately I was unable to shave off my beard this morning, which can be a deterrent, as well as the sleeveless shirt that says “GO VEGAN!” on it. I didn’t bring any nice clothes (or scam-ouflage, if you will) along with me due to space issues, but I’m regretting it now as 20 cars pass me without slowing down. Every time a car zooms past me on the two lane highway, I look over my shoulder at the mountain lumbering behind. 80 miles and 2,200 ft of elevation I’ll have to climb if I can’t catch a ride up and over into Grants Pass. I cannot and will not do that today, it’s car ride or nothing.
A mere 10 minutes later a massive diesel truck towing a horse trailer passes me, and I see the woman driving mouth the words “Grant’s Pass?” silently behind the windshield. She then jerks the wheel to the right and comes to an abrupt halt on the shoulder. Without hesitation I grab my bike and jog over to her truck, as she climbs out and starts rearranging a bunch of stuff in the bed.
“Hey ,thanks for stopping!”
“Yeah of course! I saw you’re going to Grants Pass and I was like ‘Shit! I’m going there!’ Here, tie your bike down in the back, my horses won’t be too happy if you put your bike in their trailer, haha”
I remove my backpack off the front of the bike and hoist it vertically, panniers and all, 3 feet or so into the truck bed. I strain hard to keep everything balanced, as I don’t want to bang up the side of her truck after she so generously just stopped for me. I struggle and fight with the awkward weight until I get the bike settled in the center of the truck bed. She told me to tie it down, so I took one of my bungee chords and tied it securely from my bike frame to a ball joint in the floor, figuring if this mountain of empty cardboard soda boxes aren’t flying out the back of her truck than my bike should be fine. “Ummm…here let me tie up the wheel to this hook, it’s just… I know how I drive, you know?” “Oh yeah, sure” I say as she takes a nylon rope and threads it through my front wheel and securing it to one of the hooks on the edge of the truck bed. As she’s leaning forward to secure my bike, the back of her shirt lifts up, exposing a massive Desert Eagle handgun hanging out of the back of her pants. HOLY FUCK! I think upon seeing it. Followed by, She had to have shown that to me on purpose. Which I don’t blame her for, considering she’s out here picking up a stranger on a country road, and with 2 children as well I realize, as I glance into the cab. They’re both peaking at me through the back window and the little girl waves. Both she and her brother are maybe around 4 or 5 years old and they seem to be chatting about something.
After a couple minutes we get the bike secured to her satisfaction, and then we climb into the cab. “Sorry, just I know these roads so well that I drive kinda crazy on them.” I respond that it’s no worry, trying to suppress my concern of How crazy is it going to get?? As we’re pulling away from the entrance to the state park, I reach back and try to grab my seat belt but keep grasping air. I look over my shoulder to grab it just as a tiny, teacup sized hand grabs the buckle and slowly pushes it forward. I gently take it and look back to see the little girl smiling at me, and I smile and thank her. What a sweet kid. I find out the driver is named Sheron, and she’s about my height, with long brown hair and the slightest twang of a country accent. She used to live in Crescent City, but now lives out in Medford and is returning from a weekend visiting her parents. We make conversation pretty easily, and we find a common interest in animals and chat about our love for them for quite awhile. We also both enjoy traveling alone, and she tells me about all the places she wants to see now that she’s recently divorced. “My husband beat the shit out of me in front of my kids, so I left. Fuck him, I’m going to do things my way from now on,” she opens up to me. I typically find that people tend to tell me extremely personal things when I’m hitchhiking, partly because they’ll more than likely never see me again, but folks also tell me that I have a trusting face. I have no idea what a “trusting face” looks like though, so if you asked me I couldn’t say. I respond that I’m really sorry to hear that, that I’m glad she’s out now and her and the kids are safe, and then tell her a little bit about my childhood and how I was treated as well. Not to “one-up” her of course, but to let her know she’s not alone and there are plenty of people out there that choose not to continue the cycle of violence that their parents or significant others inflict on them. She seems to be a great mom, and her kids seem like sweethearts, and I tell her that. A bond starts to form between us, like so many other hitching situations I’ve been in, and I start to feel even more glad that she picked me up, and not just because I needed a ride.
All the while we’re flying up the 99, and she was not exaggerating about her driving style. She’s surpassing the speed limit a considerable amount, all the while towing a trailer filled with 2 horses and 3 baby calves. We’re passing these epic, picturesque landscapes,and now that I’m off my bike for the first time in a week I realize how little time I have now to take in all the sites that the Rogue River/Siskiyou Forest has to offer. The speed that we’re passing mile-markers now is fascinating to me and I feel like I’m riding in a car for the very first time. As we’re talking about cabins and our individual desires to build one out in the middle of the woods, away from civilization and any human being, we round a bend that brushes up along the river.As we’re taking the turn we spot 2 half-naked hippy guys, complete with dreadlocks, skinny frames and long beards standing in the emergency lane of the highway. The entire contents of their backpacks seemed to be emptied all over a car turnout as if it was the floor of their living room. We stop mid-conversation as we see one of them is standing there in only his undergarments, while the other, also only wearing undergarments, gently massages suntan lotion onto his back. Both of them were grinning like it was the greatest experience of their lives as an epic river roars behind them. I have just enough time to let out a laugh and think WHAT IN THE WORLD… as we fly past, the speed only giving us a second to take in everything we saw. Like a polaroid snapshot, that image will forever be burned into my mind, and I am thankful for that as it makes me laugh every time I think about it. Sheron, who’s used to living in the middle of nowhere, far away from anyone, was even more perplexed than I, and that made me laugh even harder. I suspected a slight hint of homophobia in Sheron’s reaction, but I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and assume that she just thought it was a funny scene to come flying past. At the same time though I was tempted to alter a popular phrase I’ve seen on T-shirts and shout at her “Some hippies massage suntan lotion onto other hippies – GET OVER IT!” Obviously this wouldn’t have gone over well and she would have let me out of the truck back there with the hippy dudes, but in retrospect that actually would have been pretty rad.
In what seems like no time at all we reach Grants Pass, where Sheron will be transferring to a different highway back to her home in Medford. I thank her profusely as she helps me get my bike unlashed out of the truck bed, and I get another glimpse of that monster of a handgun she keeps in her waist band. I’d trust her with a gun over a cop any day though, I just want to have that noted. I’d even support her if she used it on that piece of shit ex-husband she told me about, but I don’t say that out loud as it’s not my place, plus what’d happen if I had said that and she ended up doing it? Or if I ended up writing it, like I am now…fuck. Whatever. We say our goodbyes, and both her kids start asking where I’m going and why I’m leaving. It’s sweet and sad and all at once I feel bad for them, as children are usually the ones who suffer and are affected the most by domestic violence. Often times their plight goes unnoticed as they’re prisoners in their own home. Outsiders were nearly powerless to help me when I was a young one, and I feel equally as powerless as I wave goodbye to them now, silently wishing them luck with their lives and also wishing that I could tell them it’s not their fault, and that they’ll grow up to be loving, gentle and wonderful people if that’s what they want. I say thank you again to Sheron and begin pushing my bike across the swelteringly hot parking lot of a hardware store, turning my front wheel to downtown Grants Pass and pushing on towards home.
Once again, I stop off at a McDonald’s on the outskirts of downtown to use their bathroom and their wifi. I posted an ad a couple days ago on Craigslist asking for a ride for my bicycle and I up to Portland, and so far I have a few responses. For those not familiar, the 5 is a heavily traveled freeway and my chances of getting picked up and driven straight home from here were much more likely than if I was still on the coast. I read over the emails I received: one ride seemed promising, but she’s not leaving till 5 pm, and it’s only 10 am now. I save that one for later. The next email has only one run-on sentence and it says “me and the boys headin to portland got room for u”. I don’t get a good feeling from this second one, mostly because it sounds like there will be too many people in this car for my bike to fit, but whatever gets me home will work. I text both of the numbers from the texting app on my ipod just to cover all my bases. I decide since I don’t have any immediate rides out of town that I might as well try to hitch out in the meantime, so I hop on my bike and follow signs to a 5 freeway onramp nearby.
Luckily this onramp is underneath an overpass, providing me with complete shade and protection from the intense heat this morning. It’s not even noon and it’s already nearing 100 degrees, there’s no way I’d last 20 minutes out here trying to find a ride if I had to stand directly in the sun. After about an hour I get passed by probably 80 cars or so, many of them not engaging me in the slightest, or giving me the “only going a little way” pinch-hand signal I’ve come to know over the years. Also, most of these cars are packed with people already so there’d be no room for me and my bike anyway, even if I took it apart. I decide to give myself another half hour, and if no one picks me up in that time than I’ll bike out to downtown Grants Pass and wait for my definite 5 pm ride from the woman with the mini-van who offered to take me. As I’m nearing the end of my efforts for now, I’m passed by a lipstick-red hatchback car driven by a woman probably in her 40’s. Across the windshield is a MASSIVE decal that just says “COUGAR” with flowers on either end. The sticker was so large that there’s no way it wouldn’t obstruct your vision, but that statement was just too important not to put out there I guess. Through giggles I utter under my breath “Right on lady, you get it!” as she passed.
I throw in the proverbial towel just before noon, mount my bike and start making my way toward downtown. It is unbearably hot, and I can actually feel myself getting sunburned. I thought that growing up in So Cal and surfing for most of my life would have prepared me for being in the sun day in and day out on this trip, but as I’m getting burned I realize “That’s not how skin works.” I feel like a dummy, but a bronzed one at that, as I coast past the strip malls. I eventually make it to downtown and stop off at the Safeway, in search of food and confrontations with the local riff raff. Sure enough I get both of those things within 10 minutes. I seat myself on a shaded curb in the parking lot and treat myself to a cold can of Amy’s chili, all the while being approached by a parade of questionable people, many of whom try to tell me just how MUCH Jesus loves me. “Uh huh,” I respond, not having the energy to spout anything overtly blasphemous this morning. Not-so-fun fact as well: the “Army of God” piece of shit who murdered Dr. George Tiller, a doctor who worked at a women’s clinic and provided abortions, was from here. So you can imagine my reticence about engaging anyone about the teachings of an abrahamic religion, regardless of how offensive that religion may be to me. The concern for my own life is only eclipsed by my concern to not be constantly bothered about the existence of a supernatural being, so for now I keep my mouth shut so I can relax. Thankfully I was eventually approached by a couple of odd folks who were not of the religious variety, so I got to have interesting conversations with them instead. We talked about bikes, how far you could ride on bikes, and canned chili, since these were the only things they could discern I was interested in. One guy did tell me about an organic tea house up the street though, so I decided that sitting in an air conditioned room with a warm tea and access to my email sounded like the perfect plan right now.
I biked the 2 blocks to the tea house (Grants Pass is a really, really small town) and on the way I passed a venue I’d played at not more than a month previous. I locked my bike up out front and dragged my bags inside with me, feeling the cool blast of air hit my scorched skin as I entered. Setting my bags aside I went up to order. I scanned the menu for a London Fog, or even a maté latte, but I settled for a chai (I’m a tea snob, deal with it). After I place my order she offers me 2% cow milk or hemp milk with my latte. This is how our conversation went after that:
“Do you have soy milk?”
