Week ending Sept 21st 2009

Cannon Beach, further south, was a lovely little beachside community with overpriced restaurants and loads of now vacant ‘resort spas’ and ‘lodgettes’. Quaint, overpriced versions of chalets, apparently.

The thundering surf sounded not dissimilar to the roar of the freeway, but the view was serene and the pollution far reduced.

Thick forest and a beautiful coast were enduring elements of western Oregon.

Haystack rock, Oregon

Highway 101 wended through both and whilst the scenery remained spectacular, with rocky headlands and volcanic rocks interrupting the corduroy waves in the sea, the (slightly more prosaic) quality of the tarmac remained astonishingly erratic. ‘The Oregon Coast Bike Route’ proudly displayed its occasional signs to remind car drivers of the presence of cyclists, but the hard shoulder on which said cyclists were meant to pedal came and went with the wind. The fact that a 6′ wide shoulder exists in town for an entire 200 metres does not mean that it will continue to the State boundary, nor the County boundary nor even the town boundary. And don’t even get us started on the ‘quality’ of the road surfaces… The phrase ‘joined up thinking’ has clearly not been heard in these parts….

The wind was our friend for much of the way south as it either blew us down coast, or benignly blew sideways.  We stayed with a lovely couple in Pacific City whose house overlooked the village and the ‘haystack’ rock in the sea, beyond. Vicki and Bill fed us and watered us and the following morning, we said goodbye - in the pouring rain. Our clean laundry didn’t stay clean for long.

By lunchtime, having appreciated the coastal scenery in the wild autumnal rain and the freezing wind, we pulled into a little cafe in the town of Lincoln. Time for a cuppa and a change of clothes. Our waterproof jackets, which we admittedly hadn’t washed as per the instructions, had let the rains in. As we stood analysing the state of them, a coincidence of the greatest magnitude occured - In walked Tooey and Matt, the owners of Rab…!! For the uninitiated, Rab are the best outdoor clothing company in Britain. (Commercial plugs are of course allowed, it’s our website…. :) Matt duly inspected the fabric and agreed that, whilst we should have washed the garments before our sweat and the road pollution had clogged the pores, he would replace them both for us. Marvellous. We had a cup of tea and chatted then left all the happier for the meeting. Thank you Tooey and Matt, and the very best of luck with the US and Far Eastern businesss conquests!

As luck would have it, one happy incident was neatly counterbalanced by one unfortunate incident. As Joff cycled away from the cafe he noticed that his rear wheel had cracked rather badly. Now if only the owner of SUN Ryhno rims would turn up…..

A day in Lincoln was therefore required. Internet homework on bike wheels and bike shops ensued, and on the morning of day no.2 we took a bus into Newport to get a new rear wheel. The bikeshop was fab. Whilst the replacement was in fact a disc brake version of a SUN Lite, it was replaced in 15 minutes as we sat upstairs in the cycle tourists suite, with tv and computer at our disposal. We weren’t even charged for the labour. What a great service…!

We jumped on the bus to head back north and noticed something that had occurred to us originally on the way south. That the users of the bus were those who had no cars. Several on parole, someone returning from hospital, someone visiting a friend in prison, and one or two who wouldn’t be allowed licences on medical grounds. It was a real eye-opener for us. In Britain many people use buses, not only those who have no other means of transport. It was also quite humbling to note that the bus driver was also social worker and part friend to those who jumped on and off.

With the new wheel we whizzed along. The hills remained short and sharp, but the sun revisited and the temperature soared. Apparently this was now unseasonably hot weather. It promised late 80’s or even 90’s by weekend.

After Wakonda Beach we saw Rob and Susan again, and met them in the evening at Jessie Honeyman State Park outside Florence, another strip mall town with little to delay us except lunch.

Hiker-Biker camp sites are those areas dedicated to anyone who arrives without a motorised vehicle. As well as in parts of the mid-west, Oregon has plenty of such areas. They tend to feature small areas of grass, lots of mud, and some trees. Another view might be that they are the areas in the site that nobody in their right mind (and in ownership of a car) would want to stay overnight.

