Wendy and Simon's Interim: August 2009

Up up up up through the Cascades we went, eating and camping and sleeping and reading and swimming in the icy river when necessary, and after crossing the Pacific Crest Trail we topped out the first of our great climbs at the Daring Duo of Rainy and Washington Passes.

Somewhere up there we met a German cyclist named Jens,

out for a little jaunt around the Northwest. Last year he rode alone from Turkey to Cambodia. Kind of puts our little domestic struggles into perspective. But the incredible First Big Downhill didn't feel any less sweet with that comparison because as you approach the speed of light, all events and objects and memories and intentions sort of congeal into a homogenous blob and then evaporate and all you are left with is the in-the-now fantasy of flying, coasting, soaring between massive craggy granite peaks and over furry wooded valley down inside of which is some new river system, something that DOESN'T feed into the Skagit, because that is the nature of these passes. You follow a river up into tributary after tributary and then suddenly you are charging straight up a hill away from any water and then plummeting until you follow from tributary to creek to stream to river again.

respite at the top

view of the Liberty Bell, from the top

Iga, she so sure sheer loving the sheer

as well as Thag

We flew through this new view

This particular new watershed led us down as fast as we dared (and some of us dared go faster than the little plastic airplanes or wild turkey feathers on our bikes could stand) into a warmy, oxygen-rich, water-not-as-rich, biting fliesy valley.

Mazama. Famous (to us) as the predetermined departure point, where Zog pack Zog's things and hope that Jason fulfills his part of the bargain to drive his ass four hours out on a work day to pick up Zog and Zog's things and return Zog to SEATAC for his return-to-San Diego flight. And sure enough, as we drank our coffee at

tiny Mazama's most excellent gas station-grocery-coffeeshop-community store and solarly recharged our headlamp batteries in the blazing sun, Jason did indeed arrive to fetch away our companion.

We imagine that it must have hurt his brain a bit to fly backwards in a few hours through all that landscape that we had grappled with for several days. Maybe there is an anti-aging cure in there somewhere. I claim first discovery on this documented day of August 20, 2009 so don't go trying to swoop a patent or I'll sick a swarm of mohawked, bepierced bicycle rights lawyers on your intellectual property department.

And with our Stefan's sendoff complete, which was actually our sendoff, Wendy and I were on our own. In the heat. We regrouped with more coffee and an afternoon of organizing while the bike tourists came and went in little bundles (including Craig, who we played leapfrog with for a few days), and headed out into the heat:

It was hot. A sort of hot kind of heat. True, it wasn't climbing, even a slight trend downhill, but after 15 miles we decided to call Winthrop our home for the night. Winthrop, dressed up like the old west town it was during the last yesteryear. Winthrop, epicenter of the Harley hive. Winthrop, with homemade ice cream and waffle cones. Winthrop, where we did things like check our sweaty internet and ask about sweaty camping and, in the end, grasp for our sweaty Warm Shower. In extreme heat, warm sounds cool:

Tom, how can we thank you for our post-Cascade lazy layover?

When we arrived in Mazama it was something like 100F and if it wasn't for the cacophony of Harleys swarming around the ice cream store, we probably could have heard our own brains bubbling. Tom took us in with only a few minutes' notice (sorry Tom--we're learning how hard it is to predict our position and time on this trip) and as soon as we arrived it was Comfy Street for us. The basement was a wonderfully refreshing 41F and the three furry residents of the household were beyond hospitable. Tom is the kind of person you could chat with for hours--no--indefinitely. It didn't take us long to choose this place for a layover day.

Tom sent us off into town on scooters (you gotta try the pizza place on the east end of town) and we enjoyed the Tour de France in the morning. The Sullivans were also hosting a violinist in the classical music festival and her jazz pianist friend so as we wrote and sewed and tuned up we heard perfect sounds drifting through the open windows of the house.

Tom likes pad thai. Just letting you know that.