“Oh yes, we do. But you know… I always discourage people from getting it, because soy is SOOOOOO bad for you!”
*trying my hardest not to roll my eyes*
“Well, I dunno, I’ve been vegan for 10 years and haven’t had any issues because of soy, so I’ll just have that.”
“Yeah, well I understand if you prefer it. I’m not supposed to have it cause I’m lactose intolerant.”
“Oh, you’re what?”
“I’m lactose intolerant, so my doctor told me I can’t eat soy.”
Perplexed and amused I wait for her to correct herself and realize that the key word here was “lactose.” Amazingly she doesn’t correct herself, and I then had to suppress laughter as I paid for my drink. It’s kind of fascinating that she works here, and also a bit scary. Maybe coffee places should ask “Do you know what lactose is?” before they hire people so they don’t accidentally kill anyone. Something to think about I guess.
I use the bathroom to take what is known amongst us traveler kids as a “sink shower” to remove some of the smell that seems to be emanating from me. I have another rock in my shoe, and upon removing it I realize that it’s actually in my sock. I remove both of my socks just in case and realize my tan line makes it look like I’m still wearing them. What a fun few weeks it’ll be getting rid of all the weirdly untanned areas I’m going to have from sleeveless shirts, bike shorts and ankle socks. As I’m finishing I see that I got a few more emails, and a couple texts on my ipod app. I get a text from the woman with the mini-van saying she’ll be in GP around 5:30, and also another text from the run-on sentence guy that just says “hey man can u meet at sharis in 20 minutes.” Shari’s is a chain not unlike Denny’s that’s popular in the Northwest, but I have no fucking idea where this place is in Grants Pass. I text back “Do you have room for both my bike and myself?” and he responds a few minutes later with “yeah maybe if we take it apart.” Fuck that. Not biking to who knows where for a “maybe.” I text back thanks but I’ve already got a ride out of town and return to my seat and my tea. Fifteen minutes later I get an email from someone asking if I’ve left town yet, and I immediately write back that I’m still here. He says he’s leaving town in 10 minutes and if I still wanted a ride I could come along. I text him back that I definitely would, and tell him to meet me back at the Safeway. He agrees and I take my time finishing my tea, as it’ll take me all of 2 minutes to get back over there.
I leave the tea house and make my way back across town, now wearing my rain shell to protect my tender shoulders from the sun. It makes for a hotter ride but at least I can’t feel my flesh being baked by the sun anymore. I hop off my bike just as a guy my age and a bit shorter than me approaches me across the parking lot. “Neal?” I ask and he nods and we shake hands. We walk over to his car, which is a tiny Honda Civic and I ask if he’s sure my bike will fit if we take it apart, since his trunk is completely full. We decide to just give it a try, and I go to work on my bike, removing both of the wheels. I tell him we should put my sweater down on the seat so the chain and the chain ring don’t get grease all over his upholstery, but he tells me his car has “lived through a lot” and it’ll be fine. I’m not sure he realizes how difficult it is to clean this shit off, but if that’s what he wants, then I’ll oblige. We finally wedge the frame in and get everything settled, hop in the car and head out of the parking lot. He tells me he’s out here visiting a friend and that he just watched a documentary about Craigslist rides and was interested in trying it out. “Lucky for me” I say, as we pull up to a gas station.
I ask Neal how much he wants for gas, and he kinda gives me a “Whatever is fine” answer, making this whole interaction all the much more awkward. Money exchanges are always a bit uncomfortable, especially when it comes to Craigslist rides. I offer him $15, because in reality that’s all I have in cash and he says that’s fine. His car is small and probably gets decent mileage, but we’re still over 4 hours and 250 miles from Portland, so I think the amount I offered is still a bit on the low end. Either way he seems satisfied, so it all gets sorted and we continue on our way. It’s a dream to roll the windows down and have fresh air blowing in my face, and I’m glad to be entering the last leg of my journey. We make great time up the 5, until we come almost screeching to a halt in the middle of nowhere as we approach a wall of traffic. We’re moving at a crawling pace for almost 3 hours, and we have no idea what the holdup is. I keep looking over to the emergency lane and think about how much farther I could have gone by now if I had been biking. The worst part about being stuck in traffic is Neal’s complaints about the heat, the traffic, the lack of A/C in his car, the heat, the traffic, the heat etc., etc. to a point where I almost tell him to shut up. He’s a nice guy but right now he’s getting on my nerves big time, as I’m also in the same car, experiencing the same discomfort but not blabbing on about it. He then pulls off the freeway to try and find an “alternate route” on his phone, even though I assure him we’re going through a pass and there won’t be any frontage roads that’ll take us north. He pulls over anyway, and finds a route his phone suggests that requires us to backtrack nearly 30 miles, not including the distance it’ll take us to get to a moving section of the 5 from this side route. He almost takes this route till I put my foot down and tell him to get back on the freeway, as it’ll probably clear up soon anyway since we’ve been on it for hours. I’m exhausted and not in the mood to be driving in circles out in the middle of nowhere, and I’m sure this comes across as he gets back on the 5 again. A half hour later the freeway opens up, and we realize all this traffic built up because we were reduced to a single lane for seemingly no reason. No workers, no road machines; just cones directing us to a single lane. Super worth it, obviously.
Eventually we roll into Eugene, and Neal says he wants to stop and grab some food in town. I unenthusiastically agree because I don’t care for Eugene, but he’s the driver and I’m sensitive to the fact that he wants to stop and eat. We pull over near the University of Oregon and he walks into a Subway while I hang in the parking lot. As he’s leaving with his sandwich he asks if I want anything, and I say no thanks and that I actually gave him my last $15. He then says, in a very fatherly manner (even though we’re probably the same age), “Well… we can’t have you going hungry, you sure you don’t want anything?” I thank him again and decline, not wanting to feel like I’m taking advantage of him. Plus, my thoughts were of nothing but Thai food from the restaurant down the street from my house, and I didn’t want to spoil my appetite for that. After scarfing down his dripping sandwich we get back on the freeway, and a short drive later we finally enter Multnomah County and eventually Portland’s city limits. I instruct him on how to get to my house off the freeway, and most importantly how to get back on the freeway after he drops me off. Portland is a notoriously difficult city to locate a freeway onramp in so I’m very meticulous with my instructions. As we’re driving past a park near my street, I see two of my housemates having a picnic, and from the looks of it they’re having a romantic time as the sun set behind them. I try to roll down my window in time to scream “PERVERTS!!!!” but it’s too late. Finally Neal pulls up in front of my house and I drag all my belongings to my front door, realizing as I’m removing my bike frame that there’s a HUGE grease mark on his backseat. He sees it too and just kinda shrugs. Sorry dude,I tried to warn you!
I say goodbye to Neal and finally walk through the threshold of my front door, immediately ordering take out at the Thai place and I then walk down the street to pick it up. Slumping down on the couch I celebrate a successful trip with Pad Thai and Thai ice tea while I stare blankly at the wall and listen to music. The lack of human conversation is a nice shift from having to make pleasantries while riding in a car with people all day. I think Depeche Mode wrote a song about “enjoying the silence” maybe? Haha. Anyway, it’s good to be home and now I finally have time to sit and reflect on my trip.
The reality of me being back home takes a while to sit in, I still constantly feel like I’m in bike tour mode. I keep mentally taking stock of how much water I have with me, identifying locations of power outlets in rooms, and dreaming of flat and level ground to pitch my tent on. I have to keep reminding myself that I’m sleeping in my own bed tonight, but that’s going to take some time to get used to. I saw a lot on this trip, and in the future when people ask if I had a good first bike tour it will be a complicated answer. In a lot of ways this trip was extremely difficult, and I felt that both my physical and mental strength were pushed to their respective limits. I wanted to cut corners a few times on this trip, and if I had the resources to do so I might have; but ultimately not having the best equipment or having money to fall back on makes for a more interesting story. The 3 days of the storm were by far the toughest, and magnified the difficulty of the ride and the loneliness that only nighttime can bring. On the other end, this trip was filled with amazing experiences, kind and interesting people and some of the most beautiful views I’ve ever had the privilege of seeing. The Oregon Coast is without a doubt one of the most gorgeous places I have ever traveled to, and I fantasize about building a treehouse at the edge of a cliff and living out the rest of my life along the shoreline.
As time passes, I’m sure the coast will grow in mysticism for me as nostalgia sets in, but I think this journal will help keep me grounded in reality. I’ll be counting the days till I can return, though. The next tour I’ll plan will now be one of experience, and not of experimentation like this one. I’ll learn from my mistakes, be better prepared and ultimately make a longer trip; maybe even all the way down to Mexico. It took me a long time to set my life and creative projects aside to make this trip happen, and now that I have, I realize what I’ve been missing. I waited too long for other people to be ready to take this trip with me, so I threw down the gauntlet and challenged myself to do it alone, and I’m so very glad that I did. I want to thank you for taking the time to read my thoughts and ramblings, because if it wasn’t for the encouragement of my friends, the motivation to keep such a log would not be there. I want to again thank Starmichael and Kenton Cycle Repair for all their help with getting my bike ready for this trip as well, punks stick together!
I want to reiterate how lucky I am to be alive and to be surrounded by so many thoughtful and caring people, and how gracious I feel for opportunities that I’ve had to see what I’ve seen and do what I’ve done. It’s easy to forget that sometimes, and it’s adventures like this one that help to remind me that life is worth living. Tonight is my final entry for this trip, and I wish you all the best summer you could possibly have, whether that be on a bicycle or not. Take care of yourselves and each other. See you out in the world, my friends.
Cooking a good Vegan meal is really fucking easy, yet often people seem completely confused as to what to do to make a Vegan meal. When you are new to anything it can be baffling, even though once you know your way around it will seem so stupidly simple. So here is some simple advice that I hope will help you out so that you don’t have to feel stupid, whether you are a new Vegan, or if you have friends or family who are Vegan and you want to have them over for dinner. Or perhaps that cute boy who you want to impress with the Animal Liberation Front back patch
Start Simple – Most Vegan meals follow this basic format: Choose 4 or 5 vegetables, chop/prep them, boil, fry or bake them, add spices or sauce. There is really nothing difficult about that. Often simpler is better.
You Don’t Need Processed Specialty Items – Stores are full of all kinds of over packaged and over priced “Veggie” items such as fake meats, cheeses, and dairy alternatives. The simple reality is that most Vegans don’t eat that much of this stuff, and if they do it is only now and then. You don’t need it. Stick to vegetables, fruits, grains, nuts, and legumes and you will be better off than with some heavily processed fake meat wrapped in plastic.
Be Open To New Foods – Often when someone is considering going Vegan people will think that it means you are cutting stuff out of your diet and being restrictive, yet in reality the opposite is what normally occurs. There are tons of foods you may have never heard of that are totally worth trying, such as Chia Seeds, Nutritional Yeast, Quinoa, Hemp Hearts, etc. Experiment with them, be open. There is nothing weird about these foods, most have been eaten by people around the world for thousands of years before the word Vegan was even coined. They are only new to a boring western diet.
