Glacier National Park, to the bitter end

Aside from the physical process of riding a bike, of moving through this world and the world moving around you in response, the endless opportunity for discovery, solitude, companionship, self-discovery, challenge, and pretty much everything that happened between the start and the finish of this trip, the purpose was to visit my sister, Amy, in Glacier Park before she finished her summer-long indentured servitude. For the mere pittance of a dank and cramped room to stay and an equally meager wage, she has spent the last four months giving her soul to the thankless world of food service, all for the ever-present but ever-elusive promise of adventure that beckons just outside the door of the almost nonexistent town of St Mary, Montana. As fortune would have it, however, I stood to benefit directly from her sacrifices, by way of a free place to sleep, shower, and shit, and even the possibility of pilfered kitchen goods, to boot. Now I like to think that I am gracious and polite in my acceptance of hospitality, and am sensitive enough to never wear out my welcome, but this, this was different. This is my sister. This is family. There are no welcomes to wear out, so, far from stepping on eggshells, I took the opportunity to stomp around the place with muddy cleats.

By a meticulous amount of laborious planning on both sides, the day after my arrival was auspiciously marked by the return of Shannan, coming in to Glacier by train. By that time, she had managed a couple of weeks of rest and recovery for her knees, and though she wasn't able to continue biking past Victoria, there was little reason for her to miss the grandeur that northwestern Montana has to offer.

And Oh! The Grandeur! Glacier National Park stands as the proud centerpiece of a protected wilderness area sprawling more than 16,000 square miles, collectively known as the Crown of the Continent. Glaciers carve the landscape into knife-edged peaks and scoured valleys, leaving behind a pristine wilderness teeming with impressive megafauna; virtually all species of life which were found when European settlers first passed through the area can still be found today. It is no great exaggeration to say that Glacier Park currently holds the distinction of my favourite place I've ever been (I've visited the park numerous times, living in Missoula as a child, visiting family in my adolescence, and returning as an adult). Though I'd hiked around a respectable amount before, this trip marked my first opportunity to get off the more beaten paths and backpack into the more remote back country which makes up the vast majority of the park, and is only accessible by foot. (Shannan and I had mailed our backpacks ahead to ourselves.)

Glaciers, sheer cliff faces, scree piles, billion-year-old rock formations, stromatolites and fossils, passes, peaks, valleys, forests, tundra, lakes, rivers, all were ripe for exploration.

Wild Goose Island on St Mary Lake.

Elizabeth Lake Valley.

Unfortunately, Glacier only has two seasons: winter, and something that a little less resembles winter. We were timing our visit with the end of the tourist season, arriving at the end of Labour Day weekend; though this drastically decreased the number of people in the park, it had us constantly gambling with the weather, and there were many, many days where we got rained, hailed, or snowed out. Though we came prepared to spend a solid week or two backpacking, we ended up spending the majority of our time going out on long day hikes, and returning back to Amy's place for the night to dry out. The weather was kind enough to let us get a good three-day hike in, but other than that, it proved to be mostly little fits and bursts into the park, rather than the luxurious forays we had envisioned.

Backpacking over Ptarmigan Pass.

No matter the situation, no matter the weather, no matter the duration, we were constantly inundated with the sensational wildlife that surely everyone hopes to glimpse at least once. Mama and baby grizzly bears fed on berries in startlingly close (but safe!) bushes nearby, black bears crossed our paths in search of food, herds of bighorn sheep surrounded our car to lick it clean of salt, and families of moose tromped along the hiking trails just a stone's throw ahead of us. The most sensational sighting of this trip happened not in Glacier, surprisingly, but in the Rattlesnake Wilderness Area just outside of Missoula (we drove down and spent a few days in Missoula for Amy's birthday), where we startled a full-grown mountain lion that was nosing around the banks of a creek. Though they are comparatively common to many other animals I've seen in the wild, sightings of them are intensely scarce due to their secretive and crepuscular demeanour; generally, if you see one, it's only because you're in trouble, i.e., being stalked. It astonishes me, even now as I write this, that such a large animal can be so ubiquitous and simultaneously so well-hidden.

Bighorn sheep ewes out for the "hunt".

