The Lost Coast

Number of miles: 555

It's hard to travel with vegetables. It's a sad, sad fact of the road, but, for the most part, they just don't keep in a saddlebag. As a rule, anything leafy that cannot be consumed on the spot, does not get consumed. I do my best to mitigate my lack of fresh food by gorging on greens whenever I can, but the opportunity never presents itself as much as I'd like. When I departed from Orleans, though, I left with a thoroughly rejuvenated colon, cleansed with the bounty of a growing season a good month or two ahead of what I'm accustomed to; the gardens are already raging here, in all their cruciferous splendor.

In between the produce stands, I've been pleasantly surprised to find the coast liberally dotted with breweries I've long ago come to respect. This has a tendency to impede my process some, but also provides an excellent escape from the midday heat. Lost Coast, Eel River, Mad River, Boonville, Lagunitas, North Coast, the list goes on. I can't visit them all, but I'll be damned if I can't try. Who's ever heard of a BUI, anyway?

A ways south of Eureka, I decided to split off from the 101 for a spell, to take in a stretch of rural coastline known as the Lost Coast. The California highway map I have didn't go into enough detail to actually show the route that meanders through tiny, forgotten towns, but I had heard mention of the trail, and at least knew the start and end points, and figured that was good enough. It was, to the extent that I made it out alive, but I would highly discourage any cyclist from following that route; in the end, it was the most taxing and difficult day of riding I've ever done. The road was pleasantly free of traffic, but miserably pock-marked, potholed and crumbling, and outright unpaved for many stretches. Mountain after demoralizing mountain appeared before me, making for endless climbing. These were the steepest grades I've ever seen, literally impossible to ride up in some places, my front tire lifting off the ground with every pedal stroke from being pitched back so far. (I later found out from a local that that stretch of road was the steepest paved road in the entire state.) The weather was miserably hot, and water was scarce; three towns in a row provided no services, their water all unpotable. I stopped frequently to eat, rehydrate, cool off, and fortify myself in any way I could think, before continuing on, only to stop five minutes later, thoroughly exhausted and discouraged. My inadequate map told me nothing of where I was going, or how much further there was to go. I walked and pushed my bike up a lot of gravel, it constantly sliding out from under my grip. At the end of the day, I gave up more than thirty miles short of where I expected to be, unable to muster the psychological or physical strength to go on. I slept in a wooded cemetery that night, along with every mosquito in Humboldt County.

I kept trying to find silver linings in my misery, but all I could come up with were ways in which things could've been worse, like getting flat tires (knock on madrone), which is hardly a silver lining at all; things could always be worse. Lost Coast, as far as I'm concerned, you can stay lost; your scenery is weak by comparison, and in the end, just not worth the trouble. While I was riding along the water, I stopped for a spell to explore what certainly would've been tide pools in Oregon or Washington, but here were strangely devoid of life; all I could find was some seaweed, a few pelicans in the distance, and some strange giant barnacle/jellyfish-like thing, but may have just been half of an old papaya, I couldn't tell.

Animal or vegetable?

I'm in Garberville now, visiting another friend of mine from Seattle, who is down here working on a farm for the summer. I've been lending a hand where I can, planting, watering, and mulching the day away until it's too dark to work. We went swimming in the Eel River yesterday, during the heat of the afternoon. It was an unbelievably refreshing reward to wash off the compounding layers of sweat, sunscreen and dirt, but I slipped on a wet patch of moss and cracked my tailbone right on a jagged rock sticking out of the sand, an unpleasant popping sound made on impact. I don't think I broke anything, but a day later, it's still pretty damned tender, and very painful to sit down. I have yet to try climbing on my bike to see what riding is like, but I'm really hoping it doesn't interfere with the rest of my trip.

On a final note, and as a brief aside, happy Fathers Day to all the dads out there, and thanks for everything you've done to raise your children as best you can. Keep it up.