Enhancing my dreamy leather pannier

Recharging with a book and with an assistant

There are many more reasons why Tom is great. One of them is that while we were there he built a rack on his motorcycle for his bicycle. Another is that he built his own house (Which we hope to do someday soon) and another is that he is PV installer to the rich and famous. Well, at least to the resourced and interested. He reminds us so very much of Pete. Pete, if you are reading this, cheer. That's your third mention in one entry. And cheer for Tom being so excellent.

Tom sent us off by pulling the houdiniesque stunt of getting both his dogs to pose at once for the camera,

and by recommending we stop at Cinnamon Twisp in Twisp to enjoy a Cinnamon Twisp, which we did, very much so, so very much so, with coffee, that even the arrival of a very paranoid ex-confidence man who warned us that Chinese soldiers were lurking in the forest wasn't enough to burn off the glee of a morning well-spent. And wisely-spent; those Cinnamon Twisps bolstered us for the long steamy climb up long steamy Loup Loup Pass, the second of four major passes (and a minor one) that stand across Washington like a queue of candidates auditioning to confront Hercules. Spirits were high, however, and we took turns leading up hill after hill and around curve after curve, encouraging each other along the way and being sure to complain every once in a while so at least there is a little bit of relative satisfaction at the top, and also being sure to periodically eat a Mega Smartie, an amazing candy that is my absolute favorite and which so far we have only found in Washington and MAYBE Idaho. We now must rely on Neccos and Sweet Tarts to get us over the passes, although once at Seely Lake in Montana we did find and hoard Bottlecaps in the grocery store just after buying only coffee at the organic farmers' market.

These are Mega Smarties

Mega Smarties (and our little burritos made from the everlasting tortillas of Newhalem) did the trick and

over the wooded crest we went, this time finding ourselves in an environment that for the first time looks like how they describe Eastern Washington: deserty. We thought at this point we must be done with pine trees for the rest of our journey because this beautiful dry valley stretched far to the left of the horizon. Cherry and apple orchards guided us to Okanogan, where in looking for a place to rest our weary butts we were led right on through the the neighboring town of Omak, where

we found ourselves camping among all our RV nemeses (who when they are not driving seem far less dangerous and who are actually quite kind and smiley) at the Omak Stampede Grounds, a sort of fairgrounds with a giant arena for events of the equestrian type.

And equestrian events we got, since tonight happened to be the rehearsal night for the Famous Suicide Hill Run, where actual cowboys and actual Indians run their horses down a steep dirt hill into a river and off to a place we couldn't see from our campsite to do maybe some other actions. It was quite amazing. The human part of each duo nominally shouts at his horsey companion all the way down to the river. We say 'nominally' since we imagined that the string of sonofabitchsonofobitchshitshitgoddamsonofoabitch! was really a loosely-disguised expression of the true singings of the heart of a man piling down a hill on a heavy beast, rather than helpful information for the beast to find his way safely to the water that we are supposed to take it as:

Hello Rest of World,

At long last we take some time away from that fantastic dazzling technicolor world out there to somehow distill a few uncontainable impressions into binary and ascii code for electronic consumption. Maybe the images will help some.

For more weeks than seems possible our lives were a swirl of bike-building and Berkeley-goodbyeing and friend-savoring and job-quitting and stuff-eliminating and house-emptying and bureaucracy-navigating and route-planning and on and on. It all come to a head when we stored the van containing almost everything left that we own in a conveniently poison oak-protected forest hideaway where Reuben was formed (and where his gracious parents still live). We'll be sending thanks-waves to them from every corner of the earth. While we gallivant, they get to look at a giant airmail envelope covered in sap.

We actually left town at the prearranged date and made it to San Diego for Mike and Laura's Awesome Wedding. That was our last engagement in all of known spacetime and after leaving without helping clean up, and with our little party-favor sedum in a teacup (thrust upon us by Nate), the next morning (not so early--a bit of a trend of ours) we drove northward in the little Suzuki Swift with three bikes in tow. The heat and brushfire traffic holdup in the Grapevine were more than enough for us to crave more than ever to ditch the car and get on the @#$%ing bikes already. We stayed a fleeting night at Pete and Michelle's in Berkeley and then headed up the coast.

