Day 3
Can hardly believe it's only day 3. Feels like easily the second week. The days are so full from dawn to dusk and then some, it's hard even to find time to write this. But there's so much we might forget if I didn't.
The morning was cool and damp. The dew as heavy as a thick layer of moss. We were biking by quarter after 9. Another 60-miler today, so we set a steady pace. The route was simple: a short section along the coast until 101 turned inland, and roughly 30 miles to Quinalt Lake. Then turn back toward the coast on smaller road off 101 called the Moclips highway, which would return us to the water and deposit us at Pacific Beach for the night. All of this was on the Quinalt Reservation.
The first stretch was as straightaway and simple. Heavy logged clearcuts and regrowth on either side, and a fairly busy road with lots of logging trucks, who came careening by with a tremendous racket. The oncoming scream of the tires can be heard for a good 30 seconds before the rush of air envelopes you and the logs go flying by a few feet off your left shoulder. It's all rather thrilling.
Not too many places to stop off this road, so our first snack break occured in a slow vehicle turnout. It'll do.
Something of note were several red signs we noticed, reading "Bury Olympic Park Land Grab. $900,000 dollars lost." Curious, I looked it up later to read about a contraversial issue on the peninsula a few years ago in which the National Park was looking to expand by buying adjacent plots which were put up for sale that contained key ecological features. Apparently, this translated for the local people into forced eviction by the federal government, stealing timber profits. Funny how that works. The scariest part is, all the rumors of 'land grab' stuck and it didn't matter if it wasn't true. It still killed the project. We talked a lot about it while we were riding; how lumber (and fish to a lesser degree) are really the only steady source of income out here, and how threatening any infringement on that could be for the local. Yet, standing by the industry to the death seems only to delay the inevitable: The timber industry will never be as strong as it was in the first half of the 20th century, and even then, it was a hard life for people out here, profits being far from equally shared. Still the clear cuts go on and on. It's hard not to think 'what will be left?' I am reminded of the feeling of the Olympics every time we go through a dense, dark grove of tall cedars, moss hanging from every branch... As soon as we enter a regrowth area, the feeling is gone. We are nowhere.
We stopped by the outflow of Quinalt Lake and munched on wild blackberries for a time before heading towards the Moclips highway. The road here was quiet and calm, winding through dark woods. We could ride 3 abreast here without trouble, which was a treat. Makes conversation a lot easier. In not too long we were met by the ladies, who had ridden back from camp. The whole of us now, rode the last stretch into Moclips (where ma narrowly escaped an angry dog at her heels).
It was the last section of the road, from Moclips into Pacific Beach that really stole our hearts. The sun was starting to break through. And after being between dense forest on both sides all day, the wide open ocean bluffs filled our sails for the last mile. The road gently descended into the small strip of Pacific beach (gas station, cafe, beachcomber's shop) and as it did we could see the sheer wooded hillside drop down to the long grey beach, waves stampeding, jumping over eachother to get to shore, endlessly disappearing into the mist beyond. Wow.
Pacific Beach is known for its kite flying festival, which was just coming to a close Labor day weekend. Still some hold-outs were camped out in trailers, flying thier best kites passively over the campground. My favorites were the catarpillars...
The ocean was too temping. We went running in, stomping on the sea foam as we went. Right into the delta where the Moclips river let into the ocean. The current was strong, but not as strong as the waves that came breaking in sideways and nearly tore the feet out from under us. Just enough to remember the fury and power of the ocean. Thanks for the reminder.
The evening wind brought in a bank of clouds, which was slightly disappointing until the fingers of God shone down on the breaking surf for one final nail in the coffin: this place is amazing. Liam said it best: "I didn't think Washington had beaches this good." Yes it does. Yes it does.
The morning was cool and damp. The dew as heavy as a thick layer of moss. We were biking by quarter after 9. Another 60-miler today, so we set a steady pace. The route was simple: a short section along the coast until 101 turned inland, and roughly 30 miles to Quinalt Lake. Then turn back toward the coast on smaller road off 101 called the Moclips highway, which would return us to the water and deposit us at Pacific Beach for the night. All of this was on the Quinalt Reservation.
The first stretch was as straightaway and simple. Heavy logged clearcuts and regrowth on either side, and a fairly busy road with lots of logging trucks, who came careening by with a tremendous racket. The oncoming scream of the tires can be heard for a good 30 seconds before the rush of air envelopes you and the logs go flying by a few feet off your left shoulder. It's all rather thrilling.
Not too many places to stop off this road, so our first snack break occured in a slow vehicle turnout. It'll do.
Something of note were several red signs we noticed, reading "Bury Olympic Park Land Grab. $900,000 dollars lost." Curious, I looked it up later to read about a contraversial issue on the peninsula a few years ago in which the National Park was looking to expand by buying adjacent plots which were put up for sale that contained key ecological features. Apparently, this translated for the local people into forced eviction by the federal government, stealing timber profits. Funny how that works. The scariest part is, all the rumors of 'land grab' stuck and it didn't matter if it wasn't true. It still killed the project. We talked a lot about it while we were riding; how lumber (and fish to a lesser degree) are really the only steady source of income out here, and how threatening any infringement on that could be for the local. Yet, standing by the industry to the death seems only to delay the inevitable: The timber industry will never be as strong as it was in the first half of the 20th century, and even then, it was a hard life for people out here, profits being far from equally shared. Still the clear cuts go on and on. It's hard not to think 'what will be left?' I am reminded of the feeling of the Olympics every time we go through a dense, dark grove of tall cedars, moss hanging from every branch... As soon as we enter a regrowth area, the feeling is gone. We are nowhere.
We stopped by the outflow of Quinalt Lake and munched on wild blackberries for a time before heading towards the Moclips highway. The road here was quiet and calm, winding through dark woods. We could ride 3 abreast here without trouble, which was a treat. Makes conversation a lot easier. In not too long we were met by the ladies, who had ridden back from camp. The whole of us now, rode the last stretch into Moclips (where ma narrowly escaped an angry dog at her heels).
It was the last section of the road, from Moclips into Pacific Beach that really stole our hearts. The sun was starting to break through. And after being between dense forest on both sides all day, the wide open ocean bluffs filled our sails for the last mile. The road gently descended into the small strip of Pacific beach (gas station, cafe, beachcomber's shop) and as it did we could see the sheer wooded hillside drop down to the long grey beach, waves stampeding, jumping over eachother to get to shore, endlessly disappearing into the mist beyond. Wow.
Pacific Beach is known for its kite flying festival, which was just coming to a close Labor day weekend. Still some hold-outs were camped out in trailers, flying thier best kites passively over the campground. My favorites were the catarpillars...
The ocean was too temping. We went running in, stomping on the sea foam as we went. Right into the delta where the Moclips river let into the ocean. The current was strong, but not as strong as the waves that came breaking in sideways and nearly tore the feet out from under us. Just enough to remember the fury and power of the ocean. Thanks for the reminder.
The evening wind brought in a bank of clouds, which was slightly disappointing until the fingers of God shone down on the breaking surf for one final nail in the coffin: this place is amazing. Liam said it best: "I didn't think Washington had beaches this good." Yes it does. Yes it does.
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