The next day was Joff’s birthday. Hoorah. The feeling was a little like our arrival into Anacortes. No flags. No waving crowds. Not even a cinnamon roll for breakfast, we stood under a tarpaulin with Rob, Susan, Eugene and Dawn and we drank tea - and packed our bags in the rain. The coast is so verdant for good reason.

Much of the last ‘x’ hundred miles has been dotted with strings of development, pockmarking an otherwise pristine natural environment. It seems to us - though we’re happy to be corrected - that the only control on development is the interruption of the State and National Parks, which thankfully dot the coastline. The foresight and will of various politicians in the early years of Statehood protected the most beautiful areas of the coastline for all, rather than those with lots of cash and limited architectural taste.

The State Park at Bandon was even more serene and green than the previous one. Well organised, with rangers and campsite hosts, these places are welcoming and friendly after days dodging RV’s and trucks. Even the hiker biker area was ok.

We rolled along, helped by some good tailwinds. The trees blew and the ocean continued to crash on the rugged shoreline. In terms of appearance, some of the coast really is world class.

Nesika RV park, however, is not. Dodging the doo doo and finding somewhere flat to pitch was a challenge, as was exiting the shower room in a cleaner state than we entered it.

Week ending September 13th 2009

The ride south began in earnest. The roads were clear (we left at 9am) but REALLY REALLY hilly. Deception Pass was a magnificent gorge through which cut the ocean, ebbing and flooding between Skagit Bay and the Strait of Juan de Fuca. There were dotted beneath us, as we stood on the rather high suspension bridge overhead, a dozen motor boats, anchored against the swift currents, as their owners fished in what appeared to be a competition. Individuals stood on the shoreline, motionless from this distance, seemingly entranced by the actions of the fishermen which appeared, from the bridge, to be very subtle…

The sun was out, the roads were quiet and we enjoyed the ride. It was pretty. Hills were steep but short and the hillsides were covered in trees and bushes. We found old growth trees whose branches were entirely covered in moss.

Peering into the forest we saw an almost primeval view. The only interruption to the vision was the monster growl of unnecessarily large trucks, with monster suspension and fat winter tyres, which we could hear approaching from a distance of 11 miles. Whilst much of the car-driving public in the US has been courteous to us as cyclists, the occasional truck driver continues to blot the copy book, and thereby distort the otherwise excellent record. On the plus-side however, Joff has to breathe in every time one of these truckers passes - which can only be a good thing for his waistline.

We pedalled slowly and wobblishly up the hills. By early afternoon, we began skirting a delightful little lake called Mason Lake, and climbed a particularly steep hill when Ray, a chap who had passed us a couple of times already during the morning, stopped and offered us his cabin on the lake for the night. He didn’t live there, but opposite, with his wife, Joy. (Good name.)

However, the cabin looked as though it was well used. It was full of furniture, a TV, food in both the cupboards and in the fridge/freezer, and there was wine, beer and soft drinks galore. The floating dock in his back garden was easily accessed and two deck chairs suitably positioned on it. Who could refuse…? What a lovely offer. We sat on said deck chairs on said dock and relaxed. We were on holiday, after all. Two cups of tea later and Joff was snoring loudly enough to drown out the jetskis and light aircraft that occasionally whizzed past.

Bright and early next lunchtime we packed and left. The thought of Ray and Joy’s kindness stayed with us, and simply helped to reinforce the fact that people really are very kind and that it is, in the simplistic life of an ordinary person, the kindness of strangers that helps the world go round. Though money helps.

No sooner had we left the cabin than we met Forrest, an American chap cycling from Seattle to his home in LA. We cycled the roads with him for the day through some verdant rolling scenery and along one last river before arriving in Porter, a one horse village - which was supposed to allow camping behind the convenience store. Hardly convenient for us, the new tenant spoke no English and kept shaking his head - as if trying to say ‘go away cyclists’  - so we headed up one last hill and asked a chap we met along the way whether we could camp in the local churchyard. Better than that, he said, you can stay in my garden! As we were setting up camp, his daughter in law came by and seemed rather concerned about our presence. There had apparently been a history of some of the local yoof using methamphetamine in the woods just beyond their home, and the trouble that was caused afterwards.