I expected to help cover my food expenses while I was there by lending a hand in Amy's restaurant, but they proved to be more than sufficiently staffed. Baulking at the idea of paying for two persons' worth of restaurant fare for every meal for such a long period of time, we ended up working out a system with my sister and much of the rest of the wait staff, whereby they would collect the remains of whatever didn't get eaten by the customers, and this arrangement largely sufficed for the two weeks we were there. Though occasional meals would come up with nothing, more often than not an entire burrito or salmon fillet or salad would make its way onto our plates.

Fishing for a meal in St Mary Lake.

As snow ushered me into the park, so did it usher me out. On our last full day there, the skies let loose the first real snow of the coming winter, and a good eight inches covered Logan Pass, the very pass we needed to cross in order to get to the train station to go home. The plows worked assiduously, though, and we made it through in time to cash in on our tickets home. Though we didn't know this in advance, we ended up scheduling our train the day before the pass closed for the rest of the season, so we barely got out by the skin of our teeth.

Logan Pass, before the storm.

True to form, we made it home, peacefully and predictably. I'm currently up in Seattle for a few days right now, picking up Shannan's bike and visiting some friends, but I'll be back in Eugene to stay soon enough. I'm looking forward to staying put for a while now, bedding down for the winter, and weathering the inevitable 5-month-long storm with a tempest of winter soups and roasted vegetables.

I have a few more things to write about my experiences in Canada, which I hope to do in the next week or so, so feel free to drop back in on me here once in a while. Until then, happy autumn!

Just Like That

The last few days have been rather uneventful ones, post-Ferdinand. I spent that morning replacing my torn tire and blown-out tube from the skid, and sewing up my saddle bag and jacket, and just generally regaining my composure. By the time I was all back together again, I had lost much of the day, and I was already running behind schedule in my goal of making it to Glacier before my sister's upcoming birthday. I decided to hitch a ride to make up for lost time, and to dull the growing monotony of the seemingly endless mountains and valleys. I was carried down the highway by a lovely recently-retired couple from Vancouver Island, who fed me homemade cookies, and laded me with a bag full of produce and salmon sandwiches before parting ways again.

One of many, many passes.

My last night on the road had me climbing into the Rockies, ever closer to the continental divide, the mountainous seam that separates and distinguishes the Pacific and Atlantic watersheds. Wind brewed threateningly, and the smell of rain was on the air. I found a bucolic, abandoned old barn to spend the night in, tucking myself in to a perfect bed of hay, and watched as the clouds continued moving on, revealing the blazing night stars behind them. I slept peacefully and soundly, warm and content, and even more so when I awoke at 5am, liminally aware of the downpour that had belatedly begun outside, accentuating my dry and serene state.

As the downpour continued on through the morning, I met my sister on the road, and got a ride across the border and down to her temporary home of Saint Mary, just outside the park itself. By this time, the rain had turned into a heavy snowstorm, and, antithetical as it may be to the notion of bike travel, I was endlessly grateful for the comfort and amenities that the car offered. I settled in to the pie that has been promised me all summer long, a fresh salad larger than my cranial capacity (insert self-deprecating remark here), and my first shower in almost two weeks of sweat, dirt and sunscreen. It's good to be here, and despite the forecast of continuing rain, I am perfectly content to relax in a dry place for the next few days in good company, and enjoy the simple pleasures.

I may've earned myself some downtime, but, to be sure, this trip is far from over. Stay tuned...

Bowling for Ungulates

My morning began with a light drizzle awakening me from my slumber, instead of the typical first rays of dawn. Fortunately, the clouds were generous enough to hold off on the downpour until I was able to get my gear all packed up and weatherized for the day. Prepared for the morning showers, I climbed onto my bike and started back toward the road, a single-lane, minimally-traveled back country offshoot of Highway 3, nestled in the foothills of the Kootenay Mountains. As the highway wound through a narrow valley bed, virtually every road off it was a climb into the mountains, and this one proved to be no exception. Having done the climbing the previous night in order to find a camp site, I enjoyed the prospect of a quick downhill jaunt back down to the highway, to be back on my merry way.

