"Saying goodbye to my friends and family has been tough. Last night, it hit me: I'm not just going on this trip by myself. I'm going alone."
I hate good-byes. They're such awkward moments. I'm genuinely unskilled at the art of parting -- no matter the relationship or circumstance. So as a result I tend to avoid them, or procrastinate if they're inevitable.
The latter was applicable on the day of my departure. I woke around 6 am and was ready to hit the road by 7 am. But, true to form, I puttered around for a good 45 minutes before finally doing the hugs and waves and riding off into the sunrise.
That 45 minutes of puttering ended up costing me.
But first, some background. Richmond is a suburb south of Vancouver. It is on an island, and someone who wants to head south has two options: go through the George Massey Tunnel, or take the Alex Fraser bridge. Bikes aren't allowed through the tunnel. The bridge is a good 7 miles in the wrong direction. After much debating, I decided I would take the bike-rack-equipped public bus through the tunnel.
My father offered to drive me through the tunnel, and even out to the ferry, about 10 miles further south of the tunnel. I refused. He insisted. I stood my ground: this was a bike-riding vacation. While I might get lazy further south, I definitely wanted to start off on the right foot -- or pedal. In any event, there was something incredibly significant about cycling away from home that I just didn't want to pass up.
So around 7:45 am, I hit the road. The bus stop was about 2 miles away. While I pulled up to the bus stop intersection, the bus roared through. So, I missed my first bus. Great start to the trip.
The next bus came about half an hour later. I made it through the tunnel, got off the bus, and then attempted to reattach all my bags to my bike. My bike fell over three times. It wasn't until several weeks later that I discovered the benefit of wrapping an elastic band around my left grip, to be used as a parking brake on my front wheel. Anyway, after three attempts I was back on the road.
My family has a long-standing tradition that every road trip must start with breakfast at McDonald's. Not one to shirk tradition, I stopped just down the road and consumed my requisite Egg McMuffin and then hit the road again.
Now, I was finally, really on the road.
"Cycling to the ferry was rather uneventful -- Highway 17 has good shoulders. Saw two falcon/hawk-type birds sitting on posts, but they weren't into photos. After a few miles, I realized that if I didn't pick up the pace, I'd miss the 9:00am ferry. So I pedal hard for a while. Then, I think -- man, that ferry's too far away. I'm not going to make it. So I take it easy. Turns out I missed the ferry by about two minutes."
Remember all that I-hate-good-byes-puttering back at home? Now I had to wait an hour for the next ferry.
While I was waiting I discovered a card my parents had slipped into my bags. It contained US$100 ("Bonus! That's an extra 5 days on the road") and the card read:
There's a lot of talk about angels these days and about all the things people say they can do. It's not always easy to know what to believe, but it certainly would be nice to have a few angels in our lives. I picture them as being near us day and night and especially whenever life seems trying and difficult. I like to think that angels are taking special care of you right now, and I hope you can feel their gentle presence, day by day -- Just as I hope you feel the nearness of all the loving thoughts of those of us who care so much about you. -- Eva Allen
Steve: A little extra $ to splurge on a special meal or a night in a motel for some extra zzz's and a hot shower. I hope this trip is all that you hope it to be. I admire your spirit and courage to set off on your own. Remember we are with you in spirit and look forward to hearing from you. Take care of yourself, enjoy all the opportunities that come your way and take time to enjoy and experience the people you meet. Love you much!! Mum =) & Dad
I carried the card with me for the whole trip, and still have it -- although it's a little beat up now.
I rode onto the ferry at 10:00 am, and it was so boring that I can't for the life of me remember what I did to entertain myself. Around 11:00 am, however, I realized that we were nowhere near Schwartz Bay (the ferry's destination). This meant that I was probably going to miss my connecting ferry to San Juan Island, which left at noon from Sidney, four miles down the road.
The ferry docked at 11:50 am. I decided to go for it.
4 very tiring miles later, I missed my ferry by 10 minutes. All because I hate saying goodbye. Fortunately, there was another one at 6:00 pm. Only six hours to kill!
My first lunch of the trip consisted of reconstituted refried beans, sausage, and cheese wrapped in a pita, and a carrot. Very tasty! After lunch I rambled around Sydney, getting myself thoroughly bored. I spent the last of my Canadian money on chocolate. The lady didn't seem very impressed with my need to get exactly $1.95 worth (after tax). For some reason, I had expected everyone to be extraordinarily friendly and helpful now that I was a touring cyclist. I guess I was wrong. Maybe I just needed some touring cyclist practice.
I met some people while I was getting on the ferry! My first touring cyclist friends. Peggy and Alice were riding their bicycles around the Pacific Northwest, camping and bed-and-breakfast'ing. They were eventually going to Seattle, but at a much slower pace than I was. I left them in Friday Harbor, San Juan Island's main town, and rode four miles to my campsite at <"a href="http://www.lakedale.com">Lakedale Campground. I set up camp, made some preservative stew, and went to sleep. I was supposed to ride back to Friday Harbour after setting up camp to meet the ladies for some beer, but I was just too tired, and it had started to rain lightly. They were supposed to be staying at this campground the next day, so I would look for them then.
"I think I'll stay another day on this island -- just the four miles to this campground were absolutely beautiful. I should still be able to get to Seattle by Saturday, when people are expecting me."
"What a great day. If the rest of my trip is like this, I'm never going to stop."
I woke up at 7:30 am, feeling great even though I had a little bit of trouble sleeping because of a stuffy nose and uncomfortable pillow. Breakfast was couscous with four packets of orange marmalade swirled in. Not bad for a first attempt at a recipe.
I'd already decided to stay another day so I could run into Peggy and Alice again. I rode back to Friday Harbor to see if I could find them, but no luck, so I cycled back to camp. The camp store was now open so I rented a fishing pole, bought some worms, and went fishing. Lakedale Campground has two stocked lakes with trout and bass. I sat there, staring at the water, for several hours. It's amazing how sitting takes on a whole new meaning when you're fishing. If I was sitting waiting for a bus, it would have seemed like hell.
Anyway, I sat there for a few hours and then suddenly a fish jumped out of the water -- with my fishing line attached to it! I reeled him in: an 11" rainbow trout. Lunch is served!
"Which brings us to today's topic: death. I'd managed to catch the fish, and even though he was mostly behaving, he still made it pretty clear he didn't want to be caught. How can I kill him? Gasping for air. Staring at me with his big glassy eyes. Actually, only one eye because the other had been poked out with a hook. I contemplated chopping off his head right then and there, but that didn't seem right. Too... painful? Extreme? I seemed to remember that severing the joint between the gills at the base of the head would kill the fish. So I went for it. He didn't die. He bled a lot, though. Man, am I cruel. I grabbed him and my gear and carried him back to camp. Then, I did the surefire thing. I bonked him on the head. He still didn't die, but he sure calmed down a lot.
What a horrible, painful way to die. I'm sorry, Mr. Fish. Mr. Rainbow Trout eventually when to the great lake in the sky due to asphyxiation. Then I cleaned, skinned, fried and ate him. He didn't look very good while I was skinning him -- I had no idea what I was doing -- but he sure looked good covered in mayo inside some pita bread."
After lunch I went for a bike ride down to the other end of the island, and stumbled on the most amazing place. It's called the Afterglow Vista Mausoleum. You follow a fire road into the woods for a while, and then come across a gate. Just beyond the gate, set on a little rise in the middle of the woods, is a stone platform with stairs leading up to it. On top of the platform is a circle of stone arches. In the center of this circle is a stone table, and around the table, one in front of each pillar, are stone chairs. On the back of each chair is a name and date.
This has got to be the eeriest place I've ever been. I half expected to turn around and see some semi-transparent apparition in 18th century clothing standing behind me, tapping his foot expectantly. One of the chairs had dates along the lines of "July 16, 1890 to July 16, 1890" -- that is, one of the people remembered there only lived a single day. And, to add to the mystery, there are six chairs around the table, but room for seven. A big chunk of the pillar behind the missing chair is gone.
The mausoleum is a place of great serenity. It gave me a huge sense of peace, and respect. I spent about a half hour there, filled with awe.
After leaving the mausoleum I followed the fire road for a while then took a smaller hiking path back to the main road. The path took me through a cemetery (I did say today's topic was death, didn't I?). I spent a few minutes looking at the graves, just wondering.
From there I cycled to British Camp, an old British Military outpost from the Great Pig War. The great pig war was a war between the United States and the British (this was pre-Canada). Apparently, some farmer's pig had gotten shot by accident, and there was a big fluff about it. No one actually died in the war. In fact, there were no battles and the two sides frequently had each other over for parties and dances. Ah, the good old days. A truce was eventually negotiated and as a result, the United States officially took ownership of the San Juan Islands.
From British Camp I hiked up Mt. Young. Halfway up I stopped at another cemetery. This was the cemetery where the soldiers from the British Camp were buried. Most of the deaths were drownings. One of the graves was a stone erected by a man who had shot his brother by accident.
The top of Mt. Young gives a nice view to the north and west of all the islands. It was interesting to think that a hundred years ago, a soldier my age had done exactly what I had done, hiked up that mountain and stared at the same view with the same wonder.
I biked back to camp and tried to catch dinner. I got a lot of nibbles but eventually ran out of worms. Dinner was preservative soup again. Still yummy. I was just about to get into my tent for the night when Alice walked by! They were camping at the absolute farthest other end of the campground. I walked over there and helped them set up their camp, and they offered me dinner. I refused, they insisted. Then, I remembered touring cyclist rule #1: never refuse a free meal. After dinner we made a campfire and sat around eating Toblerone, drinking wine, and talking about traveling. I was amazed at the amount of traveling they do. How can anyone afford it? Then I realized how much money I blow on stuff. It's all a matter of priorities.
"Today was another good day. Happy me. Nice and sunny most of the time, although a bit cloudy in the afternoon, and the wind has picked up a lot."
I said goodbye to Peggy and Alice this morning and promised to send them a postcard. I had breakfast at a café in town, and took the ferry over to Fidalgo. I got a little bit lost -- the guide book doesn't always keep up with street names or follow obvious routes -- but a beautiful woman in a bikini who was washing her car helped to orient me. She was very impressed with my trip, and I rode off feeling very happy with myself.
The route wound in around by the water for awhile, and the views were excellent. Deception pass is the channel dividing Fidalgo Island from Whidbey Island. It's called Deception pass because when George Vancouver was exploring, he thought the two islands were just one. Then, he realized he'd been deceived when he found this pass. Then, he almost crashed his boat going through the pass because the current is so strong.
After Deception Pass the route heads inland, passing through strings of small towns, farmland, and an air force base. I passed a billboard that read, "The Sound of Freedom", referring to the noise all the jets were making. It made me wonder -- what exactly are Americans so afraid of?
I had lunch at a Taco Bell, carefully liberating several packages of hot sauce from their fast food prison. Small condiment packages are very important when you're cycle touring. Fortunately, Safeway has lots of, um... "samples" available.
I rode through some beautiful farmland before getting to Ft. Casey. From there I took another ferry over to Port Townsend, then headed to the state park, in an old military base overlooking the town.
By the time I got there the office was closed, so I rode over to the campground and the hosts showed me where to go. I met another cyclist there: Ted. He's going north. We didn't talk much.
Dinner was some absolutely delicious curried potatoes and lentils. I cooked way too much and ate it all. It's a good thing losing weight isn't one of my goals for this trip. After dinner I had a shower -- my first of the trip. It was the best $1.50 I'd spent in a long time. I also brought all my dirty clothes in with me and washed them as best I could. After all that I went for a walk through the forest and down to the beach. It was pretty cold, so I wrote a bit in my journal then headed back to camp. It was also pretty cold during the night, and the forest noises gave me the willies. Do raccoons attack people in tents? It also struck me that I was camped pretty close to a decent size town. What if a bunch of restless teens decide to go for a walk in the woods to harass the resident transients? I didn't sleep very well.
"Another great day!"
I woke up to find a raccoon watching me. Every time I turned my back, it'd look for something to steal. It even tried to make off with one my sandals. It finally satisfied itself with the remnants of a bag of Doritos. I tried making Bisquick biscuits for breakfast, but just ended up with a burned yucky mess. My stove has three settings: hot, really hot, and thermonuclear. Needless to say, none of those are applicable to the delicate art of baking. I cleaned up the mess and strapped all my still-wet clothes to the back of my bike, hoping they'd air-dry before I needed them. By 9, I was back on the road. After about a mile I stopped at an Internet Café and paid $5 to send some emails back home. Whatever happened to all the free stuff that touring cyclists were supposed to get? I guess I didn't look poor enough yet.
Port Townsend is right at the northern end of the Olympic Peninsula and catches all the wind coming down the Strait of Juan de Fuca. It was pretty windy with lots of clouds. As I was to realize later, I'm generally not a happy biker until after lunch.
"The day started out very yucky, with lots of headwind. Port Townsend is a windy place. Once I got inland, though, I really started cruising. I spent a lot of time up out of the saddle, pulling 5 or 6 strokes, resting, 5 or 6 strokes, then resting. I think this helped to keep my endurance up. I also think that this is only possible because my legs are stronger -- and boy are they strong. Massive muscles are appearing everywhere."
The guidebook warns of a significant 700-ft climb about halfway through the day, and says to load up on carbos before attempting it. Not one to pass up a recommendation to eat, I stopped in Quilcene, home of the largest oyster hatchery in the world. Do oysters really hatch? What do oyster eggs look like?