Use A Recipe or Ask A Vegan – Especially when baking, it is good to use a vegan recipe at first rather than trying to modify a non-vegan recipe. That’s because baking is all about formulas; mix your dry ingredients, add your fats & sugars, then mix in liquids. But if you don’t understand what certain ingredients do on a chemical level, you may find the baking doesn’t come out quite how you were expecting. For example, in a omnivorous diet recipe, eggs work as a binder. You can easily replace the eggs with other binding ingredients, such as bananas, apple sauce, or boiled flax seeds; however, you may find your baking seems dry or doughy. This is because eggs don’t just bind the ingredients together, they also cause a chemical reaction with other ingredients such as baking powder. If you don’t use eggs, the baking powder won’t respond like normal and your cake might seem heavy. Most vegan recipes compensate for this by adding other ingredients that replicate the reaction that animal proteins usually create – such as adding an acid like vinegar or lemon juice which will cause the baking powder to react as it would with milk or eggs. My recomendation is to either use an already Vegan recipe if you are just starting out, or ask a Vegan for advice. Guess what, most Vegans know how to cook Vegan food.
You Already Know How to Cook Vegan, You Just Didn’t Realize It Till Now – Thats’ right, and here’s why. Pretty much everyone on the face of this earth already eats Vegan foods every single day; they just don’t think of them as “Vegan Food.” Think about it; ever ate falafle? Pakoras? Dahl? Hummus? How about beans and rice? A fruit salad? A Veggie wrap? Bean salad? Corn on the cob? Or pasta with tomato sauce? A pear? Bananas? Grapefruit? Guess what, all these foods are typically Vegan (unless you are doing something really fucking weird with that grapefruit). You don’t need to do anything fancy, stick to what you know. Mashed potatos can be done vegan super simple too, just use olive oil instead of butter. Or the most basic of all deserts, an apple crumble. You can make home made granola or oatmeal Vegan super easilly, all fruit smoothies, etc. This is so easy I am going to stop talking right now.
“You can’t put your arm around a memory, don’t try” – Johnny Thunders
I rose at 9 am to the freezing air blowing through the valley. It FINALLY stopped raining at least, and the sun is peaking out of the clouds high up above Humbug Mountain. My usual morning grogginess has now elevated to include blurred vision and severe disorientation as I stumble out of camp to take a quick shower. As I return to my tent, Dan offers me his old biking gloves since they’ve worn down considerably and he ended up buying a new pair. I answer in the affirmative and he balls them up and tosses them over the thorn bush separating our camps. I thank him profusely, as I’m looking forward to doing away with the dull ache in my left palm that has plagued me for days.
I leave the camp in a good mood after I say my goodbyes to folks, and upon exiting the park Tristan catches up with me and we bike together for the first hour or so. We chat about Australia and I tell him about my travels out there, and he tells me about his life in British Columbia now. My knee is killing me this morning as the cold air is not doing my joints any favors. I bite my lip and press on, hoping that once I get warmed up it’ll become more bearable. If this wasn’t my last big ride, I would have stopped to rest it for a couple days for fear of causing damage, but since I’m almost at the finish line I press on. I stop at the top of a hill to remove my rain shell, as cumbersome and unnecessary as it’s become in the now direct sunlight, and Tristan continues on as I wave him goodbye. He mentions that he might stay at Jedediah Smith State Park where I’ll be tonight, even though it’s a few miles off of the 101.
It was an easy 20 miles to Gold Beach, as odd as it must be to read “easy 20 miles” when referring to cycling, but once you get into the rhythm of your bike tour this is how things start to seem. There was little to no headwind all day, and the terrain was bearable with amazing views of the coast (as usual). I ended up making great time, so I lingered in Gold Beach a bit longer than I normally would have. As I’m crossing town I spot the holy grail of bike tour stops – a used bookstore, complete with a teahouse AND free wifi. Better yet, I walk in and I see my buddy Tristan reading and catching up on emails as well! This was my greatest find of the day and I bask in its glory for an hour and a half while I chat with Tristan and enjoy my tea. The barista is super friendly and accommodating about my freakish-vegan-“how do you live??” dietary needs and this also warms me up inside. After Tristan heads on, I linger for about 45 minutes longer, transitioning from “I don’t want to get up right now” to “I want to stay here forever” before I finally force myself to move on.
Another beautiful 26 miles and I find myself in Brookings, OR – home of the trench coat lady. It definitely has a “southern Oregon” feel to it as I roll into town. As I’m on the northern outskirts of town I pass the South Coast Lumber Company with a sign welcoming me to Brookings. I found it unfortunate that they didn’t add a tagline of “Please enjoy the surrounding forests while you can, as we are actively destroying them.” Maybe they have a suggestions box I can drop a note in next time I come through?
The first interaction I witness while arriving in downtown was a man in a roadwork van have a shouting match with a woman at a fruit stand. I couldn’t make out what they were yelling at first, but as I passed I heard her yell, “BECAUSE I DON’T DO BUSINESS LIKE THAT. THAT’S WHY!” as he responded with, “YEAH BUT BILL DOES!” which was met with “YEAH WELL BILL AIN’T HERE.” I let the battle of “Brooking’s Fruit Stand” rage on as I continued down main street.
Once again I found a McDonald’s, stole their wifi to find vegan options in town and then treated myself to the third restaurant meal of my trip. It’s funny considering that I kept telling myself “one and only one meal out” before the trip started, but this Thai place looked too good to pass up. Plus, I’m worth it! As I’m using the bathroom at the restaurant I noticed some graffiti on the wall claiming that “Bam Margera was here” in 2007 complete with that stupid heartagram symbol. First of all, Bam, you spelled “wuz” wrong. Second, I doubt this was actually you anyway, and even if it was who would care that you ate here? I don’t know, maybe people do. I constantly underestimate the absurdity of celebrity worship in this country, and I pleasantly have been able to avoid much of it by not having steady access to internet on this trip.
Brookings, like most Southern Oregon towns, is patriotic to the point of discomfort for me. I mean, Nationalism is shitty to begin with, but there’s a weird biblical air to some of the stuff I’ve seen in town. I passed a motel that had a marquis out front reading “The patriots blood is the seed of the freedoms tree [sic]” which turned my stomach in a weird way. What the fuck does that even mean? I think. As I’m rolling past, I remember that the 4th of July is coming up in the next few days, explaining the existence of all the firework stands and tattered american flags. I’m filled with a huge sense of urgency to get home before the nightmare known as the 4th of July descends upon the campgrounds across the Pacific Northwest. “Celebrate a place you just happened to be born in that’s divided by invisible and arbitrary borders by blowing things up and scaring wildlife!” What a great way to celebrate the birth of a nation! (Do I even need to say that this last statement is laden with sarcasm?)
I make my way through and out of Brookings, the last town in Oregon, and finally fulfill my destiny by biking over the California border! A wave of emotion washes over me as I spot the “Welcome to California” sign on the horizon, and in that moment I found it so difficult to believe that I’ve ridden this junky 70’s Scwhinn nearly 400 miles across the state of Oregon. Nothing like the feeling of success that only an overly-ambitious and terribly under-prepared adventure can bring. I stop and take about a dozen photos, trying to time my iPodto take photos of me casually leaning against the sign post, and failing miserably in getting a decent picture. Right on the other side of the border I stop to use the bathroom at a gas station in the parking lot of a casino. I find out they have free wifi so I’m quick to post on my social media accounts that I made it to California, and that I now am officially beginning my journey back home. It feels like the end of an era, and yet I’m still very, very far from home.
I breeze through several eery small towns and follow the signs advertising the alternate Pacific Coast bike route. Most of these routes don’t take me anywhere near the coast, and instead I find myself cycling through sweltering farm land. At one point I pass a field of cows just as one of them begins to sit down. As she settles in I yell out to her “Yeah that’s right! Take a load off, my friend! Take 5!” only to realize right after I’m done shouting that the house next door is full of people and has all of its windows down. Leaving no way that they didn’t hear the weirdo on the bike shouting at a group of cows. Fuck it. My loyalty is to the cows.
A few miles past what is now referred to in my mind as “Cow City,” I’m making my way through more farmland and approach a small farmhouse on the edge of a field. Suddenly a small terrier comes running across the backyard barking at me as I get closer. Just as I begin to think “Oh, there’s a fence there, it’ll be fine”, this dog LEAPS through a jagged whole in the chain link fence and charges straight for me! I SLAM on my breaks and almost skid to a stop, missing him with my front tire by inches. Only really missing him because I turned my wheel to the side just in time as he bolted toward me. As I struggle to get a hold of my heavy and awkward bike, he begins darting back and forth, nipping at my feet as he does so. Seconds later a man in a pickup truck pulls alongside me and laughingly says “Oh, that’s Charlie. Just tell him to go home.” and pulls away without a word more. I start to sternly say “GO HOME, CHARLIE!” as he darts back and forth in front of me and gets shockingly close to biting my front wheel. Soon I hear a little girl in the field yelling at him as well, demanding he go home and yelling “BAD DOG!” He refuses to back down, so I try to just pedal off and once again he lunges and out of fear of running him over I stop. The girl storms out of the house and scolds him, and he finally retreats a few paces back from me. I see my moment and take off. He almost pursues me for a second and then gives up as he’s repeatedly told “BAD DOG!” by the girl and picked up and placed back in the yard. That dog was willing to stop me from passing that house if his life depended on it!
Down the road I pass Pelican Bay State Prison, which is weirdly part of this “scenic alternate route” that these signs are leading me down. I figure though that if you’re going to tour the U.S., you might as well see all the prisons, considering that there’s such a huge percentage of people incarcerated in this country. Prison is just about as American as apple pie and lifted trucks after all. A few miles later I meet a couple of goats hanging out in someone’s front yard on leashes, and then the world seems alright again.
I am now in officially uncharted territory. Well, uncharted in the sense that I didn’t print out maps for Northern California, so I honestly don’t know where the heck I am and how far I am from Crescent City. I’m supposed to transfer over to Highway 99 a few miles before I even pass through the town, and I get the sneaking suspicion that I’ve overshot it as the day stretches on. An hour after my first feeling of “Oh shit I’m lost” I enter the city limits of Crescent City. Cursing myself, my bike and anything and anyone else I can blame for this debacle I pull over in the parking lot of a motel to try and pull up a map on my Ipod. As I’m checking the map I realize I overshot my turnoff by about 10 miles, which feels like an insane amount after biking for around 75 miles today already. Angered but not deterred, I finally find a road nearby that’s a straight shot to Highway 99, and the campground that’s listed is just a few miles past that. I make my way across Crescent City, and realize as I cruise that it’s a pretty rough place. I pass run down trailer parks replete with fighting and screaming residents, garbage all over the roads and giant monster trucks roaring past me. I also bike past abandoned factories and mills out on this rural road, a sure sign of lost jobs and economic disparity. Some areas of this town remind me a lot of Detroit, but probably in the next few decades a lot of cities will grow to resemble Detroit as well (I love Detroit though, just need to clarify that).