I quickly built up speed as I descended to the valley floor in the pouring rain. As I made my way around one of the tight bends, though, I suddenly came across a monstrous bull moose who was standing directly across the roadway, legs ever so slightly splayed, peeing in the middle of the road and looking quite content to do so. Much like having a wall appear in front of you as you hurtle down the highway at 40 kph, this was no trivial matter. I quickly jammed on my brakes and tried to swerve around it at the same time, a predictably poor combination, all the more so on wet roads. My rear tire skidded out from under me, and down I went, still careening directly toward the moose, who seemed in no particular hurry to move. It was about at this point that it started looking like the end to me.

It was also at this point, however, that time started moving in slow-motion, as it is fabled to do in dire enough circumstances. I remember sliding under the moose and looking up at it, and, in the same way that that kid from Free Willy must've surely thought during the climactic slo-mo jumping scene, "Oh god, this whale is going to crush me," I thought, "Oh god, this thing is going to come down on me." But as I continued skidding, through the damp mat of hanging hair and through the stream of pee (yes, I was peed on by a moose, okay?), I began to think differently. Indeed, I continued my slide, bike and all, right between those four gangly legs, and on down the road, coming to a stop a few metres past him. (I suppose the combination of the smooth asphalt, the rain and my rain gear turned the whole road into something of a slip'n'slide.)

I quickly scrambled to my feet and wheeled around, yelling, "What the HELL?", and "Have you no sense of self-preservation?" (well, given the circumstances, probably something considerably less eloquent and more profane). The bull turned and glared at me, still peeing, and I quickly realized my place, which was, quite simply, to be scared out of my wits. I hastily hobbled to what I perceived to be a safer distance, and surveyed the damage. Though my gear took some hits (torn saddle bag, ripped bar tape, etc.), I seemed to come out relatively unscathed, save for a sore shoulder, a slightly wrenched back, and an oncoming bout of nausea from the adrenaline.

I looked back up the road at the moose, who had by now sauntered off to the trees. I looked at my iPod, which I had only just put on to an episode of This American Life, and only a small fraction of time had passed. Did that really just happen?

Now, I know that I seem to have missed all four legs, but I'm going to go ahead and chalk that up as a strike anyway. And to you, Mr. Moose, I officially dub thee Ferdinand. May you enjoy a long and happy life sniffing daisies under a peaceful tree somewhere.

Into the Okanagan

Number of kilometres: 1,839

Starting from the touristy town of Hope, the TCT picked right back up again, with a popular and promising section known as the Kettle Valley Railway, a stretch of abandoned rail corridor that passes through the mountains, all the way to Castlegar, more than 600 kilometres eastward. I held high hopes for this stretch, in that it was considerably more established and straightforward than the roundabout winding that the trail had heretofore been doing through more urban areas. It started off with a bang with the Othello Tunnels, one of the most stunning places I've seen in my life.

The Othello Tunnels in Coquihalla Canyon Provincial Park are a relic of one the most hubristic engineering feats in rail history. Andrew McCulloch, chief engineer of the KVR (one hundred years ago), was determined to carve a railway route through the treacherous canyon, contrary to other engineers' opinions about whether or not it could be done. McCulloch spent weeks dangling in a woven basket suspended from ropes on sheer cliff faces, chipping away ledges to set up surveying equipment. In the end, he successfully built four tunnels in quick succession, attached by two bridges, while achieving the status as the most expensive mile of railway to build in the world. McCulloch was something of a Shakespeare aficionado, and in addition to entertaining his workers with the Bard's tales by evening firelight, he named many of the railway stops after his characters (I passed through Juliet, Romeo, Portia, Jessica, Lear and Iago). The result of his work was truly unbelievable, even while standing in the middle of it.

The Othello Tunnels.

Unfortunately, the trail quickly descended to its usual state soon thereafter, and after getting lost twice, rescued by several phone calls to Google Maps, and a particularly difficult stretch that took me the better part of a day to make a mere 22 km, I decided once and for all that I am officially done with the Trans Canada Trail; there is simply no reason to continue putting myself through the hell that this trail provides, not on this trip, and not on this bike. So it's back to the highways for me, hurray! I am much, much happier at the notion of riding on the familiar pavement once more, my nose raised to the wind instead of buried in a book that's dictating the adventure I'm supposed to be having. We now return from Scott's Cycling Slog to our regularly scheduled Biking Blag.

