Day 2
Blue sky. A midnight piss found stars, which was a good sign, and the morning delivered. Joining us today was Mo! Lluc's gal. She met us at camp last night and is along for the ride for a couple days. (The party is growing...) Still getting the hang of de-rigging this wagon train. We were ready to ride at half-past nine.
The route for today was another loopdy-loop, heading inland and returning to the coast for camp. Riding 110 back towards Forks, and then 101 all the way to Kalaloch, in the portion of Olympic National Park that follows the coast. Shorter today, only 44 miles, but after going 0 to 60 yesterday (well, 59 miles), all of us had some tender parts.
Bob came out to meet us before we shoved off and offered to show us around his house. He was eager to show us his "trippy art," which he did. The man had run a garbage hauling business in Big Sur for a long time, and his place was full of unique finds, for as he said: "sometimes, the junk finds you."
So we rolled out, and soon after came across the Sol Duc river, looking brilliant in the morning sun.
In those first few miles I was reminded of so many familiar sensations of bike touring, which somehow one forgets when they're not on the bike. Perhaps these are the things one manages to block from memory. The feeling of butt ache as if you've been hit between the legs by a baseball bat, for example. Or the feeling of soreness in muscles you didn't know you had-- little ones in odd in-between places, all through your joints and tucked in places between other large muscles. I was feeling well trained from my active Summer self, as my legs, back, and core have yet to be really sore. But the little guys-- especially in my knees-- have made themselves known.
We were in Forks before long. Don't be fooled. This is not vampire country. This is logging country. Several signs on the roadside by trees of uniform heights reminded us of the date of harvest and next harvest (1930/ 1984/ 2046) along with the phrase "Jobs grow with trees."
Passing through town we were started by a shout from someone sitting a a streetfront cafe: "HEY YOU HIPPIES!!" I was just about ready to duck for cover and pedal hard when I looked back to see it was Bob, gone out riding with his buddies on dirt bikes. We waved, "Peace Bob! Take it easy!"
The road continued, through thick evergreen forest, where we stopped every so often in particularly inviting areas, always opening our eyes to some new feature of this moist paradise.
We followed the Hoh river down to the ocean to a bit of the Pacific Coast Highway I had actually biked before. A glorious oscillating strip riding high on ocean bluffs, where between wind-stripped trees, the endless shimming horizon retreats. Every so often at creek drainedges, a cove appears where a perfect framed picture is created, though only for an instant as you whiz by.
A particularly special part of this strip is the big cedar. I should note the remarkable difference in the forest between outside and inside the national park. Immediately, the trees rise to create a green canyon around the road, and the air cools with the shade, at least 5 degrees. A short walk into the forest reveals a landscape exploding with so much vegetation, calling it a jungle wouldn't be a far leap. Among it, rises these legends:
Trees so old, thier burls are as bug as cars, and sapplings they nursed now tower over other dry and abandoned trunks, creating an elevated village of branches in the canopy. There is little more to do than stand in awe.
A few more miles brought us to Kalaloch. I love this beach.
A low fog rolled in an over the shore, only to burn off and disperse above the land, like giant sky waves. A sweaty day of cycling made even this salty, frigid water sound appealing. So we got right in. It was wild and glorious.
Day's end under the cedars. Sore, and ready for more.
The route for today was another loopdy-loop, heading inland and returning to the coast for camp. Riding 110 back towards Forks, and then 101 all the way to Kalaloch, in the portion of Olympic National Park that follows the coast. Shorter today, only 44 miles, but after going 0 to 60 yesterday (well, 59 miles), all of us had some tender parts.
Bob came out to meet us before we shoved off and offered to show us around his house. He was eager to show us his "trippy art," which he did. The man had run a garbage hauling business in Big Sur for a long time, and his place was full of unique finds, for as he said: "sometimes, the junk finds you."
So we rolled out, and soon after came across the Sol Duc river, looking brilliant in the morning sun.
In those first few miles I was reminded of so many familiar sensations of bike touring, which somehow one forgets when they're not on the bike. Perhaps these are the things one manages to block from memory. The feeling of butt ache as if you've been hit between the legs by a baseball bat, for example. Or the feeling of soreness in muscles you didn't know you had-- little ones in odd in-between places, all through your joints and tucked in places between other large muscles. I was feeling well trained from my active Summer self, as my legs, back, and core have yet to be really sore. But the little guys-- especially in my knees-- have made themselves known.
We were in Forks before long. Don't be fooled. This is not vampire country. This is logging country. Several signs on the roadside by trees of uniform heights reminded us of the date of harvest and next harvest (1930/ 1984/ 2046) along with the phrase "Jobs grow with trees."
Passing through town we were started by a shout from someone sitting a a streetfront cafe: "HEY YOU HIPPIES!!" I was just about ready to duck for cover and pedal hard when I looked back to see it was Bob, gone out riding with his buddies on dirt bikes. We waved, "Peace Bob! Take it easy!"
The road continued, through thick evergreen forest, where we stopped every so often in particularly inviting areas, always opening our eyes to some new feature of this moist paradise.
Like these lovely fungi, as of yet, unidentified.
Soon, we neared the Hoh river valley, and at our first chance, got off the road and found the banks.
The water qas clear, almost Caribbean blue, and cold. We soaked our toes and recognizing the myriad skipping stones among us, engaged in a skipping competition. Rocks this flat and rounded can make anyone skip like a pro.
Not long after we ran across the other half of the crew. The girls! Ma's and mo and made camp and cycled back to meet us. Now it's a real biker gang.
A particularly special part of this strip is the big cedar. I should note the remarkable difference in the forest between outside and inside the national park. Immediately, the trees rise to create a green canyon around the road, and the air cools with the shade, at least 5 degrees. A short walk into the forest reveals a landscape exploding with so much vegetation, calling it a jungle wouldn't be a far leap. Among it, rises these legends:
Trees so old, thier burls are as bug as cars, and sapplings they nursed now tower over other dry and abandoned trunks, creating an elevated village of branches in the canopy. There is little more to do than stand in awe.
A few more miles brought us to Kalaloch. I love this beach.
A low fog rolled in an over the shore, only to burn off and disperse above the land, like giant sky waves. A sweaty day of cycling made even this salty, frigid water sound appealing. So we got right in. It was wild and glorious.
Day's end under the cedars. Sore, and ready for more.
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