Amazingly the map I downloaded is still up on my Ipod when I stop to check how much farther I have to go. Unfortunately, the map claims that there should be a campground where I’m standing, but all I see are more goats. I’m now on the rim of the Jedediah Smith State Forest, but no signs indicate a campground anywhere. I’m almost panicked as I’m rounding 80 miles and can’t seem to find my home for the night. I make it to the junction for Highway 99 and decide to stop at a small apartment building to ask for directions.
As I roll into the lot I see a big group of guys replacing a tire on a Ford Bronco, and decide not to bother them (plus the added unease of approaching a huge group of dudes to ask for directions), I pull up alongside a guy sitting on his porch. I ask him if he knows where the campground is, and he doesn’t look up. I ask again, and again no response. I ask again, and this time he finally sees me and says “Uhh…what?” I ask a 4th time and he again says “What?” The 5th time I’m about to give up, just as he starts to sputter something out, because I look past him into the apartment and realize how sketchy this whole scene is. I see people inside rustling around, looking FREAKED out that I’m standing near their doorway, and finally a woman rail-thin with gnarly scratches all over her face and eyes bugging out comes out and asks what I want. I repeat what I’m looking for and she finally calms down, “OH, yeah that’s like 20 miles up the mountain” as she points toward the 99. “Oh fuck, are you serious? 20 miles?” I say. “Yeah, yeah. It’s way up there man. It’s almost all the way at the top of the mountain. I can’t believe you’re riding up there.” FUCK! WHY?!
I start to pull out of the parking lot to take on this stupid and seemingly unnecessary challenge when all the guys fixing the Bronco tire stand up and face me. There’s probably 8 of them, many of them sporting gang tattoos on their faces, and there’s an awkward silence for a few moments. One of them then asks “Where you trying to go, fool?” I answer and they all immediately brighten up as one of the bigger guys, with probably the most facial tattoos, responds in a jovial and warm manner, “Oh yeah man! That’s just right up there! Shit, you’re biking up that mountain?” I respond yes and they all let out a collective sigh, and he responds with “Damn, be careful on that road, homie. There’s no bike lane and people drive like dicks. It’s fucked up.” I agree and tell them I’ve already biked like 80 miles today and I just wanted to sleep, they all seemed pretty impressed and told me that it sucks I have so much farther to go. As I’m about to leave, a skinny guy with droopy eyes asks, “Hey though, you got any trees?” Assuming he meant weed (or “marijuana” for the layperson) I let out an awkward and drawn out, “Uhhhhhhhhhh. No.” and we all have a good laugh. I thank the gentlemen and hop back on my bike, them shouting encouragement toward me as I begin my trek up the hill. Making friends everywhere I go, I guess. What a day.
I begin my last and final ascent of the day, up into the massive California redwoods. It’s still daylight out, but upon entering the state forest it’s soon blacked out, leaving me debating whether I should have put my bike lights on. The two lane highway is not well traveled at this hour, but the people who do travel down it do not drive in a courteous manner and I find myself yelling, swearing and spitting at RV’s and other cars as they fly past me. In what seems like no time at all I begin seeing signs for the state park campground, totally quashing the original estimation given to me by the folks at the apartment building that it was “20 miles up at the top of the mountain.” I’m thankful that they’re wrong, and I pull into the state park sore, tired, aching and slightly lonely. I pull up to the ranger kiosk, and wait a good 30 seconds before the woman sitting with her back to me realizes I’m there. The redness in her eyes and slow manner of her speech leads me to believe that she’s been “doing some pot” during working hours. I pay her the typical $5 for the hiker/biker site and then ask her if any other bikes came in today. She says no, that there was only 1 person out at the hiker/biker area, and I immediately felt bummed that I won’t be seeing Tristan or any of the other people I’ve met on this trip tonight.
I pull into the grounds, and I pick a site that borders up against a massive old growth redwood tree. It must have been at least 50 feet tall, I couldn’t see the top as the glare from the sun was too much to bear. Speaking of bears, apparently one had been spotted at camp recently so I’m advised to keep all my food in the “bear box” in my campground. Normally I don’t bother and just sleep with food in my tent, but this time I lock it in there as I’m instructed. I get my tent set up and walk the 1/4 mile to the showers on a small path through the woods. Upon arrival I realize that the showers cost $1 for 10 minutes, which is an insult compared to the FREE showers that the Oregon State campgrounds offer you. THIS IS WHY I LEFT YOU CALIFORNIA! I think, as I storm out of the bathroom. I pass some kids tossing a frisbee around on my way back and I awkwardly have to walk through the middle of their game to get past. An uncomfortable moment passes as I interrupt their fun and they all silently stare at me as I shuffle down the path. FUCKING DEAL WITH IT!
^Sharing my campground with this fella
I get back to camp and the loneliness of the silent grounds hits me hard. Having shared campgrounds with mostly the same people every night on this trip, it feels odd to be on my own once again. I’m tempted to build a fire, goof around and swim in the nearby river, but with no one to hang out with I end up just climbing into my tent instead and continue reading my Stephen King book. Today was my last day on my bike, and tomorrow begins my hitchhiking journey home. I was originally going to bike up the 99 to Grants Pass, but I’m rapidly running out of time and I definitely have run out of energy. The 80 miles and 2,000+ ft climb to GP to link up with the 5 does not sound like a fun time to me right now, so I’m going to throw myself upon the mercy of the hitchhiking gods. Once I get to Grants Pass I’ll begin a search for a rideshare on Craigslist, and failing that I’ll find an onramp to hitch off of and hope that someone who stops will have room for my bike. As proud as I am of finishing this ride, I have to remind myself that I’m not done yet, and that tomorrow could still be potentially the hardest day I’ve seen this week. It’s still a 5 and a 1/2 hour drive back to Portland, and I could get lucky and get a ride all the way home in one go or I could be stuck on the side of the road all day and never catch one. We’ll see how it goes in the morning, but the 95 mile ride today took a lot out of me and now it’s time to sleep. Thanks for reading, friends. Wish me luck tomorrow.
“Do you remember the good old days before the Ghost Town?” – The Specials
It’s still storming. I woke to the wind howling and the rain falling steadily in the primeval forest. I decide not to push my luck of not being discovered by continuing to stay out here any longer, so I pack my camp quickly and push my bike up and over the hill back toward the campground. I try my hardest to hit a happy medium of “making little noise as possible” and still “looking like I’m supposed to be doing this”. On approaching the back end of my original campsite, I see the older guy in the neighboring plot setting up a fire. He glances at me and quickly turns away, leaving me to infer that he knew what I was up to and wanted to show he didn’t give a shit that I slept out in the woods (G-code). I mentally high five him as as I push my bike through the campground and walk it over to the central bathroom. Feeling confident I’m in the clear, I take my time brushing my teeth and cleaning up before the days ride. I considered showering, but not having a towel on this trip would mean I’d spend the entire day soaking wet from the beginning, and having a forecast for rain all day would also negate any personal hygiene stuff anyway. I scratch that idea and press on, backtracking the 2 miles to the fork I took to get out to this campground from the town of Charleston yesterday.
The fork I return to is a turnoff for a road called “Seven Devils”, which if you think the name sounds ominous you should see the rapid succession of drops and climbs in elevation over this scenic bypass. This is another questionable alternate route my map tells me about, and once again I debate the safety of a less travelled but more hilly road to the busier 101 that has potentially less climbs. I decide to stick with Seven Devils since I already rode out here. As I’m standing on the side of the road looking at my map, I glance up and see a fence at the end of a driveway across the street that has “NO CHRISTINAS!” spray painted in huge bright neon-pink across the front. Baffled and extremely curious about this, I bike across the street to take a photo when I look up and make eye contact with 3 very gruff looking individuals standing on the other side of the fence. They all give me a death stare as I raise my camera phone. Well, maybe it’s not worth taking a photo of, even though I’m tempted to assure these people that my name is in fact NOT Christina and that I’m cool. Moments later I pass a banner that advertises a business as now being open on “Whensdays”, displaying a spelling error that sickens me in a way that only the sound of nails on a chalkboard can do. What is it with this town? How can you pay $100 for a banner and somehow no one stops you to point out that mistake? Fuck this, I’m out.
Seven Devils road is the most irritating section of road I’ve ever had the misfortune of getting to know. I spend a half hour climbing a huge hill, only to be flying down the other side and abruptly climbing another hill of equal size moments later. What’s worse, it’s still storming out, with a debilitating headwind and a fog so thick that I can barely see past the first few rows of trees in the forest. If there is a beautiful view to be seen here it’s lost on me, and that only adds to the frustration. What seems like hours later I finally reach the end of Seven Devils, cursing it’s name and vowing revenge. You just made a new enemy, road.
I roll through the town of Bandon, passing a bike shop on my right while first entering town, and debate stopping to true my back wheel once again. As usual I decide it’s not worth it and press on, in search of tea and wifi. Eventually I land at a place called Brewed Awakenings and order a tea from the stoned-seeming surfer kid at the counter. The owner is also present but she is not very friendly, proving once again that the farther south you go on the Oregon Coast the less people give a shit about you and why you’re passing through. After I take my seat the “Hey, I’m not dead” – “Cool, thanks for letting me know” comes and goes once again; so I finish my tea and head on my way. A side route takes me along the coast in Bandon and I have the pleasure of once again seeing some breathtaking and utterly amazing rock formations. I’ve said this before, but it’s the only way I can describe is like something out of a science fiction movie because it’s difficult to comprehend how nature could create such a dramatic landscape. I then think of Star Trek and in a knee-jerk reaction I blurt out “NERDS!” as I’m taking in this view. My housemate and a few other friends love the tv series “Star Trek”, and I jokingly call them nerds only because I don’t understand the appeal of the show. I’m thankful no one is near by as I blurt this out either, as traveling alone for this many days has kind of numbed my self-awareness and my ability to gauge my social surroundings before I start talking to myself. Well, whatever. I have no one to impress really. P.S. Star Trek is for nerds!
I continue along the rim of the ocean on this side route, seeing a handful of the most luxurious abandoned houses I have ever laid eyes on. One of them was literally on the rim of the cliff with an ocean view, a big “NO TRESPASSING” sign taped to the front door. I make a mental note of it’s location, in case I ever care to open a yuppie-style squat in the near future. A few minutes later I’m back on the 101 and fighting against the headwind once again, giving me, again, the mental image of pedaling through thick mud. As I enter the countryside the light moisture in the air gives way to heavy rains that pound me so hard that I have difficulty seeing my surroundings. It’s unbelievable how hard it’s coming down, so I decide to pull over at a convenience store I spot about a mile up. As I get closer I see a sign advertising something called “Jo-Jos” and “homemade mustard”. Curious about both I pull into the parking lot and set my bike against the ice fridge out front. Upon entering the store I realize “Jo-Jos” are in actuality just potato wedges with a weird name. Excited at the prospect of eating warm vegan food (and only for 99 cents!) I buy a small tray of them and when asked if I want regular mustard or the homemade mustard I of course say “homemade, please”. As I’m enjoying them under an awning out front I get several friendly nods and hellos from the locals who are making their rounds. The potatoes are burnt to perfection and this house-made mustard is packed with sugar and has the consistency of playdough. So all you wealthy fools who brag about eating fresh made pasta at some lavish coastal resort near the Mediterranean, or eating fresh baguettes and drinking wine in some parisian cafe, just remember that I got something pretty rad going on too. I got fried potatoes to eat in the pouring rain in some small, random town in Southern Oregon, so you all can bite me.