After chatting for a while, we were allowed to stay. The kindness of this family, despite  ongoing concerns with a rogue element in society, was quite humbling.

In the thick mist and heavy dampness of the next morning, we packed our gear and left early. It was, after all, early September and we were still in the northern States. The air remained cold and the mist lingered for several hours as we cycled along a pretty river valley.

We had a lovely day’s ride through the south Washington countryside, still managing to find every hill in the area up which we crawled. The place was overwhelmingly verdant, and the shadowing heavy along the roadsides. Trees of huge proportions grew wherever they could, and moss clung to the branches. Rivers rushed by and we continued in a generally upward direction.

We had arranged to stay in a cabin on an RV site, care of the ‘warmshowers’ website, and duly rolled in to find a beautifully kept place with one cabin awaiting occupants. The owners of the site had decided recently to offer a free night’s accommodation to any cycle tourists who happened to pass their way, in exchange for - nothing -

We didn’t even manage to meet the owner during our stay, but thanked the reception staff next morning for the use of the place, which was very welcome. This theme of the kindness of strangers seems to be developing with no input from us - save to report it to you, dear reader.

The old and new growth forests continued the next day. The roads were quiet for the most part and we had fun riding along. A huge Chinese lunch at Safeways did slow us down rather, but we trundled onwards, until we hit the road which ran along the Columbia River, east/west, towards the sea. This road follows the State line between Oregon and Washington, and whilst picturesque and winding, it was heavily trafficked. The weekend promised two car shows, one in each direction, with us caught in the middle - which meant that petrolheads of all persuasions whizzed up and down the highway all day.

Some of the vehicles that passed us were beautiful examples of 1950’s and 1960’s Chevvy trucks and cars, painted in fancy colours and given rather shiny wheels. Others were too fast to see….

The car really is a dominant aspect of society in the States,  where (almost) everyone drives one and has at least one other in the driveway (or yard). In many cases, cars are left to disintegrate into the garden, carefully tucked underneath rambling foliage or left as objet d’art in the drive to collect moss and drop into pieces. From my rather unscientific assessment in which the likes of Mori and YouPoll were studiously avoided, I have noticed that the worse the state of the garden and the poorer the type of accommodation, the greater the number of cars and/or trucks in the grounds. Furthermore, in analysing the data more closely, I have found that the ratio of trucks to cars increases with the diminishing quality of habitation. A status symbol of sorts. But in any event, these places are not contenders for ‘cottage garden of the year.’

Suffice to say, whilst the scenery was grand, we didn’t enjoy the road which wended along the Columbia. Joff even suggested in his darkest hour that if the weight of traffic continued along the coast, a train to San Diego might be in order….

Anyway, we arrived safely at Cathlamet, on the Washington side, to find a couple on a tandem that we met at the RV site, and Forrest, parked on the riverfront enjoying the views and trying to avoid the intense heat of the sun. Today had been in the 90’s. We chatted together then all wandered off into the lovely town of Cathlamet for a pizza of mythical proportions.

The next day was set to be a ride up and down some unnecessarily long hills to get to Astoria. As such, we left in the cold mist of early morning to catch the 7.30am ferry across the Columbia to Oregon. We rode across a bridge onto Puget Island (still in Washington) then across the island to the car ferry, a small flat bottomed boat that carried between 9 and 12 vehicles - and us. We set off on a ferry glide across the river, and arrived, 20 minutes later in Oregon, at a rough-looking dock which hadn’t changed since time began. Trees literally engulfed us as we rode off the boat and into the woods. Having said that, within 10 minutes we came upon a splendid little cafe en route to Astoria where we met Jim and Vicki, a local couple who had driven across the island to have breakfast. Breakfast duly commenced - which they very kindly offered to pay for - and some lively chat about the state(s) of America. It is constantly refreshing to meet people who demolish one’s stereotypes of a people. Thank you Jim and Vicki. Happy days.

