Day 13
The cool, moist ocean air had settled in the gulch below Humbug mountain where we were camped. When the sun finally did come up and over the hillside, it cast long rays of light between the branches of the pines. It set an eerie yet peaceful sense over the camp. It seemed to agree with the mood of the group; Bailey was to leave us this morning. So wonderful to have her with us for this short leg of the journey. She will be sorely missed; particularly in the hamstrings and calves with our full weight back on our bikes again...
Breakfast was delightful with the powdered milk we had finally managed to acquire (harder than one would think)-- fresh dairy is heavy and hard to keep on the road, and granola without milk or yogurt is a lonely granola.
We good-byed (Lluc was kind enough to turn his back while we were being sappy) and rode up and around Humbug mountain (which I determined is only called a mountain because of its stature is relation to the coast. As a hill, it is not so extraordinary, but placed on the edge if the sea, it stands out with promenance and appears deserving of the title.)
Another bright, sunny day. I even brought out the short-shorts. A steady Northwest wind filled our sails and nudged us along into Gold Beach around noon.
The Rogue river empties there, and was full of small fishing boats with lines hanging over the sides. By the side of the river, we rested over the skeleton of the Mary D. Hume, a boat famed for a 6-year whaling expedition in the Bearing Sea that pulled in $400,000 of balene in 1890. It was sunk there intentionally to rest by its birthplace.
We seem to attract scruffy folks on bikes that really want you to listen to them talk. And boy do they... Most of the time it's enjoyable, even if unbelievable. Fella came up to us there who called himself "Sarge" as in 'Sargeant' (former US military). It was his 60th birthday and he had just come back from "work" collecting "samples" of the "salmon eggs and things" because we was a trained "biologist" though all he carried with him was a plastic bag full of cans. He lived in a hammock there in "Gold B!+#$". He said the hammock was alright except for when it rained, but "Heck," he said, "This is Oregon: you're either a duck or a beaver!"
Mailed some postcards there we had been holding onto for far too long. Other than that, we hardly stopped that afternoon. It was 101 all the way to Brookings, and the rolling hills we so constant, we had to keep our momentum to get up the next one, so we made good time. It was a the Samuel Boardman Scenic corridor, and scenic it was. High forrested cliffs diving into frothing waves, the water fading from light robins egg to deep royal blue in the distance. Stood on several viewpoints contemplating endlessness.
At Brookings we stopped at a pub for wifi, to decide where we should go that night. A beer and some fries helped sway us to stay. So did nearby Harris beach state park. Oregon state parks do a great job of encouraging man-powered adventurers with thier hiker/biker sites. Always cheap, and they'll never turn you away, even whent the place is full.
Sunset brought us to the beach to do our stretches. This is becoming a wonderful routine.
We especially enjoyed this arched rock, which in the bright evening light looked like a portal to another world:
The folks in the campsite that night showed the best and worst of bicycle tourists. There was a French family, a full family (mom, dad, and three kids) all on bikes (including two tandems) that had cycled there together from Portland, heading to San Diego. To watch them handle their rambunctious kids after what must have been a long day on the road was truly impressive--- Then there was Big John, a stout man who hollared at us from across the campsite as we pulled in "Want a rip!?" He had no reservations about puffing his weed and swearing like a sailor next to the family. He made himself comfortable at out picnic table while we unpacked and told tall tales, like the night before when he had "got a $10 beer at the bar, got bought $100 dollars worth and woke up with a redhead on the beach 30 miles down the road!" He had some old-timer gear, including a late 90's Trek, some very weathered panniers, and a trailer filler with a 12-pack of Fosters. Turns out the man runs a snow removal business in Montana during the winter and does this all summer, every summer. Good thing he passed out early and we got some sleep. Guess its just more evidence that bike touring really is the 'the people's way to travel.'
Breakfast was delightful with the powdered milk we had finally managed to acquire (harder than one would think)-- fresh dairy is heavy and hard to keep on the road, and granola without milk or yogurt is a lonely granola.
We good-byed (Lluc was kind enough to turn his back while we were being sappy) and rode up and around Humbug mountain (which I determined is only called a mountain because of its stature is relation to the coast. As a hill, it is not so extraordinary, but placed on the edge if the sea, it stands out with promenance and appears deserving of the title.)
Another bright, sunny day. I even brought out the short-shorts. A steady Northwest wind filled our sails and nudged us along into Gold Beach around noon.
The Rogue river empties there, and was full of small fishing boats with lines hanging over the sides. By the side of the river, we rested over the skeleton of the Mary D. Hume, a boat famed for a 6-year whaling expedition in the Bearing Sea that pulled in $400,000 of balene in 1890. It was sunk there intentionally to rest by its birthplace.
We seem to attract scruffy folks on bikes that really want you to listen to them talk. And boy do they... Most of the time it's enjoyable, even if unbelievable. Fella came up to us there who called himself "Sarge" as in 'Sargeant' (former US military). It was his 60th birthday and he had just come back from "work" collecting "samples" of the "salmon eggs and things" because we was a trained "biologist" though all he carried with him was a plastic bag full of cans. He lived in a hammock there in "Gold B!+#$". He said the hammock was alright except for when it rained, but "Heck," he said, "This is Oregon: you're either a duck or a beaver!"
Mailed some postcards there we had been holding onto for far too long. Other than that, we hardly stopped that afternoon. It was 101 all the way to Brookings, and the rolling hills we so constant, we had to keep our momentum to get up the next one, so we made good time. It was a the Samuel Boardman Scenic corridor, and scenic it was. High forrested cliffs diving into frothing waves, the water fading from light robins egg to deep royal blue in the distance. Stood on several viewpoints contemplating endlessness.
At Brookings we stopped at a pub for wifi, to decide where we should go that night. A beer and some fries helped sway us to stay. So did nearby Harris beach state park. Oregon state parks do a great job of encouraging man-powered adventurers with thier hiker/biker sites. Always cheap, and they'll never turn you away, even whent the place is full.
Sunset brought us to the beach to do our stretches. This is becoming a wonderful routine.
We especially enjoyed this arched rock, which in the bright evening light looked like a portal to another world:
The folks in the campsite that night showed the best and worst of bicycle tourists. There was a French family, a full family (mom, dad, and three kids) all on bikes (including two tandems) that had cycled there together from Portland, heading to San Diego. To watch them handle their rambunctious kids after what must have been a long day on the road was truly impressive--- Then there was Big John, a stout man who hollared at us from across the campsite as we pulled in "Want a rip!?" He had no reservations about puffing his weed and swearing like a sailor next to the family. He made himself comfortable at out picnic table while we unpacked and told tall tales, like the night before when he had "got a $10 beer at the bar, got bought $100 dollars worth and woke up with a redhead on the beach 30 miles down the road!" He had some old-timer gear, including a late 90's Trek, some very weathered panniers, and a trailer filler with a 12-pack of Fosters. Turns out the man runs a snow removal business in Montana during the winter and does this all summer, every summer. Good thing he passed out early and we got some sleep. Guess its just more evidence that bike touring really is the 'the people's way to travel.'
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