A Brief Detour to Central Asia

Nary a man has lived as mightily and magnanimously as my friend and former roommate Francis, of Contrapparatus fame. Having graced the city of Seattle with his presence for the last couple of years, he has moved on to greener and more familial pastures about ninety miles down the road, in the quaint little town of Centralia, or, more familiarly, Centralasia. Though hearts and bodies might move on, the brethrenhood of the traveling Lunies lives on, and it was a quick and easy decision to make the side trip inland to go and visit while we were passing on by on our way up north.

Having traversed our way around the romantically tranquil Willapa Bay, we began what was supposed to be a Rails-to-Trails from coastal-ish Raymond to inland-Chehalis, but turned out to be a mere Rails-to-not-Rails, in that the old railway had been removed, but the trail had not been further developed, and in some places was even still littered with railroad spikes. After a brief attempt at riding through foot-deep gravel, we opted instead for the paralleling Highway 6. It started out promisingly enough with generous shoulders and a minimum of traffic, but quickly went south upon entering 24 miles of highway construction, replete with torn up roads, tar that covered my tires with gravel, and monstrous trucks that preferred to pretend I wasn't there. The return of scorching sun and heat iced the cake to make for one of the worst days of riding I've ever had, but the arrival in Centralasia made up for it all.

Francis lives at Coffee Creek Community and Gardens, a rustic farm nestled in a wooded valley. The lack of running water is made up for in the abundance of produce, animals and kindness that the place and people exuded. We spend a day's rest there, helping out a bit at the Chehalis farmers' market, washing some clothes, and just taking it easy.

During last summer's bicycle travels, Shannan and I stayed at an Mennonite intentional community in Minneapolis that we had found on Couchsurfing. It was a bustling house hopping with activity, and while we were there, there were a couple of other travelers, including a fellow named Seth from Portland, and Derrick from North Carolina. (As it turned out, I ran into Derrick again later that summer in Pittsburgh, during the G20 protests.) Imagine our surprise, then, when, across the country and on another bicycle trip together, we ran into Seth, who now lives on a farm here in Centralasia, and with Derrick, no less. Now, I know it's a small, small world and all, but running into the same person in three random places all across the country in the space of less than a year, with no pre-arranged contact in between? I have to say, it bemusedly blew my mind a little.

A brief moment of terror occurred during the market, when a sudden pair of explosions rocked the vegetable stands and flexed the windows on all the buildings around us. Francis was in the middle of playing music for a festive audience, but a collective silence seized the crowd. We figured it had been some kind of factory explosion outside of town, but it just turned out to be the now famed Obama sonic boom, the jets roaring past us on the way from Portland.

We're all rested up and clean again now, and hitting the road again early tomorrow morning, Olympia-bound, and then up the peninsula. Look out oysters, here I come...