Bon appetit..!

More busy roads and errant RV drivers.

Astoria came and went. The maritime museum was fascinating. This town, like many up and down the coast, began life because due to the fishing industry. Chinook salmon c0me and go up the Columbia as nature dictates, and so therefore did the fishing fleets. Up until the 1920’s this town was largely constructed on poles located in the water, as there were literally dozens of canneries gutting and canning the fish for sale worldwide. At one time, this was the salmon canning capital of the world. Then the fire of 1922 burnt much of the old town down; after which they retreated onto dry land.

The mouth of the Columbia river and the sand bars across it, have been hazardous to boats of all sizes since it has been navigated. Today, special river pilots and bar pilots are used to steer the enormous tankers and cargo ships into the river from the sea. At any time, more than half a dozen ships can be moored in the river, pointing up or down stream as the tides allow.

Week ending September 6th 2009

As we have traveled across the continent, we have noticed that, estate agents in particular, use terms such as ’settler’, ‘homesteader’ and ‘pioneer’ in their attempts to appeal to people to whom they are trying to sell houses or land (or lots).

In the east, people seemed to be ’settlers’, as though they were established and comfortable with their lot. In the mid-west, ‘homesteaders’ was the name given to the farmers who created their homes and businesses on the land. It seemed to apply equally to the people in the more suburban areas to whom the image was also being marketed.

In the west, from Montana onwards, ‘pioneer’ has been seen frequently. It doesn’t strike us that there are actually any pioneers here, just people making a living alongside the almost tangible feeling of history that the marketers use in their promotions. Ranches, farms and lots with large houses, or space for large houses to be built, are all traded, despite the alleged downturn in the economy.

In Minnesota and Wisconsin, many farmers were hiving off land into parcels and selling it. It need not be on the edge of established towns, but could quite easily be in the middle of an established farm. Arable land it seems becomes residential if the farmer so wishes it. Immediate communities were being created from the corn fields. This could be seen as settling the land or pioneering, but not in the true sense of the word. Those days have gone. The indians are in reservations, the threat of famine has largely subsided and the supply of fresh water is almost guaranteed. People might drive like they’re in the wild west, with guns on their rear parcel shelves, but on the mainland at least, they probably pay taxes and tow the line.

Not so on the islands. On San Juan, we heard several stories, from thoroughly reputable folks, of people ‘living off the grid’. We’d heard this phrase first in Idaho, where some lived without any mains electricity, but on the islands it seems many people lived without electricity, gas or mains sewage. We went into one particular home which featured an outside shower and loo, with the most lovely views across the islands. Solar heating of water, burning wood for heat and using compost loos seemed to be quite commonplace. We heard of people literally carving themselves a space in the forest and building a small cabin. A digger with a back hoe creates the road, and bingo, a home ‘off the grid.’ This struck us as being about as near to pioneering as one might get. Though ironically, given the somewhat ‘freespirited’ nature of this form of development, estate agents would probably never get to use their favourite phrase  - as these sorts of developments would probably never come onto the open market….

Week ending September 6th 2009

A terrific week ended as we sailed out of Orcas on the international ferry to Sidney, on Vancouver Island. John had cycled with us to the terminal (to ensure we departed his island) and we said farewell. The sun had gone as we headed for Sidney. We now aimed for Richmond, BC, just south of Vancouver. The ferry times didn’t allow us to make it all the way in one day so had in advance contacted John and Kumiko, a lovely couple from Sidney, who welcomed us into their home. Over dinner we learnt of the Canadian government’s handling of the Japanese Canadians who, during the second world war, were required to sell everything they owned within 48 hours of being notified of their imminent internment in various parts of the hinterland. The suspicions of the goverment didn’t seem to stretch to the German and Italian Canadians who lived here during this time, as it seemed they were only concerned with the Japanese threat. This part of the population, who did nothing to arouse suspicion, were interned until 1949…. Now, I’m no Dr Starkey, but I am fairly sure the war ended in 1945. What on earth were they doing for 4 extra years…? Answers on a postcard, please.

The ferry took us to Tsawwassen, where we caught a bus to Richmond. The driver was an interesting chap and said that our journey that day was free of charge. People really are very nice, aren’t they?

We found John and Beryl’s place in Richmond, a large and rather plush condo in southern Vancouver which made us feel like high quality hotel visitors. We met these friends of Joff’s parents’ and the first question they asked after the introductions, was ‘would you like a nice cup of tea first, or a shower….?’ Marvellous…!! It was a difficult choice, but we managed to accommodate both without too much trouble.

John and Beryl were great fun and happily ferried us around the city - which was gearing up for the winter olympics next year - and we bought campy stuff like travel towels, a new cooker and a new bike bell, etc. We imagine that it must have been really dull for Beryl and John, but they took it in their stride. We visited Stanley Park, then took a water taxi to a downtown market by the water’s edge, and retired for a bbq. On our second day there, they happily took us around some more shops, before drinking more tea. Thank you very much, Beryl and John.

We said our goodbyes on the third day and cycled out towards the bus stop. It seems that all the buses in the city have a front rack in which they can take two bicycles, so we loaded them on and whizzed to the ferry terminal from where we had come. The boat was on time, and we floated calmly across the water, dodging the myriad little islands, back to Schwarz Bay north of Sidney. A quick bike ride found us back in Sidney, where we caught the evening ferry to Anacortes. It surprised us how long it took to ferry between the islands until we looked at a map and found out just how big the various groups of islands actually were…

Anacortes was dark when we arrived, so we rode cautiously back to Art and Lexi’s lovely house on the southern edge of the town, where they were waiting for us. In the morning, they drove us downtown to get our sleeping bags washed in an industrial sized washer, then dried in an equally capacious tumbler. We sorted the bikes out, chatted and generally took our time. Afterall, we had just taken an international ferry and needed to get our strength back.

We were now ready for the ride south. We had been advised that when we got across the country, we just had to turn left when we hit the ocean (thank you Neil R) so we did. But it had taken us two weeks of relaxing and getting ourselves together mentally for the next part of the journey. What would it hold for us..? Would the traffic calm down a bit..? (Hardly). Would the quality of the roads improve for cyclists.? (Fingers crossed). And just how long would it be before we arrived at the Mexican border..? These and other questions were spinning around in our minds as we finally lifted the garage door at Art and Lexi’s place, and pedalled out towards the sun, at its height immediately to the south of us. We had done over 4600 miles to date, and knew that San Diego, on the Mexican border, was over 1800 miles away. Piece of cake. Perhaps.

Week ending August 30th 2009

The ferry across the sea to the San Juan Island of Orcas was early. We had to leave Art and Lexi’s at the improbably early hour of 6.30 in the am. A rapid cycle ride to the terminal found us puffing a little too hard for our liking, but we settled ourselves with a cup of coffee. Then we were off. Bikes on first please. Car drivers, please wait for the poor wee cyclists to tie their bikes up before polluting the lower decks.

The islands were wonderful. Myriad shapes and sizes, they were all clothed in greenery and circled by the waters of the North Pacific. Seals and dolphins (or were they porpoises..?) played in the sound and small craft bobbed around in the currents. We arrived at 8am for a furious pedal up some of the sharpest and steepest hills in our 4600 miles. Surely a range of small islands would be flatter and more welcoming than the mighty Cascades…?!  Not necessarily.

The 3.5 miles to John and Sonja’s took us 45 minutes. We got our breaths back as we met them and Bruce, before heading down to the cove for a surprise party for Bruce.

A beautiful cove in south eastern Orcas

We had breakfast and coffee looking out on the sea from a new found paradise, then wandered back to their lovely home in the woods just beyond the cove.

Dinner and new friends followed.