Passing through the Northern Cascades and back to Highway 3, I entered the familiar Okanagan Valley, where the aggressively verdant forests of the west gave way to the more subdued sagebrush of the east, and fruit trees, fruit trees, fruit trees. Whereas Vancouver gets more than 100 centimetres of rain per year, the Okanagan, hiding in the rainshadow of the Cascades, gets less than 30. Of course, much of those 30 would opt to fall as soon as I got here; the last two days have been a soggy, wet affair. As I descended in the valley, wildfires raged in the mountains alongside the highway, but the smoke intermingled with the clouds to become an indiscernible fog amoungst the trees.

The Okanagan Valley.

I stopped in the city of Keremeos for a reprieve from the rain, but the only laundromat in town was closed, for the owner's wife was in labour. I settled into a nice little French bistro, where I quickly discovered a teeming population of wayward youth in an otherwise backward little town. Turns out Keremeos is something of a mecca for cultural flotsam, bringing in people from all over the country for a summer's worth of fruit picking, and slow country life. I met some lovely folk who offered me a free place to camp, and even some work picking pears if I wanted it, but I was determined to get over the upcoming Richter Pass, and hopefully out of the rain.

The appropriately-named Spotted Lake.

After spending an entire morning tied up in the eternal balagan of international commerce and banking, I decided that the easiest solution to my monetary crisis would be to just pop back over the border to Oroville, WA, and try and work out my banking woes here. (While waiting for the financial gears to do their grinding, I ran into an old roommate from Seattle, Chelsea, who now lives 'round these here parts.) After one more stop at the bank, it's back up to Canada for me, where an eastward highway, a nice tailwind, and maybe even some sun to dry my sodden feet await me. Ah, life is good, once more.

Reality Sinks In

Number of kilometres: 1,469
Fastest speed: 68.57 kph
Money left: CA$160.12, US$55.00

Vancouver Island finished up quite pleasantly; a hot day's ride left me in isolated mountains on my last night, on the top of a cliff face overlooking the Nanaimo River. My oversight of refilling on water in the previous town had been solved by a couple of swimmers I ran across, who were emptying out a leaking cooler, and I filled up on gloriously refreshing ice, and was even gifted a couple of perfectly chilled beers for the road. ("Better take two, man," he said, with a knowing grin. "Cause beer is like women: two is always better than one.") The following morning I hiked the few kilometres down to the river, and then got back on my merry way, just a couple of hours' ride from the ferry terminal in Nanaimo. The ferry was a monstrous beast of six levels, with enough parking space for a large fleet of semis. The ride across the Strait of Georgia back to the mainland was peacefully idyllic (if a bit chilly), with sweeping vistas of mountains in every direction, and periodic pods of porpoises breaking the otherwise calm waters alongside us.

The ferry ride ended at Horseshoe Bay, still a fair distance away from Vancouver proper, and the day quickly turned into a sweaty battle over the pointlessly gruesome hills of affluent North Vancouver; after more than an hour of rollercoaster-like neighborhoods, I decided to ditch the proscribed TCT path, in lieu of a much more direct route into town.

Vancouver is a charming city, oozing with a sense of dignified confidence and cleanliness, perhaps the residuals of the massive cleanup efforts for the recent Winter Olympics. The population is far more international than anything I've ever seen in the states, with a multitude of languages being heard on every street corner and neighborhood. The fashion trend is overwhelmingly French, and everyone, French or not, is unfailingly kind. Vancouver also puts to shame the American notion of "bicycle-friendly" cities, no doubt helped by their bicycle-commuting mayor; a vast grid of bike paths and lanes, innumerable signs reminding cars of our existence, and frequent right of way makes city riding easy, safe and care-free.

Vancouver's awesome library.

Unfortunately, my housing plans in Vancouver ended up falling through, with my friend who lives here currently off to Burning Man. This left me in the position of being homeless, yet again, in a major metropolitan city as the sun is just starting to set. I'm generally comfortable with this scenario, but it'd been a hot few days, and good god, I just wanted a shower and a couch to sit on. As fortune would have it, though, my saviour came in the form of a fellow intrepid cyclist, Naomi, who offered me a last-minute place. We spent the evening watching Back To The Future at an outdoor screening in a nearby city park, and talking about travel possibilities across the province (she biked solo across the country a year or two before, and had much advice to offer).

Clean, content, well-stocked and well-fed, I prepared to set off on the road again, only to realize, quite disastrously, that I no longer have my bank card on me. I slowly cycled out of town, pondering the consequences of this development, with no good solution coming to mind. As fate would have it, the trail out of town turned instantly brutal once more, pushing me to my absolute limits of riding ability on the bike I have with me. I ended up a mere forty kilometres out of downtown, after hours of more bicycle push-ups, bruised palms, and cramped fingers from excessive brake use. As I unfurled my tent in a thick copse of trees that night, a roaring thunderstorm started to break overhead, and in that moment, I experienced a period of delirium, fueled by the utter ridiculousness of the situation: I've put myself in another country, alone, unfamiliar with the road ahead, with access only to the bit of money I have on hand, and there's fucking lightning crashing down all around me. I love it. This is the adventure, right here, and from here on out.

Indian Arm Fjord from the top of Burnaby Mountain, just outside Vancouver.

My enthusiasm was severely tempered the following morning, as I awoke to pouring rain, and the realization that I forgot to take the extremely important set of bike tools from Shannan's bag before she departed. Feeling about as heavily discouraged as possible (knocking on wood for flat tires), I trudged on. At some point, this has to start flying in the face of reason and into the realm of stupidity, but I'm not sure when that is. There seem to be a lot of things getting in my way of continuing, but I'm inclined to keep going until it's just not possible anymore. We'll see. I have a new set of tools (but not enough money for bear spray), and I'm all dry again, both of which help my spirits immensely. Bring on the mountains, and then we'll see how I feel...


Barn's burnt down --
now I can see the moon.
-Mizuta Masahide

Canada, Minus One

Number of miles: 799

The layover in Centralasia served a twofold purpose: visiting friends, and giving Shannan's knees a day's rest. They'd been bothering her some, as they had at the start of her bike trip last summer, and she knew from experience that some down time was just what they needed to recover. We set off for Olympia in high spirits.

Just after passing through Olympia, however, they started hurting quite a bit again. We found a place to camp and stopped for the day, and the following morning she hitched a ride up the Olympic Peninsula to Quilcene, where her family has a cabin. This gave her another day's rest while I rode on to catch up to her. The ride was a spectacular one, the highway skirting the edge of Hood Canal much of the way, starfish and dungeness crabs viewable from the literal roadside. Once I arrived, we both took a relaxing day at the cabin together (aside from a brief forty-mile ride to Port Townsend for groceries), picking blackberries, cooking good food and canoeing around Lake Leland.

Lake Leland and the Olympic foothills from the cabin's porch.

When we started out the next day, it seemed clear relatively early on that Shannan's knee problems were not getting much better; despite frequent icing, ibuprofens, arnica salve and resting time, the pain was continuing to flare, and even begin to spread as her body tried to adjust to different riding postures. We had a scenic ride along the Olympic Discovery rails-to-trails to Port Angeles, where we stayed the night while discussing our options.

A trestle through an old-growth canopy on the Olympic Discovery Trail.

The following morning we caught the ferry to Victoria, to spend a slow day in town being ridiculously touristy, as is surely impossible to avoid in Victoria. To paraphrase a not-too-wise lump of clay, though, there was no use prevaricating around the bush; we both knew Shannan couldn't continue on without risking permanent damage to her knees, if such a thing hadn't happened already. She made the difficult decision of heading back home by ferry and bus, while I made the equally difficult decision of continuing on this trip by myself. This adventure had been weeks in the planning for us, and it was more than a little heartbreaking to see it change so drastically right on the doorstep of the new and unexplored.

Victorian Parliament.

But, as it turns out, Shannan was quite right in her decision. My first day's ride out of Victoria was probably the most physically demanding I've ever been through. I am giving my best attempt at following the Trans Canada Trail, a bicycle route that, in theory, goes from Victoria all the way to Newfoundland. (In practice, it is an underdeveloped work in progress, with frequent gaps and detours.) Much of the trail makes use of existing local trailways, abandoned railroad corridors, and logging roads; as such, my skinny road tires are often not optimally suited for the boulderific trails more appropriate for mountain bikes.

The TCT started promisingly enough, right from the ferry's gate, and onto the Galloping Goose bike trail, a splendid paved path out of town that has seniority over all other traffic. It soon ended, though, and then spit me onto the shoulder of Highway 1, hugging hellish hills for hours. The path eventually split off again, and connected to the vast network of Cowichlan Valley trails. Beautiful, flat, isolated trails ran through miles (er, kilometres) of rainforest and rivers. All was well once more, until the sudden appearance of the dreaded Kinsol Trestle. One of the highest railroad trestles in the world, the Kinsol currently touts derelict status, which is unfortunate, given that the TCT is routed right over it. Construction is currently in the works to have it open again by 2011, but in the meantime, I was rerouted through a poorly-marked, backbreaking 10-km bypass, which had me wedging my bike through logging fences, up brutal logging roads, and one particular 4-km stretch of footpath through the forest that was signed as "not recommended for bicycles", which proved to be quite the understatement. Most all of it had to be either walked, slid downhill, or "push-upped" steep embankments, which involved establishing a firm footing, pushing my bike and gear up about a foot, locking the brakes and then taking a step forward and doing it again, frequently sliding backward in the dirt. Three hours, one flat tire, and one comical spill over my handlebars and into the bushes, and I was finally through.

The soon-to-be resurrected Kinsol Trestle.

The road has since been its more forgiving combination of highway shoulders and backcountry roads, and tomorrow I'll be taking the ferry from Nanaimo to Vancouver. It's been a humbling experience here on the island so far, and more likely than not, a sign of what's to come. (I've even seen a bear already.) It's no longer the trip that I planned for, but I'm glad that I have experience with this kind of travel.

The path most simple
is rarely the easiest
but still we go on.

[P.S. I'll try and post some pictures in Vancouver, if I can find some access to a computer that doesn't come with a librarian breathing down my neck.]

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...

Hello Coast, Goodbye Sunscreen

The first task at hand was to find a route to the coast that didn't involve the relentless pounding of traffic and logging trucks, a task accomplished by simply riding out of town on the friendliest road I knew, and continuing to follow friendly-looking roads in a vaguely northwestern direction. The route took us through back-road Willamette Valley vineyards territory (with tasting aplenty), and quickly up into the national forest of the coastal range, where traffic virtually disappeared. We wheeled our way through thickets of thimbleberries and brambles of blackberries that suffered a surfeit of fruit, and we gorged our guts to gustatory satisfaction. A perfect amount of sun, clouds, and mild wind combined to create ideal conditions for the start of a trip.

Our arrival at the coast was laughably cliché, in that the coastline was tightly enshrouded in thick clouds, visible as a looming grey wall that grew to encompass us as we approached. My map said that the average summer temperature of the Oregon Coast is 58 degrees, a statistic I would come to find impossible to refute. While the rest of the country sweltered through a heatwave, I shivered along miles of highway, wrapped up in layers of long underwear under my jacket.

The Oregon Coast is part of one of the most well-traveled bicycle routes in the entire country, a literal interstate of cyclists from all over the world with all sorts of agendas: I met a family that left their home in Vancouver with their six- and two-year-old daughters, to hit the road for a couple of years, with no previous bicycling experience; a Brit making his way southward from Alaska; an eighteen-year-old from South Korea who is making his way to his first year of college in Vancouver by way of El Salvador; tandems and recumbents; ultra-lightweight speedsters and folks who just couldn't stand to leave their cast-iron ware at home. Everybody is out on the road; I even ran into a friend of mine from Seattle who was on his way down to Santa Barbara. (Hell, I even got passed by my mom in a car somewhere between Cannon Beach and Seaside.) And of course, most every one of them is headed in the opposite direction, as everyone knows that you're supposed to bike from north to south; the prevailing summer winds are said to dismantle a cyclist's spirits in the space of a schoolgirl's wink. As a result, much of the road's shoulders have only been developed one the west side, whereas the northern route contains potholes large enough to pitch a tent in. This, at least, was the word on the street...