A few miles up the road I come across what looks to be an abandoned elementary school. I give it a double take when I realize, and see that the playground is now buried under 6 ft tall weeds and the building itself is shut up with boards. Never missing an opportunity to explore abandoned places I bike over to check it out. The building itself looks empty, minus a sketchy looking mattress leaning precariously against one of the school windows. I snap a few photos and continue on down the road, only to find an abandoned highschool a little more than a mile away. This school had an epic whale mural painted on the outside, which somehow made the whole building look even spookier. The facilities were locked up tighter than the elementary school, and entering the grounds would require me to lock up my bike and scale the fence, a lot more effort than I was willing to exert. I another mental note of the location to return to later and continue on my way.
More wind, more rain, more struggling with massive hill climbs. Every day I consider my “hardest day” always seems to be outdone by the following one. I feel numb, both emotionally and physically, and I just trudge along up the highway because that’s what I’ve always done and what life has seemed to sentence me to always do. This my existence now, I just have to accept it. I take a few breaks at some beautiful rivers and streams along the way, so mentally and physically exhausted that I forget to even take photographs of the things I see. They’ll live in my memory forever, but unfortunately for you you’ll have to go see them for yourself, which maybe isn’t so bad.
I stagger into Port Orford in the late afternoon, my left knee starting to ache a bit. I’ve been fortunate enough to have good knee health for almost all of this trip, due in part to the glucosamine and MSM I routinely take every morning, but eventually the strain catches up with you. I did absolutely no “training” in preparation for this trip and the result is a typical one. I coast through town and stop at a pizza place, the only business that seems to be open at 5:30 pm on a friday evening, oddly enough. At the end of the road I can faintly make out huge letters painted in the road on a slight incline. The 8 foot letters spell out “VIEW OCEAN” with an arrow pointing South into a neighborhood. Instinctively I laugh and say out loud “OKAY.” in a robotic voice, again glad no one was near enough to hear me laughing and talking to myself. I enter the pizza place and once again order tea and routinely request the wifi password for the hundredth time in my life. One thing I love about small towns is you go to cafes that sell nearly every food you can imagine. This place has espresso, burritos, pizza, milkshakes and homemade beef jerky – something for everyone apparently. I ask the cashier how far Humbug Mountain is from here, and like most of the people I’ve met out in the country she relates the distance as how long it takes to drive there in a car. I have to mentally calculate how far a “10 minute drive” would be for me on my bike, and she’s shocked when I tell her I intend to ride out there. She says “it’s probably like, 10 miles or something!” and her distress is only eased when I tell her that I biked down from Portland and she replies “Oh, well, never mind then”. She then adds “it’s also really windy today though”. Well, duh.
As I leave the pizza place I’m tempted to explore this town more thoroughly despite running low on time. As I’m biking across it I see only 3 other people, and all the businesses are shuttered tight for the evening. So bizarre that a town shuts down at this hour on a weekend. I was hoping to find some of the town’s youth to get their perspective on growing up here, as they’re usually the most reliable and honest source of information about what their town is like, but this place is pretty much a ghost town. I eventually find a parking lot with a gorgeous view of “Battle Rock”, a formation just off the coast, and a little placard explaining the history of the town. Apparently, Port Orford is the oldest town on the Oregon Coast, first “discovered” by European colonists in 1851. Amazingly, the history on this placard is pretty honest about the fact that this “discovery” threatened to existence of the Tututni people who originally inhabited the area. The original colonists were attacked and driven out by the Que-to-mah tribe, who pushed them farther North. The colonists then returned later on with more people to “secure” the settlement. The only part of the placard that omitted what some may consider “key” information is that “securing the settlement” meant murdering and driving out the indigenous people in the area, contributing to the genocide of Native Americans already in progress across the continent. But you know, accurate historical accounts are overrated, right?
I continue on and notice that the shoreline is now beginning to get that distinct “Northern California” feel to it and I know then that I’m nearing the end of my trip. Eventually I roll into Humbug Mountain State Park and as usual a wave of relief and satisfaction washes over me. I bike the few miles down the side road, find the check in station (that thankfully allows you to pay with a credit card) and start filling out my camp information. As I’m filling out my card two guys pull up on bikes and I say hello and point in the general direction of the hiker/biker sites since it’s not listed on the map. I immediately like them as one of them points to the “BEER SUCKS XXX DRINK WATER” patch on my hat and says “right on man! I fully agree!”. We strike up a conversation and it turns out that they’re both from Portland, but they both have been living in San Diego for the past several years. They talk like typical so cal surfer guys and it makes me feel a bit homesick. There names are Tanner and Steven, and we walk back up to the hiker/biker area where I see folks who now feel like old friends. Tristan, the Australian guy who’s riding solo, is in the camp across from me, and tells me that he had a hell of a day with 2 flats and a broken bike pump that he had to replace back up in Bandon. A half hour later both Zach and Dan roll into camp as well and it’s good to see them once again also. I meet a Brazilian couple who’s been bike touring for a solid year all over the world, and I’m embarrassed to admit how short my trip is in comparison.
I set up my camp and decide that I needed a fire this evening. I bought a box of minute-rice a few days ago and I’m really, really sick of having to carry it around. It having rained constantly the past 3 days has restricted me from cooking, but I’m not going to let the light rain this evening stop me again. I start collecting the left-behind but very wet firewood across our respective camps, inviting anyone to warm by the fire later, and decide to buy one of the “starters” from the camp host for a dollar. They’re essentially little hockey pucks made out of cedar dust and wax, but they burn intensely hot for a long time and can light pretty much anything. I walk over there and realize I don’t have enough change, so I ask for some from a couple eating sandwiches in a regular camping area and they give me 50 cents. I thank them and head back to my camp after buying the starter, starving and eagerly wanting to eat and end this day. I get the fire going and break out my cookware. Tonight’s dinner is rice, chana masala and bombay potatoes out of my last 2 Tasty Bite packets that I brought along. Tristan comes over to toast a bagel and pretty soon both Steven and Tanner walk over to hang out at the fire as well. We all share stories from our trips and Steven and Tanner both have hilarious ones. They tell me about a day they were at a laundromat in Brookings, OR where a woman in a trenchcoat with a really intense gaze tried to convince both of them to come home with her. These kids are both probably in their early 20’s and were understandably freaked out by this encounter, which they laughed about when they confessed this part of the story. They also told us about a night they spent on the sand in Northern California, which they thought to be legally allowed. They picked a spot hidden between some cliffs on a secluded section of beach, and awoke the next morning to a coastguard helicopter hovering just 50 ft above their camp. Freaking out, they packed up their stuff and managed to run down the sand and off the beach with their bikes as the helicopter landed on the shore! We all howled with laughter at that, and both Tristan and I promised them both that we’d be careful and watch out for the woman in the trenchcoat when we got to Brookings.
The fire begins to die out, normally a signal that the party’s over. I say goodnight to everyone, adding to Steven and Tanner that I hoped to see them around Portland when I got back. I truly meant it, they were both super nice guys. I also said goodnight to Dan and Zach, who had a long night of drying their wet clothes by the fire ahead of them. They bought an entire cart of firewood to do so, and by the size of it it looked as if they were going to be up all night. I laid down in my tent, curled up in my sleeping bag and continued on with my Stephen King book. Even though it’s still raining, life is starting to feel ok again, and my mind drifts to my day in Brookings tomorrow. I originally was going to stop just south of Brookings for the night, rounding out a decent ride, but looking at the map it saddened me to think that I’d be that close to the California border and not continue on. I decided that I was going to go for it tomorrow and try and get to a state park just outside of Crescent City called Jedediah Smith, since that was also on highway 99 which I’ll be transferring to. This would make almost a 100 mile day, which would be my longest since the trip started, but I feel confident that I can make it happen. It will potentially be my last day riding, so even if my knee gives me trouble again I’ll be able to stay off it while I hitch back to Portland. Chances are also that this will be my last night with all the people I’ve come to know on this trip as well, since the state park I’ll be staying at is a few miles off the route that everyone else will be taking farther south. I’m sad, excited and enthusiastic all at once as I think about accomplishing the goal I set for myself tomorrow. Now I must sleep, as tomorrow will be the longest day yet and is filled with unknown pitfalls and challenges. Sleep well my friends, I’ll be seeing you soon.
“The drifting night / begets my footsteps / I press this pavement / until my feet scrape / in the back of my head I / saw you in the back of / my head I found a knife / dangling from your face” – Pg. 99
ffffffFFFUUUUUUCKK. I shoot bolt upright in the midst of a terribly vivid nightmare and find myself both relieved and disappointed all at once as I hear the pattering of the rain on my tent. Relieved to be out of the nightmarish hellscape that was playing in my head, but disappointed because now I know I face another difficult morning, and probably another difficult day. I decide not to dawdle, the longer I stay warm in my sleeping bag the less I want to leave, and this kind of situation can be an incredibly slippery slope. I have a long ride today, since I didn’t get as far as I intended to yesterday, so to stay on schedule I really need to put in a solid day of riding.
I pack up most of my things, put on my now slimy and still-soaked shoes that I stupidly left out in the rain all night, and patted along the muddy path to the bathroom in my sleeping outfit to brush my teeth. Every step I take I feel my toes squish in my canvas sneakers and pretty soon a sickening, off-colored bubble of foam starts to form from the toes of my shoes from all the friction. I spot Dan and Zach at the entrance to the showers and I greet them. I’m incredibly fortunate to see them it turns out, as I was in such a rush to leave Beverly Beach yesterday that I forgot my Glucosamine, MSM and vegan multi-vitamins I take for my joints. Zach thoughtfully packed them in his bag, carried them all this way and now hands them over. Vegans stick together! Turns out they had to get a regular campsite last night, as all the hiker/biker sites were either taken by the time they got there, or horribly flooded from the heavy rain. They had to bite the bullet and shell out the money for a regular campsite, which is never fun. Zach checks his phone for vegan spots in Reedsport, since that’ll be the next town we roll through. He always seems to use the seemingly now obsolete website Happy Cow, which I actually hadn’t even thought about it in years since it never gets updated. Often times you check that site for vegan friendly places in towns and upon arriving at the restaurants you find out that it’s been closed for 5 years. I make jabs at him every once in a while for still using the site, but I respect the fact that people want to keep it alive.