I sampled some of the local cuisine: oyster burgers! The first was so good, I had another. Now fully loaded with carbos (and more than my share of french fries), I tackled the dreaded Mt. Walker hill.
Ha! No problem. I stopped in an antique store at the top, but it was full of crap. The back roads are full of antique stores, drawing old people in motor homes like flies to one of those zap-lights.
My planned destination was Dosewallips State Park, just on the other side of the hill, but I when I got there at 3:00pm I was feeling so good I kept on going. 15 miles later I had completed my first metric century (100 km = 62.5 miles).
I stopped for dinner at "Penney's Bent Fork". She had all-I-can-eat greasy spaghetti for $3.95, and it was delicious.
I finally arrived at Potlatch State Park, only to find both of the hiker-biker sites taken. Fortunately, Dave and Sharon from Albuquerque were willing to share to their site. Sharon is a quiet, slightly dull triathlete. Dave is a typical loud, opinionated American. He likes to touch himself when he's talking -- stroking his chest and stomach. Interesting. Anyway, we talked for a while about life on the road. They're taking the same general route as me, but I'll be heading off for a side trip to Seattle tomorrow so I probably wouldn't run into them again.
"There was a German couple in the other site. They didn't respond to my general request for a place to pitch my tent, and when I came back from my walk along the beach they were holed up in their tent. Antisocial, or maybe can't speak English. Either way, too bad."
"Today started well..."
I didn't sleep well again last night, feeling cold and cramped. I was also worried about my bike and bags. I've heard stories about animals chewing through panniers to get at the food and side, and so every time I heard a noise I flashed my light outside to make sure it wasn't a varmint. It wasn't. I woke up around 7:30 am, and was on the road just after 8:00 am. I cycled to a roadside farm and grabbed a peach and some cookie-type things to supplement breakfast, then hit the road again.
I was cruising along, happy as can be, watching the scenery along the hood canal. Then, out of nowhere, these two huge pitbull-type dogs came charging down their lawn. No problem, I thought, there's a ditch between them and me. Except for the driveway. Whoops. Fortunately, I had a head start and I just gunned it. Still, it was close. For the rest of the trip, every time I heard a dog I would jump.
"Anyway, after another hour or so I was getting hungry so I looked for a place to eat. Couldn't find anything suitable until Belfair, about 25 miles into the day. Unfortunately, suitable meant McDonald's. My Arch Deluxe didn't provide quite the same jump that my oyster burger did. By this time, I was feeling quite lethargic. I kept looking for places to park for a while, but eventually went all the way to Bremerton -- about 35 miles. From Bremerton, I hopped onto the 6 Lanes of Death highway, still no energy. Stopped at another McD's for a milkshake and sat on their lawn for about an hour, reading. Man, it was hot. Probably nothing compared to what it'll be like in California, but still, it was hot. My nose is starting to sunburn.
Just before the Six Lanes of Death highway I had stopped to confirm directions. The nice guy at an RV sales center pointed me in the right direction, but warned me that the terrain got pretty hilly after awhile. Feeling cocky from my hill climb the previous day, I figured I could handle it. I was wrong.
"From McD's to Southworth was pure hell. Hardly any shoulder, and up down up down really steep hills. Plus, I had zero energy. About 6 miles of shit."
The hills to Southworth were the second steepest of the whole trip. The biggest problem was that there were about 6 of them, one after the other. You'd get to the top, and gun it down to the bottom, but only have enough momentum to coast about halfway up. From there, it was granny gears and, in some cases, get off and push. Plus, my bike was starting to make some funny noises. I later figured out that one of my reflectors was rubbing against my spokes.
At Southworth I got on the ferry to Seattle. The ferry docked in West Seattle, and I met my friend Laurel about halfway to her house.
"I had dinner at a greasy spoon Chinese restaurant near Laurel's apartment, run by a guy named Wah. The place was tiny, one table and 7 or 8 chairs along the counter. Wah served up the best Chow Mein I've ever had. He's really friendy (if a little slow with the service) and he's developed a great little entourage.
While we were waiting for our food, a two-and-a-half year old and her grandmother came in. They were obviously regulars -- the little girl knew Wah's name and was happy to see him. The way the girl carried herself was interesting. She was really cute and very intelligent. Her grandmother, however, seemed to belong to the uglystupid crowd. Preconceptions don't always apply. It's not just genes that bring about smart people: sometimes it's a lot of love. And, Wah's place was surprising. A yucky restaurant like many I'd been in -- and been revolted by -- but Wah's excellent food and the camaraderie of his restaurant made my day.
My preconceptions get in the way too much."