Next day was bike cleaning day. It was time well spent and we felt thorougly pleased with ourselves. More fabulous food followed and the offer of John and Sonja’s kayaks for a trip around the islands tempted us. Joff helped John out for a day on San Juan and after borrowing most of John and Sonja’s (and Alan’s) kayaking gear, we paddled off into the sunrise.

Orcas Island is about 35 miles around - as the kayak paddles. Day one saw us camping on Doe Island, a pretty little State park in the south eastern corner of the island, where we shared the place with cormorants and gulls. We watched the sail boats go by and as night fell, the international tankers which plied their trade up and down the waterways between BC and the west coast of the US kept us awake until at least 8pm. The stars came out and everything was good.

We had taken with us several gallons of fresh water, as there was none available on the islands. Showering definitely took a back seat.  As a distraction, we cooked sausage and egg in the morning, packed our bags in the sun and pushed our boats out into the sea.

Day two saw us heading east around Lawrence Point, and then north to Sucia Island. We met a chap at the point who was concerned about the tide race off the point. He suggested that he was too heavily laden to make it to Sucia Island, so he intended to paddle into the centre of the international traffic lane, take on tankers and out-manouevre motor launches as he headed for Matia, substantially further out to sea than Sucia…. We watched him until he was half a mile off shore, bouncing over the wakes formed by the monster ships. We assume he made it to the island - but couldn’t be sure. Apparently, 7 kayakers died off this point, last year.

Sucia sits off the northern shore.

twisted pottery formations of rock, on Sucia.

The cove we paddled into was another small slice of paradise - except for the few sail boats who shared our space… Having said that, a Nils Lofgren singalike sang to us from across the cove and another day finished well.

Day three saw us paddling back across the now rather ruffled strait where we wandered into East Sound. We had a rather average Mexican for dinner - he didn’t seem to mind - and then met Leon and Shawna, who run www.Bodyboatblade.com a very smart kayaking outfitters, based on Orcas. We were offered a cup of PGTips, as we chatted about British boats and the British way of doing kayaky things; then we were even offered a lift back to the kayaks.

That evening on Doughty Point, a fantastic lookout on the western side of the island, we met John, Sonja and Bruce who had paddled across to camp with us. Wine and crisps followed, as we watched a perfect sun set in the west. The thousand islands disappeared into the dark as we sat and watched the red sky at night burn and fade.

“WHALES! WHALES!!” Surveying the sea from the point at 7.15 the next morning I saw the dorsal fins of at least 15 killer whales ploughing through the water directly towards me. Could they see me? Surely they couldn’t jump high enough out of the water to grab me. Could they? Everyone had gathered at the point by the time the orcas had arrived at the cliffs immediately beneath us. Two of them turned parallel to the coastline, exited the water and with an amazing splash re-entered on their sides, whacking their tails on the surface of the sea as they did so. Apparently they had herded some fish close to shore and were now stunning them before eating them. Sushi, anyone?

This was without doubt the most amazing thing we had witnessed on this whole trip. Of course, photos did no justice to the event. Apologies for that. According to John, who had lived on the island for 25 years, this was the most spectacular viewing of whales he had ever seen. Splendid.

Paddling continued, but after seeing the whales all we did was watch the sea for huge dorsal fins. However, we arrived on Jones’ Island in the south western corner that night, to another surprising and delightful spectacle. The island is a State park, with no vehicles; and consequently lots of entirely wild - but rather tame - deer, interested that night in our burnt offerings.

Deer little things

We enjoyed their company, but didn’t feed them. We were hungry. And it’s frowned upon to feed the wildlife.

After battling two tidal races and an array of fast, noisy and thoroughly unsporting speedboats, we arrived from where we had set off: Guthrie Cove. Our four days paddle were over, as was, I hoped, our bath-famine. I was acutely aware of our own ‘presence’ and rushed up to John and Sonja’s for a shower.

It was so kind of them all to loan us their boats and all their gear for so long.

Thank you John, Sonja and Alan.