I walk back to my tent and reluctantly dress back into my already wet and freezing cold clothes. At least I don’t have to go through the whole process of getting soaked again, I guess. I packed as quickly as my cloudy head would allow me and I pushed my bike out of the now mucky campsite and out of the state park altogether. Still regretting not being able to check out the sand dunes yesterday that lay not 100 ft from where my tent was. There’ll be a next time I’m sure, but this thought brings me no comfort unfortunately.
Biking soon warms me up and I forget about the rain for a little while. I make it into Reedsport, which definitely has a very southern Oregon feel to it. I pull over at a Mcdonalds to steal their wifi and I spot the Canadian bike trio I saw up in Lincoln City inside at a booth. I’m pretty sure I recognized their tent last night at the campsite as I was settling down for bed, but I’m not positive. I’m not totally sure either if they actually ate any food here or if they were just getting out of the rain, but I’d be amazed if they actually ingested any of that garbage and intended to bike the rest of the day. Ethical issues with Mcdonalds aside, the most iron-clad stomach couldn’t hold down their food and bike 80 miles afterward, this I’d be willing to bet on. As I was checking for tea houses nearby they all poured out of the Mcdonalds and one of the women greeted me. They told me they’ll be staying in a cabin tonight at a KOA site just to get out of the rain and dry themselves. KOA is the biggest ripoff campground chain that has ever existed, and I implore you NOT to spend your money on that garbage. They managed to find a cabin there though for $80 that they said they’d split between the 3 of them. They assured me it was a good deal, but I remain unconvinced. Nothing good can come of a KOA campground, even if it means sleeping indoors for a night.
I internet finds me a natural food store up the road and so I bike over and lock up out front, leaving my panniers on the bike. There’s nothing all that valuable in them, and at this point I’m confident that the likelihood of someone robbing me in these small towns is pretty low. I slosh in through the double doors, leaving a trail of muddy water behind me. I try to walk in circles in the store to try and disguise the fact that it’s me, but I doubt that it worked. I find the coffee shop in the back and order a hot chai from the incredibly unfriendly proprietor. I kept trying to be cheery and gracious but I was met with indifference at every turn. As I take a seat a tourist couple comes in and the woman uses the bathroom, but as she’s about to exit she neglects to buy anything. She seemed genuinely interested in getting something from the lunch counter, but she audibly complained that they were sold out of soup. Immediately the cashier fires back “So what, you just use my bathroom and don’t buy anything???”. Flabbergasted she gives half an explanation and then quickly walks out. “Dude, what IS this place?” As I settle in my chair and take my first sip of tea, Careless Whisper by George Michael comes on the overhead. I decide that life is ok in this moment, as the corniest saxophone line that has ever been written wails across the cafe.
I make my visit to the unfriendly health food store brief, and as I leave I reconsider my position about the “one meal out” blanket rule I had for this trip. I noticed in my online search earlier that there was a chinese restaurant at the end of town that seemed to have a lot of vegan options. I’m not going to lie either, the photos made their food look irresistible. I decide to treat myself considering the night I had, and the day that lay ahead of me. I parked my bike near a booth window so I could keep an eye on my stuff, and the server was friendly and said she was glad to see me out riding my bike. Another table full of older folks nearby jumped into the conversation and said the same, that they were glad I was out here on my bike getting exercise and seeing the coast. Then they all started talking amongst themselves about biking and how important it is for personal and environmental health, with the server encouraging them to get bikes and start riding around town, even if it’s just “biking to church on Sundays!” (I do not recommend this destination). She was super helpful when it came to the menu too, and when I ordered a tofu dish she warned me that it had beef broth in it (seriously? why??). She told me it could be made vegan though, and as she entered the kitchen I heard her shout at full volume “HEY JEFF HE’S A VEE-GUN. NO BEEF BROTH!” and heard an affirmative sound in response, not unlike a grunt.
My food turned out to be glorious, and I drank the entire pot of green tea they gave me. It was a good idea to stop here. No regrets here at all. Even better is I look outside and see the sun start to poke out from the clouds! Knowing Oregon this is going to be short lived, but for the moment I’m glad that I don’t have to go back out into the storm. Out front I change out of my wet socks and into my last dry pair. My shoes are still soaked, but I fear getting a rash if I continue on with my socks as wet as they are.
I leave Reedsport on a good note and continue on through the forest with the sun shining weakly down on me. I finally feel my rain shell start to dry, and within an hour my shorts are almost completely dried out as well. I start to make good progress again despite the howling wind threatening to blow me over into the road. Pretty soon I’m racing down the side of a hill, holding one hand on the handlebars and the other on the top of my head to prevent my hat from flying off. All of a sudden I hear a massive *ROARRRR* as a motorcycle flies up from behind me, dips into my emergency lane and comes within a foot of hitting me while revving his engine as aggressively as he could. I hold my ground in the lane and try not to be shaken by it, if I lose control of my bike at this speed there’s no way to get it back and I’ll end up going over a railing into who knows what. As he passes I see it’s one of those typical Harley Davidson-loving, cool dad-vacationing, wild-hogs watching fuckers that I see every once awhile at campsites. His motorcycle is purple, with a stupid looking tribal decal on the back and a woman riding behind him who he was probably trying to impress. I am seething with fucking anger, especially since this piece of shit is supposed to be on my side. Two wheels, you fucking bastard. I burn the image of his bike in my mind, hoping and wishing to myself that we happen to stay at the same campsite this evening so I can greet him with a face-full of bear mace which he so rightfully earned.
I reach another bridge, which typically means I’ll soon be entering a town. This time it’s North Bend, and as per usual I hit the “Bikes on Roadway” button to alert cars of my presence. I decide to bike on the sidewalk as I have on the other bridges so far, even though the signs advise you not to. I find it to be much safer than riding in the road on some of these bridges. I’m greeted by stormy winds that I fight with on the narrow sidewalk so I don’t topple off the 2 ft high curb into the road. The bridge is so long it takes me about 20 minutes to get all the way across it, and with such intense focus it’s a relief to relax my arms as I roll off the sidewalk and into the road on the other side. North Bend seems nice, and it reminds me of a mix of equal parts Astoria and North Lake Tahoe, if you’ve been to either. I also get a strange military feel from it, but I think that’s due in part to a Coast Guard Helicopter swooping low over the town over and over again.
After a brief ride across town I find a Safeway and park my bike. Dan, one of the Seattle guys, joked with me that it seemed that all the riff raff in these small towns seem to congregate around the Safeway parking lot. I decide to test his theory as I eat lunch on a bench out front. Sure enough I see a lot of sketchy characters drift through in my half hour there, including a bearded man with a basketball leering at a couple of teenage women, crouched forward, and talking to himself while holding the basketball at crotch level. I also see a woman yelling at her kids as they’re unloading the cart into her fancy SUV. The little girl is standing halfway on the cart and the mother starts to yell “STOP it! You’re starting to make me really MYADUHHH!” in a way that leads me to believe she’s shouted that way since she was a child.
Breezing through North Bend, and passing over a small section of Coo’s Bay, I finally find myself in Charleston. Here I teeter across an insanely windy bridge as I make my way into the tiny fishing village. The town reeks of fish and it instantly rubs me the wrong way as I see a “breakfast barn” with 5 ft tall letters spelling “BACON” on the side of their roof. I stop at a convenience store to use the bathroom briefly, see a few really depressed looking teenagers and decide I can benefit nothing from hanging around this place.
Soon I’m climbing a hill on the south end of Charleston which encompasses the last few miles before my sleeping spot for the evening. I come to a fork that I don’t remember clearly from the map, so I take out the now tattered and soggy piece of paper to take a brief glance and get my bearings. As I’m standing in the road partly up the hill, a kid on a mountain bike comes FLYING down the hill past me, screaming as he passes “THE STORM IS COMING, MAN!” I instinctively wave and thank him as I take a look to the sky, where near-black clouds are forming and the wind begins to howl even stronger. Fucking shit, what’s next?!? I hop on my bike and start working my way up the hill as quickly as my legs will allow to race against the impending doom looming above me. Eventually I reach the turnoff for the state park, which is about 2 miles off the main bike route, meaning that it’s 4 miles roundtrip to get out here. According to my map this place is the only park in the area that has hot showers, so I think it’s going to be worth the extra distance and effort. I follow the signs for Bastendorf Beach, now nearly frantic as I power up into the state park. Eager to set my tent up as quickly as I can before the sky opens up and I spend another night in a soaking wet tent. The hectic winds are already spraying me with light moisture so I know a heavier rain is coming soon.
After my last and frantic sprint up the hill into the park I finally roll into the campground and bike straight toward the check in station. The building that normally houses a park ranger that you check in with upon entry is closed, so I bike over to a self-check in station a few yards past it. SHIT! It’s cash only, and I don’t see any information about hiker/biker sites on the campground. I think as I realize there’s no card to fill out credit card information. Unfortunately for, and unwisely of me I didn’t stop to get cash out before I got here. There also wasn’t any indication on the map about any of the cheap hiker/biker stations, but that’s not unusual as the park rangers usually have a difficult time locating them on the state park maps as well.
I see the camp host scooting around in a golf cart near another area of the campground and I wave her over. A small girl is running alongside the cart as well, who I assumed was here with her family. When the golf cart reaches me the woman jerks the wheel to the right to come to an abrupt stop just as the little girl side steps to her left while running alongside. The cart comes screeching to a halt and misses taking the girl out by literal inches. “SEE! That’s why you can’t run alongside the cart, honey!”. I try to return my eyes to their normal size and get a hold of what I’m sure was clearly a very shocked look on my face before I start to speak to her. I had no time to waste, so our conversation is as follows:
“Hey, how’s it going? I don’t see any information on here about hiker/biker sites on the campground. Can you show me where they are?”
“Oh… yeah… well there aren’t any hiker spots here.”
“Well, on this state map I have *unfolding my map* it says this place has the cheap hiker/biker sites.”
“Oh, well then yes… yeah we have those. You can camp in any of these spots on this loop behind me.”
“yeah, but they’re not hiker/biker are they? They’re not listed that way on this map and there are cars over there. It says here it’s $16 to camp instead of the usual $5.”
“Well… yeah… they’re uh… hiker spots. Just choose whichever one you want and fill out the card. They’re $16.”
“Uh… ok… thanks”
As she drives off panic starts to hit me. I don’t have any cash, I’m miles from anywhere I could get it, and even if I had it there’s no way I’m paying $16 just to camp here for the night. It’s too stormy to even have a fire, so essentially I’d just be paying to sleep in a dirt lot and use the shower. I get back on my bike and start to pedal past the sites in the camp loop, seeing that the camp host went off in the direction of her trailer. I bike to the far corner to a campsite that seems to have the most privacy; the back of the site touches some open woods, and on either side of it are head-high bushes that obstruct the view to most of the camp. I set my bike on it’s kickstand and stand there for a minute, weighing my options and trying to think as quickly as I can. The sun’s going down, and it must be around 8 o’clock at this point, so I wonder if the host is done with her rounds for the night. I could potentially just set up camp, sleep here for the night, and get up early like I’ve been doing and leave before she even has the chance to check on me. The storm could also be a deterrent for her as well, since the wind has now picked up to an eerily forceful strength. No, I think. She already saw me roll in here and there’s no way she’s not going to come by later to make sure I paid. Ugh. At last I glance behind me and gaze off into the woods. There’s a small and rarely used path leading up and over a grassy hill into a very evil looking forest. Without hesitation I grab my bike and start pushing it down the path, momentarily glancing over my shoulder to make sure the older guy camping solo next to my site can’t see where I’m headed. As quickly and as silently as I’m able, I drag my bike up and over the grassy hill, and head in a straight line out into the dark woods.