As it turned out, however, it was a fine ride. The most tedious part was having to cross the highway traffic every time I wanted to stop and see something on the ocean side. Otherwise, the shoulders are quite manageable, and the wind, that fickle mistress, seemed just as likely to blow with you as against you.

A deceivingly fleeting sunbreak.

Several days worth of beaches, an almost equal number of days of clouds, one astounding Fata Morgana-esque sunset, and one mandatory visit to Rogue Brewery later, we made it to Astoria, last stop in Oregon before crossing the Bridge of Bicyclist Doom, more commonly known as the Astoria Bridge, a four-mile truss bridge spanning the mouth of the Columbia River. I'd previously crossed it twice before, once in each direction, and each time was a harrowing experience, sandwiched in a nonexistent bike lane between reckless logging trucks out for blood and a very long fall to some very uninviting waters. Fortune favours the bold, however; the bike lanes had been doubled in width since my last crossing, and we hit it on a Sunday morning, with a minimum of traffic. Aside from the thoroughly traumatic experience of watching a cormorant fly head into an oncoming car a few feet in front of me, it was an uneventful crossing.

Abandon hope, all ye who cross here...

It'll be time to start heading inland very soon; I'll be curious how long it takes for the sun to creep back out and make me miserable.

Fleeing the Country

August is upon us, in all her august majesty. The days are imperceptibly shortening, while the heat wears on. Languid summer spirits are subconsciously discomfited, motivated by the season's inevitable end on distant horizons. A prescient warning whispers quietly with the occasional breeze: enjoy it now, because it ain't gonna last. A stirring in my blood beckons me to heed the call, because after all, what are summers for? Not riding your bike off into the sunset? I don't think so...

I've got my proverbial ducks all lined up, and most loose ends neatly tucked away in places where they're easily forgotten. I've completed a hard month of work, the Oregon Country Fair has come and gone, and I just finished a few weeks of dad time with my daughter Maia and my nephews. The weeks before me are free free free, and I shall utilize them to the fullest; it's time to hit the road once more. This time, though, I shan't be riding by myself, but rather in the company of Shannan, my dear friend, fellow nerd, and heretofore riding partner. Shannan is currently in graduate school at the U of O, and she likewise has several weeks before her erstwhile academic responsibilities resume once more.

As some (such as myself) might remember, my sister Amy is spending the summer working in Glacier National Park, having graduated earlier this previous spring. Shannan has never been to Glacier before, a situation which we both agree must be immediately remedied, so the solution is obvious. I did, however, just ride from Portland to Missoula a few months ago, and am not terribly interested in retracing the same route so soon after, so we've been shopping around for an exciting new route. And I ask you, dear readers, what could possibly be more exciting than traveling in another country?

Yes! Canada, a foreign a place as can possibly be conceived of: who knows what bizarre customs we will encounter? What exotic faunae permeates the landscape? Hell, I'm not even sure what language they speak. But I do know that I'll be showing up on their doorstep, embiggened with an adventurous spirit, passport in hand, ready to embrace my northerly neighbors. In the meantime, if anyone reading this has ever heard of Canada and knows anything about its backward ways, I'd appreciate any advice you have to share. I'm already bringing my tiger spray, though, so I've got that part covered.

The basic plan has us heading from Eugene to the coast, up to the Olympic Peninsula, ferrying to Vancouver Island, over to the mainland, and across BC, eventually dropping down into Glacier from above, where I fully expect my sister to serve me some pie when I get there. I'll be hungry, dammit.

A notable difference of this trip for me will be my relative lack of portable media, given that my stupid iPod Touch bit the dust about a month ago, less than a year old (mandatory e-waste rant excluded here for brevity). I will still try and blag when I can, but I'm not even sure if Canada has the internet yet, so we'll just have to see what's possible.

If all goes according to plan, I hit the road on Monday. See you out there, eh?