The Swift carried us and three bikes and our gear northward:

California didn't let us go without kicking, however. One last bureaucratic snag was thrust upon in the form of a speed trap in Ukiah. Did we mention how eager we were to be north?

We provisioned with spices and oils at a co-op in Arcada and slept at the mouth of the Klamath River-- a very enchanting place. And if you haven't seen the coast of Oregon, do go out of your way to bike or walk or sail or even drive it. It's stunning. That doesn't really even come close to describing it but I still have about forty days more of magnificence to describe so I'll plunge forward...

The stunning coast of Oregon, near Tillamook:

The first meal on the road...

Yurok ceremonial site at the mouth of the Klamath River in far northern California:

And a Yurok steam lodge?

More scenes fromt the mouth of the Klamath:

We stopped in Tillamook to deliver a letter to the Lone Ranger's wife (Pete and I set up our Letter Writing and Delivery Service on mile 500 of the Pacific Crest Trail and, well, that should be a whole other blog so if you have questions, just ask) and who was there but the Lone Ranger himself! We had a great chat and they put us up in our first of three basements. The coffee was tasty and we headed north again when the Lone Ranger went off to get the verdict of whether his doctor would let him start hiking again.

We made a memory lane stop in Astoria. We had both been here before. Two sampler trays at the local brewery helped jog the mammaries and fog the memories. Wendy gaped in horror at the frightening bridge she once rode across with Sheryl, and as we rolled onto the bridge ourselves we saw a relieved and Bobbed bike tourist exit, no doubt headed for the brewery.

Enjoying the treats of the Northwest in Astoria, OR

We stopped in Olympia as part of our ongoing survey of the Puget Sound and then raced onward to Seattle! Did you read the earlier blog about advertising to trade our car in exchange for some money and a return ride for Stefan? Well, it worked. Jason and Joanna were interested and enthusiastic so we met them in the U district so they too could experience the wonders of an automatic stickshift. Joanna is foing a medical internship in Bellingham and needs her own wheels. Jason had a Geo Metro in college when they met; he taught her to drive in it, and although this was a far cry from that souped-up dream machine they like the black phoebe drawn on the door and shook hands on it.

After a mandatory pilgrimage to Thai Tom (like with seeing the Oregon Coast, you really should go out of your way to eat here some day, and sit at the bar where you can watch Tom cook everything for you), we dashed to SEATAC to pick up Stefan! It was a happy reunion as we played Tetris with the bikes and bags and travelers...

Moving one more bike to the back...

Allowed for the addition of Stefan at the airport:

...and somehow got the whole rig and crew safely to the campground at Larrabee State Park. When Wendy and I had stayed here last autumn it was serene and sparse. Not so this particular summer Friday. It was packed with RVs and little foofy barky dogs and bickering teenagers and speedboats itching to tear up some fish in the morning. It was no major bummer when we discovered the next morning that there would not be room for us the next evening.

Our final day with a car was filled to the brim with errands and exploring Bellingham. We tried to be the best hosts possible to Stefan in our new future home, which ended in him drinking a Twilight Ale and taking a dip in Bellingham Bay.

Have you every heard of a website called Warm Showers? It's a community of bike tourists and enthusiast-allies who are willing to house each other or otherwise provide the sort of comforts that a tired or lonely or wet or dry or hot or cold cyclist may crave. Here's the comment we posted about Ray and Deborah, two wonderfully trusting and helpful folks (not to mention their son who gave up his room for us) who housed us in our final hour of preparation:

Deborah and Ray are wonderful. We were each others' first Warm Showers experience. We were just starting our tour in Bellingham and the campgrounds were full and we needed a well-lit place to sort through all our gear late into the night and also a place to park our former car for a week before the new owner could come pick it up. Deborah and Ray took three of us in without hesitation and with very little notice (sorry about that! Do try to give them some notice...), and not only did they bear our thousand phone calls to arrange our rendezvous, but they cooked us a heaping spaghetti dinner. We took over their basement and air hockey table for the Great Gear Sort and in the morning (after coffee an incredible eggs) they sent us off with sample packets of Chamois Butter which literally saved our novice butts. Thanks, Ray and Deborah, for a fantastic launch! We're still flying!