A short distance into the woods I come to the rim of a cliff. Just below me is the road I biked in on, and there’s a small patch of open and level ground that I deem good enough to pitch my busted tent on. I clear some logs and debris out of the patch and realize the ground is incredibly soft due to the thick top layer of moss. I set up my tent as best as I can in the howling wind, and quickly place everything (bike included) inside. On nights where I felt questionable about the safety of my bike I’ve brought it inside my spacious 3 person tent, and tonight is no exception. After loading all of my gear into my tent I stand and hover just outside of it, feeling extreme anxiety about being discovered out here. I’m filled with dread thinking about having to repack all of my gear, bike the few miles back into town and have to find another place to sleep in this storm. My paranoia only increases as I hear children playing and yelling off somewhere in the campground, terrified that they might run out into my guarded nook in the forest. I could just see them returning to their campsites to regale their parents with tales of a strange, bearded, tattooed man sleeping illegally out in the woods. Well, to be fair I really have no idea if sleeping out here is legal or not. If I’m discovered I decide that I will assure whoever finds me that I somehow have the states permission to be camping out here on an undesignated plot. Who knows, it could even be true. That doesn’t matter really though, if the camp host doesn’t know what a hiker/biker site is I’m willing to bet that she doesn’t know the law concerning public lands, and regardless of what the law actually says I’ll still attempt to bullshit my way out of it. I’m willing to fight tooth and nail to just put an end to this day and be able to sleep peacefully.
I stand outside my tent studying my map for about 45 minutes, and I decide that if by 9:30 I still haven’t seen anyone come up and over that hill than I’ll be safe for the evening. This is of course a totally arbitrary deadline, other than having a placebo effect on my ability to settle in and finally get comfortable. So I check my map and mentally calculate how many days I’ll have till I’m in California to keep my mind occupied, but the thought of that even overwhelms me. I then focus on my days ride tomorrow, which is around 55 miles spanning from the edge of Charleston to a campsite just south of Port Orford called Humbug Mountain State Park. The forecast calls for rain again tomorrow, according to a sign I saw at the entrance to the park. Every day of this trip so far I’ve decided the night before how far I’m willing to ride the next day, always having fall back places to camp if for whatever reason I’m unable or unwilling to reach the park I’m trying to get to. According to my map there are a few state parks between here and Port Orford, but they’re all miles off my main route and from what I can tell not worth the extra effort, so it looks like it’s all or nothing out to Humbug Mountain.
9:30 comes and goes, and I finally decide to climb into my tent and settle in for the night. The wind is still howling and rain is starting to fall steadily; though the gnarled, dry trees that make up this forest are doing a decent job of protecting me from the elements. I still fear that a dead branch is going to break free from the tree and land on my tent, but that’s something I’ll worry about when the time comes. I get into my sleepy shorts (aka basketball shorts, because I’m a bro) and climb into my sleeping bag. Now that I’ve been off my bike for a couple hours I actually start to feel the cold air again so I’m thankful to have the 0 degree mummy bag I brought along. I realize I haven’t drank enough water today as I’m feeling strangely dehydrated, which is odd considering how damp I’ve been for the last 48 hours. I pull out the book I’ve been reading on this trip, “Different Seasons” by Stephen King, and I read a considerable amount of one of the 4 novellas in the book called “Summer of Corruption”. Without giving away any of the story, it is fucking brutal, and the suspense was amplified greatly by the storm rattling my tent and the silhouettes of the gnarled trees moving around outside the canvas. Every branch cracking or leaves brushing the forest floor put me on alert for being discovered, and only added to the suspense of my book. This is where my life has lead me this evening, reading this intense book in the middle of a primeval forest and braving a storm with nothing but a rickety fabric tent and a sleeping bag. As unpleasant as a lot of this day has been, I recognize that it is nights like this one that serve as a bench-marker for the times that I’ve felt truly alive, regardless if that was a pleasant experience or not. I envy your safe sleeping quarters this evening my friends, but I’m still thankful to be out in the world tonight. Sleep well.
“The storms are on the ocean / the heavens may cease to be / this world may lose it’s motion, love / if I prove false to thee” – The Carter Family
I woke up this morning a little past 8 am again, my body is kind of settling into a new schedule it seems. One thing I enjoy about sleeping outside isI rise when the sun does, and that in turn means I usually get to bed at a reasonable hour. Plus, there’s nothing like strenuous athletic activity to remind you that when it comes down to it “food is fuel” and “sleep is for recharging”.
I get fully packed up around 9 am and said my goodbyes and goodlucks to the few other cyclists I’ve come to be familiar with at these camps. Some of them I’ve seen only once before, but I can tell a camaraderie is building between us. I mount my bike and coast down the hill that the hiker/biker site is on and pedal out of the state park. I hung a left on the 101 and take the first few strides toward another long day of cycling.
It’s freezing cold this morning, and the air is heavy and damp. The fog is almost as thick as it was last night and I feel the need to wear my rain shell due to the crisp air. It takes me about a half hour to warm my legs up so they stop moving like rusted machinery, but once I get my rhythm back I’m jamming down the highway and making good time. Before I know it though the short 6.5 mile ride from the state park to the town of Newport is over and I once again am cruising around a new place and taking in the sights. Newport isn’t much to look at though, I gotta be honest with you. It seems pretty industrial and downtown looks just like a long, tattered, chewed up old strip mall. Probably not too unattractive when I take into account a lot of other place I’ve visited over the years, but after cycling through these quaint and extremely beautiful coastal communities, Newport seems to be in stark and unfavorable contrast.
I stop at a small market to stock up on supplies, including some athletic tape since my hand is beginning to form a painful palm bruise. The bruise started to form partway through my ride yesterday, and this morning it’s killing me to a point where I mostly ride one-handed. I didn’t bring bike gloves with me unfortunately, so wrapping it in a $2 bandage seems to be a cheap, temporary solution to this problem. The old worn rubber grips on my Schwinn cruiser bars probably weren’t designed to be comfortable for 400 mile rides, but how was I supposed to know that? Haha. After I stock up on what I need I cross the street to the Starbucks where I use their wifi and do my “not dead” checkin once again. I don’t bother getting a tea as there’s a massive line flowing from the counter all the way out on to the patio where I’m sitting, as much as I may want one this morning. Heavy, sleep laden eyes bore down on a sweaty punk guy as he uses the facilities without intending to purchase anything. “FOR SHAME!” I imagine them screaming. I can hear the irritable tone in their conversations, and it seems as if they’re probably all a moment away from strangling one another if it meant that they could get their coffee before someone else. I’ve grown tired of this town already, so I head on my way, not looking back for a second.
I continued down the highway at a good clip until I caught up with the Australian guy who I recognized from the campsite last night. I chat with him for about 15 minutes while riding in his draft, and eventually overtake him while bombing a hill and tell him I’ll see him in the next town. About a half hour later I start to see a lot of pretty impressive rock formations as I’m flying down the highway, and soon I see signs for “Seal Rock” coming up pretty soon. I decided to take a break and pulled into a turnout to check out the view. There weren’t a whole lot of seals within view, but the chain of tiny islands that sit just off shore was definitely worth the stop. Eventually the Australian guy caught up to me and pulls over as well. We exchange pleasantries and I find out his name is Tristan while we both chat about our individual rides. He’s riding solo as well, from Vancouver, BC where he’s currently living, and all the way down to San Diego. He had a considerable beard consistent with someone who’s been on the road as long as he had and he also was wearing a pretty cozy looking pair of boardshorts that I secretly envied. As is the same with pretty much everyone I’ve interacted with who’s bike touring I liked him pretty much instantly. I think it says a lot about someone’s character if they’re willing to hit the road solo, armed only with a bicycle and a tent, cover a huge distance on a small, human-powered machine and leave everything behind for an undetermined amount of time. Pretty soon Tristan and I are joined by a woman I non-verbally refer to as “the woman who never talks”, who I also recognize from the last camp and infer is riding solo as well. She pulled up about 10 feet behind us and gave us a small wave while she checked out the view. I lingered for a few more moments but decided to keep going before I got too comfortable and it gets even more difficult to press on.
Hours later I find myself climbing yet another massive hill. It’s still foggy out, and the air is becoming increasingly more damp as the day progresses. Soon I feared it would start to rain and make this ride that much more difficult. The headwind today has been considerable, and already my muscles were straining to keep a pace that I feel satisfied with. I realized I’m incredibly hungry now, on the verge of “hanger” (so hungry that you get mad) so I decided to pull off at a convenience store at the edge of an RV park at the crest of a hill. I bought an iced tea and asked if I could use the microwave for my Tasty Bite packets. The woman is extremely helpful and chats me up for a long time while I meander through the store. Even though I’m in a hurry and I’m starving I politely carry the conversation since she’s being so kind to me, even setting me up with plates and cutlery to better enjoy my food off of. I took my food to the benches out front, and as I’m eating it begins to lightly rain, which then gives way to pouring rain. I am not in the mood for this right now I think. My only hope is that this rain will cease in the next couple of hours, but my experience growing up on the coast of southern California tells me that a storm could be coming soon.
I pedaled on through the pounding rain, some moments even losing my vision because the rainfall is so heavy. I try to get in a positive mindset and stay focused to the task at hand, recognizing how this trip is proving not only to be an incredible physical strain but a mental one as well. Eventually I make my way into Yachats, which now I start to think will be my new favorite town on the Oregon Coast. It’s small and full of kite shops, surf shops and cheery looking people having a great day in spite of the rain. I pull off the 101 and follow signs to a Post Office, where I drop in some postcards for friends near and far. Even though it’s the middle of the week, nearly every Post Office I’ve seen in these small towns is closed, or only serve as PO box stations. I thankfully bought postcard stamps already so I wasn’t put out by it, but it’s definitely something I need to keep in mind next time I stop.
Regretfully I pedal through Yachats and continue on my way, stopping to snap a few photographs of what I fantasize to be my future place of residence. Soon I cross town and I’m back out in the woods, laboring down this two lane road. Some town folks in Lincoln City warned me that once you get south of Newport the roads considerably change for the worse, and that it becomes less touristy and less populated from there on out. So far this seems to be the case, as the road gets rougher with every mile, the emergency lane had whittled down to being only a foot wide, and on my right is usually either a sheer drop off a cliff or a 5 feet drop into a ravine; sometimes with no guard rail at all. I’m spacing out at this point in my ride, thinking a bit about the rain, about my sore muscles and about my hand which still stings even with the bandage protecting it. The next thing I know I feel my bike start to drag to the right where the ravine drops off, and before I can correct myself I know that my balance is going to send me into the ditch. “oh SHIT!” I yell as I careen off the road, barely getting my front wheel up to prevent myself from flipping over my bars. I drop 4 feet down into the ditch with a heavy thud, my elbow and ribs hitting the side of the road on the way and my upper body flopping partially into the lane of traffic. I immediately scramble to right myself as I have no idea if there are any cars approaching from behind. Thankfully there are none, and as I swear and spit I drag my heavy-as-shit bike out of the ditch and then check the wheels and the components for damage. Thankfully, and amazingly, there seems to be none. Both tires are still inflated and soon as I start biking I carefully watch both wheels for even the slightest wobble. There are none, so at least I have that to be thankful for. Unfortunately my shin, elbow and ribs are now killing me. I cracked my ribs on that side several times over the course of my life from skateboarding, so slamming down on the concrete just now didn’t help much with that at all. What a day this is turning out to be.
Checking my map I realize I’ll be approaching the one and only tunnel I’ll have to cross through since I skipped over the other that’s just south of Astoria. This is the “Cape Creek” tunnel near Heceta Head, and the photographs I saw of this tunnel did not prepare me for the ominous cavern that loomed on the hill, beckoning me toward it to receive my fate. The grade is incredibly steep here, and there is absolutely no emergency lane to bike in anymore. What’s worse, there are massive, two-trailer semi trucks flying past me on this road despite the rain. They kicked up mist and instilled terror in me as they passed me going 4 times my speed. After a struggle up the hill in my lowest gear I reach the mouth of the tunnel. A button sits on the edge of the bridges and tunnels on the coast that sets off a series of lights that warns other drivers that we’re passing through, as well as legally reducing the speed the cars are allowed travel through certain sections. I feel these warning lights are a placebo for the cyclists at best, and drivers typically do whatever they want with impunity and without remorse. I stop for a moment to catch my breath, sit at what almost feels like a “starting line” and prepare for my mad dash through the several hundred feet of tunnel ahead of me. In one motion I slam my palm into the button and the race is on! I get both feet in my straps, shift up and start jamming through the darkness as quick as I can, 2 bike lights blinking on the back of my seat post. Thankfully the car directly behind me slows to the required 30 mph, and eventually matches my pace to protect me from other cars in the narrow passageway. The cars behind this thoughtful person start blaring their horns in anger, creating a deafening sound that multiplies and magnifies in the stone tunnel. What the fuck, man! I almost utter, but I stay focused on the task at hand. A few moments later I inch my way out the other end of the mountain side and breathe the fresh air of victory, only to realize there’s still no emergency lane and another formidable climb ahead of me. Fuck this day. Seriously.
Through asthma induced wheezing and legs feeling like they’re made of rubber, I finally approach a plateau where the grade levels out and offers a view of the ocean. I pull over in a turnout and take a look at what I just accomplished with this mad dash up this towering cliff, and my prize is the view in front of me now. The heavy fog still looms in the air, presenting a sinister and spectacular view of the Heceta Head Lighthouse a mile or so down the road. Directly beneath me a group of Sea Lions lounge on a series of rocks, one of them sleeping directly on his face with his arms splayed in every direction. He’s immediately my favorite. My wheezing and my enjoyment of this jaw-dropping view is only interrupted by an older woman who approached me and asked me where I was biking from. I told her that I started in Portland a few days ago and I’m met with the now expected “that’s great! good for you!” response. She’s friendly and we chat for a minute, and I thank her for considering how fucking scary and dangerous it is out here for bikes and as I tell her about some of the more disrespectful drives today she yells curses into the air.”You’re cool”, I think “but I gotta go”. She wishes me luck and I thank her again.
Soon I reach a small building with a very full parking lot, and I realize these are the Sea Lion Caves I saw on my map as I was going over it last night. If you pay a fee there’s an elevator that will take you down into a cave where you can view the Sea Lions in all their slumbering and barking glory. As tempted as I was to take the elevator, I was totally broke, and instead I set my eyes on the counter that had about a dozen different types of fudge on display. I ask the woman behind the counter if any of them are dairy free, and I get an immediate response that all of them have cream and butter. “FUCK!” So I grab a few postcards, including a pretty awesome holographic one and head on my way.
The grade eases up a bit once I pass the Sea Lion Caves, and even though I’m still powering up the side of this impressive cape in the rain, I breathe a small sigh of relief as I think the crest must be coming soon. I eventually make it to the visitors center for “Devil’s Churn” and decide I should stop and ask about where I can find “Thor’s Well”, one of the main things I wanted to see on this ride. The park ranger was really helpful as usual and marks it on a map for me, explaining that it’s really simple to find. I take a short walk across the parking lot and take a look at Devil’s Churn, which is a narrow crack in the rocks that traces back all the way to the base of the cliff. The tide flows through the ravine and as waves crash around inside the mist it creates sprays to a considerable height. I film it with my camera phone to show friends later and go back to grab my bike. The ranger tells me it’s all downhill from here till the turnoff I need, and I reach the spot in less than 5 minutes. Excitedly I rush back and forth along the railing overlooking the rock formations to try and find the well. I can see some of the formations he mentioned, but no sign of Thor’s Well. I find some info placards along the railing but not one of them mentions this geographical oddity. I finally saunter over to the far corner of the railing where I see two women standing and I ask them if they know which one is Thor’s Well. They say they were wondering the exact same thing, and that the only thing they think it could possibly be was a tiny little hole in a rock several hundred feet away and inaccessible by foot. It doesn’t look to be churning in quite the way the ranger said it would be, but I take a photo of it and several other rocks just in case and decide to look it up later. Another anti-climactic end to what I built up to be so exciting! I told probably 10 other people about how I wanted to see this thing on my trip down, and none of them had heard of it, and now I know why. Well, whatever, at least I got to see it… I think?
Fuck, it’s still raining. Hard. Maybe I don’t need to mention that, but I’m thinking I need to illustrate how thoroughly soaked I’ve been all day. My shoes are squishy when I walk around, and if I wasn’t biking all day and keeping my body warm I’m sure I’d be at risk for all kinds of nasty colds. After a lot more rain I finally roll into Florence and stop at the Fred Meyer at the edge of town to restock my protein bars and get something to make for dinner. As I’m locking up out front I see the woman who never talks, and we both wave to each other. She locks up her bike and heads inside a moment after I do. I perused the fruit and vegetable section when I spot her again and I went over to chat. I’m guessing by her accent that she’s probably German, and though she speaks English really well I understand the shyness of speaking a language that isn’t your first in another country. We talk about our days and she tells me she was thinking of getting a hotel room that evening to get out of the rain. I tell her I’m envious because I wish I could do the same in light of having had a hard day, but unfortunately I can’t afford it. She asks if I have a place to sleep yet, and the way she phrased it confused me as to whether she was offering to share her hotel room with me or if she was just interested in where I was staying. I decided to assume that she was just interested in where I was staying, and I tell her I’m staying at another state park about 5 miles south of Florence called Jessie M. Honeyman. As I’m answering I see a look of disdain drift over her face, and for a moment I wonder if she really DID mean for me to infer that she wanted me to stay with her. Awkward as can be I quickly change the subject and eventually end the conversation to collect the rest of my supplies. Weird times. As I’m packing my bag to leave the Fred Meyer an older fellow walks past me and remarks with a smile “Looks like you brought the rain with you, thanks a lot!” and gives a small laugh. I smile back, all the while thinking “ha-ha, fuck you. Rain jokes. So good.”
It’s been a rough day, to say the least.
*Squish, squish* goes my shoes as I saunter across Florence on my bike, which I’m rapidly finding out is another town I’m less than impressed by. The sand dunes down here are pretty awesome though, and I do have a good laugh as I coast past a church called “Our Lady of the Dunes”. What were they thinking! I bike past several towering sand dunes that I regrettably did not photograph, due to my desire to get to camp and end this difficult day. One street I biked past dead ends at a 30 ft sand dune towering steeply above the sidewalk, which makes for an otherworldly sight. Soon enough I finally roll onto the side road that leads to Honeyman state park, a place that is surrounded by beautiful sand dunes. I see signs all over for rides in sand buggies and ads for dirtbike, quad and sandboard rentals. Unfortunately the weather won’t permit me to enjoy any of that today, but I’d gladly settle for a full nights sleep.
I approach the ranger station, pay for my site, and receive a terrible explanation as to where the showers are located on the property. I don’t bother asking for a map because it’s raining so hard at this point that it would just disintegrate into my hands. I arrive at my spot and begin to unpack my tent as quickly as I can. Unfortunately the long day leaves me disoriented and irritable, and I wrestle with my ramshackle tent for 15 minutes before I finally get it to sit upright with the rain guard on. In that time my tent had filled up with a considerable amount of water that added more to my frustration. I actually say out loud to my tent “I’m sick of your shit!” and toss my bags inside and storm off toward the showers in my still soaked clothes. Thankfully I managed to borrow some really nice waterproof panniers from a friend back in Portland, so at the very least I’ll have a dry sleeping bag and a dry pair of shorts to wear tonight when I sleep. I have to stay positive here.
I walk to the showers, literally peel off my clothing and stand in the hot water of my private room for probably 45 minutes. I put my head against the wall, closed my eyes, and let the water warm my whole body and tried to chase away my blues. What a day, what a fucking day… and it’s still pouring rain out. I mean, it’s raining harder than I’ve seen it rain in a long time, and I don’t even want to begin thinking about having to put on these wet clothes again and go back out into it. Since they’re already soaked anyway I use Dr. Bronners to wash my clothing in the show, so at the very least I’ll have the benefit of them being clean. I painfully and regretfully put my wet clothes back on and trudge back to camp to fix my crappy tent and get ready for bed. I left the bathroom with a huge roll of paper towels to try and soak up the water trapped on the bottom of my tent, and after about a half hour I finally get everything dry enough to feel comfortable taking out my sleeping bag. I sit completely still for another few minutes afterward to pinpoint all the leaks in the tent, where they drip and how the water pools. The moisture is just sweating through the rain guard at this point, and the only way to avoid getting drenched over the course of the night I have to sleep in an extremely awkward position. Almost like a giant question mark.
I pull out the Stephen King book I’ve been reading and it’s almost enough to chase off the thoughts of wishing I was home, warm and in my own bed. This is the first night that I’ve felt the pangs of being away from home and it’s hitting me hard. I could tolerate almost anything right now just as long as it would STOP FUCKING RAINING; but no. I have to endure it with no warm food, no dry clothes and no fire. Somehow I’m extremely dehydrated as well, a reminder that I forgot to drink enough water today even though I’ve been drenched for the past 10 hours. A lesser, and possibly wealthier person would throw in the towel, bike back to Florence and get a hotel room. To be completely honest, if I had the money I might have, but that’s not the hand that I was dealt here. I read for a bit longer until I’m confident I’m tired enough to be able to shut my eyes and not wake again till the morning. I’ll deal with whatever I have to deal with tomorrow. This night is sad, lonely and cold, but I’ll survive regardless. At least this day is over and I’m another town closer to my goal. Goodnight my friends.