Our kind hosts in Bellingham, Debra and Cloud (Ray not shown):

The next morning we were off. No car, no more preparation, no more bureaucracy, nothing but riding bikes with friends and enjoying the land. And what incredible land to enjoy! Chuckanut Rd. runs south along the Sound, providing my last furtive glances of salt water for many months. Spirits ran high and the bikes ran smooth. Stefan took very well to the cycling life and was well ahead of us a great deal of the way.

The launch!

Thag and Zog and Iga on Chuckanut Road, Puget Sound:

Over the next few days we worked our way out of the flats around the Sound, picked up the thread of the Skagit river...

The Skagit River. Ahhhh.

...and followed it up, up, up to the lofty places where they have bottled it up with dams and powerlines (we also stayed in a town called Concrete, where they made the stuff to make the dams).

Town make stuff for dams:

This was dreamy riding, especially when the Adventure Cycling Association routed us on the opposite bank of the river from the Harleys and RVs. Have we mentioned the Harelys and RVs yet? The former pose no real danger to cyclists except for the terrifying noises they can make at just the wrong times. I do imagine that they clear all interesting wildlife away to far-off hidey holes so we don't have to be distracted by the soaring birds and grazing mammals we would otherwise have the displeasure of enjoying given our relatively quiet mode of transport.

We try our best to be open-minded about all people, and we understand that underneath all that Harley Davidson clothing they are tender humans like the rest of us (and there is two-way respect among all two-wheeled travelers on these roads) and that practice helps us dig into and try to understand why so many people in this great land of ours feel compelled to get a giant rolling box 8 feet wide and lord knows how long and tall and set out on a cross-country crusade of the narrowest shoulderlessest roads in America to terrify and nauseate as many cyclists as possible and cause the wetting and smearing of so many spandex shorts. We haven't quite figured it out yet, but it must be a great reason because there are so many of them. And when we do figure it out, we're sure we'll find that compassion that all tender humans share for each other.

And back to our story. Traveling by bike offers so much freedom of so many varieties you can't even imagine. Tangible stuff, like:

being able to decide on a whim where to go or where to sleep and never having to park a car somewhere, or

being able to roll right off the pavement onto narrow paths, or hop over the median, or

being able to eat whatever you want an whatever quantity (as long as it's large). You can feel like a True American out here.

And intangible stuff, like

a new understanding of the layout of the land and the true passage of time, and

a openness to and magnet for new sorts of human connections, and

discovering how liberating it is to live with only the items you can actually carry over mountains (and how you crave even less), and

well, I shouldn't have to find words for all the intangible stuff so I'll leave some mysteries for you to solve when you head out on your next bike tour. I highly recommend it, and you can even get that freeish feeling in a simple overnight trip! Pack some things and head 25 miles in any direction from your home, spend the night, and ride home. You'll feel it, I promise.

Stefan felt it, we could tell. His father rode a bike all over Europe and he knew it was only a matter of time before he succumbed to his destiny. His fate is one of both vertical and horizontal travel. Through the X and Y axes in addition to his standard Z.

Stefan and his sleek Univega

Somewhere along the way we turned into cavepeople (that also happens on a bike tour, I forgot to mention that among the inherent freedoms) and adopted cavenames. The men took on Gary Larson's classic Zog and Thag, and Wendy was assigned Iga. This may already be obvious to you if you read the Zog Blog. Zog also make many pictograph with shiny stone.

Yoghurt explosion make Zog clean bag: