Cycle Tripping, pt 2.

August 10, 1993 on 8:47 pm | In Mountain, Touring |

Cycle Tripping- Part Two of Three

The bicycle adventure continues. Last summer I jumped on a BMX cruiser and journeyed from Colorado to Vancouver to Portland and all the way back to Cincinnati. Part One followed me through Yellowstone and Glacier National Parks and a twisted experience at the Canadian border.

Part Two begins with our stay in Kananaskis, 80 miles southwest of Calgary, in late July. All passages in quotes are from my personal journal.

After crossing Highwood Pass (7,600 ft.), Jim and I rode down into Peter Loughheed Provincial Park, deciding that this would be the perfect place to take a day off to hike. “Directly across the lake is Mt. Lyautey, terraced by snow fields…I think I’ll watch the clouds on this incredible day.” We stumbled onto an amazing campsite. Jim and I rolled down the path passing an Asian family of seven. The woods surrounding the site contained seven fresh little poops. It was a beautiful moment.

“We hiked Mt. Indefatigable today. Once we got into the cirque, Jim and I free-climbed to its (11,900-ft.) peak.” From the top of the mountain I could see why I’d left Cincinnati. The temptation to scree ski to the bottom was strong, but man can destroy mountains.

On August 2: “We rode out of Kananaskis Country and hit Highway 1, the Trans-Canadian Highway (TC1). Amid the lush evergreen forest, Jim and I had been passed by a cyclist on TC1-A. We kicked it in and caught up with him a few miles down the road. We started talking and I found out that he worked in Lake Louise, Alberta, the next day’s destination. He invited us to stay near the Chateau. We made arrangements to stop by the next day. The dozens of folks we met showed us nearly selfless hospitality.

A few days later we pushed across British Columbia for the ocean. All but 200 miles was on the main highway. After turning south from Salmon Arm, we climbed a two-mile, 13 percent grade on gravel through butchered boreal forest. We emerged on an incredible highland meadow that is textured with rolling blonde hills that stretch for miles. The washboard gravel weaved for another 30 miles before we reached our destination. We got to Douglas Lake at 5p.m. “Across the lake the hills roll with hints of alpine flora. Although we are close to the road, a mere three cars have gone by.”

That night at dusk we were mystified by one kerplunk after another in the lake, sending us searching for a rock-throwing perpetrator. We realized that we were hearing the ritual dance of the enormous MacDaddy salmon. They sounded like 30-lb. Boulders dropping from the sky, and they kept it up all night. Serious fish. “The clouds have cleared, but my saddlesores have not.”

Two days later we arrived in Sasquatch country. We camped for two days on the Chehalis River, sharing the old growth, giant fern and crystal clear water with less than desirable campers. Locals told us that there had been numerous sightings of Big Foot, called Sasquatch, within the local rainforest. As we hiked further up the valley, it became apparent that it would be easy to imagine seeing such a shape. With fern, moss beds and 11-foot diameter hemlock, the forest can play on your imagination.

From Harrison Hot Springs to Vancouver lies a steadily dropping coastal plain 80 miles wide. It is a fast stretch of road. Once we passed through Vancouver’s suburbs, our first skyline in months appeared. I was surprised with the city’s sprawl and size. Vancouver has a population of three million, and its China Town is the largest outside of Asia. The city was too large for my tastes. We headed for the ferry that would take us away from the mainland.

We grabbed the ferry to Vancouver Island at Horseshoe Bay via the ever affluent Marine Drive. I watched the sunset from the bow of the ship with a man named Fox. The ocean is a constant 38 degrees as far north as Vancouver. When we first saw it, it looked cold. When I first washed in it, I was assured.

At sun up, we rolled our of Nanaimo Bay south toward Victoria. We turned inland and climbed into the Central Vancouver Island Ranges. At the end of our 90-mile day, Jim and I found a wonderful beach to camp on bordering Cowichan Lake. Boasting British Columbia’s highest annual temperatures, sunset was cool by the lake. “Despite the extensive logging, the mountains maintain their beauty.” After writing this I remember the wash of confusion in my head. Why should I be conditioned to simply accept logging and its denuded wake?

On August 16, we rode over the island’s watershed divide and dropped to Port Renfrew. The logging roads were full of forestry information. “This forest harvested in 1946. Re-forested in 1952. Timber: the renewable resource.” The interior of the island once contained abundant growth. The 60-plus inches of rain per year on this island enable trees to grow to heights well over 200 feet. The harvest of these big daddies has boiled down to one acre of new clear-cut every 12 seconds (per Equinox Magazine, Forestry Stat. Canada, 1992).

British Columbia provides nearly half of Canada’s timber production. Clear cuts have already destroyed 90.7 percent of BC’s old growth forest. It takes at least 60-120 years for the forest to become useful to the forestry industry again. It will take much longer than that to restore its biological systems and functions. Even so, “after planting, seeding and natural revegetation, 18-25 percent remains without trees, with a consequent temporary loss of habitat for forest species” (per Fed. Govt. Canada, State of Environment report, 1991).

Reaching the Pacific Ocean, we decided to rest for a couple days on the coast among the old growth. Entering the ancient standing forest, a sense of wonder flooded my body. We were in a fairyland. There were a dozen or so structures among the Brobdingnagian forest-some kiosks, others shanties, nearly all maintained. Jim and I looked at each other with near confusion. What the hell were all these buildings, with no visible residents, doing here? Deciding to camp on the beach with a fear of intruding, we walked back to our bikes and detached our bags. We set up camp above the tideline. Houses were built from driftwood and what materials people could bring down the steep trails. At least 20 people call Sambio Beach “home.” The Juan de Fuca Strait stretches to Cape Flattery, WA, the lower 48’s northwestern-most point. From their odd shaped porches, squatters have been living life in the paradise, an idea reinforced by the “thwapping” of Canadian and assorted flags from the shorebound winds of the open sea.

Shortly after our arrival, I sat on a huge log with a man who seemed bewildered by my presence. Eventually he accepted me, and we exchanged backgrounds. After introducing me to the dogs that all of the beach’s inhabitants, he introduced himself as Kenny. Scraggly beard, gaunt figure, chain smoker, and chronic cough. Kenny had very solid eyes with radiating wrinkles. He has been there since 1983. Like most of the other squatters, he paid a woman in nearby Port Renfrew to report that he rents a room in her house. With an address, Kenny can collect welfare. All the while, he lives rent-free on “Crown land”.

On the morning of August 16: “…a great deal more beach has been revealed. The gulls are feeding on all the crustaceans left among the kelp. The sun is a moment from soaking the beach with its luminous warmth. Kenny is wearing knee-high rubber boots, a red plaid shirt, striped blue sweat pants and his yellow baseball cap. After an acknowledging wave, he starts off down the beach to fill his backpack with treasure. He appears to be collecting driftwood. Ken scans the ground in what is undoubtedly a daily perusal. After living through a few winters here, it would be hard to leave.

Every mile of the road to Victoria brought us closer to home that day. Sambio Point was our trip’s western-most point. From here, our plans were to visit friends in Seattle and Portland then bust across the desert to Denver, then home. From Sambio Beach we were looking at 2,700 more miles.

Jim and I took the last ferry from Victoria to Port Angeles, WA. “As silly as it may be, I fell very sentimental about going back to my native country. The sun sets in a fiery orange scale, blasting the Olympia mountains but unable to diminish their snow fields.”

Unlike our earlier experience, U.S. Customs was a joke. We strolled through, flashing our ID’s, with the other 300 or so foot passengers. The Safeway provided a six pack of Lowenbrau Dark Special for our return celebration.

Welcome to the American Pacific Northwest. Our approach to the Seattle area skimmed the Olympic National Forest on Rt. 101. From the road, extensive logging had denuded much of what we could see. After crossing the Hood Canal Bridge, we pushed south to Port Orchard. Our friend Katherine, who allowed us to use her place as a home base for the next week, met us. Showers every day, a full kitchen, modern conveniences had become strange and unnecessary by this point, but I adapted quickly.

During the week in Seattle, Jim and I split up for most of the time. I stayed with a high school friend, Laura, her boyfriend Mike and their roommate. The hardcore urban environment provided a long-awaited culture shock. Despite the city’s size, it has done a fantastic job of preserving green space. Mike gave numerous tours of Seattle’s parks. We foraged for plums, cherries, and berries. Fruit was ripe for the picking.

One evening, three of us went to RCKNDY (Rock Candy), where many Seattlites told us we could experience the town’s grunge nightlife. Headlining that night was the band Sweaty Nipples, who distorted somewhere between BuBu Klan and Broadway. “The crowd was twisted but fun; mostly harmless, but bloody cryptic.” After the show we drove down to Seattle’s 24-hour hip hang, Café Minnies. The crepes rocked my socks.

Seattle is comparable to a hubris Short Vine Street on a sunny day. Tattoos and obscure piercings are as ubiquitous as coffee shops. Eccentricities, fetishes, posers and parks- these overlook the Puget Sound and underscore this new-age Mecca.

Arrangements were made to meet Jim in Portland.

“The Olympic peninsula contains three rainforests. All to them reside in East-West river valleys-Quinah, Queets and the Hoh. Sitka Spruce, Western Hemlock, Douglas Fir and Red Cedars create a 300-ft. canopy. Catherine, Jim and I hiked the Hoh River Trail for an A-B-A day hike. The epiphytes droop over every limb that lends itself to the green tinsel. The rain was with us all night and day. What else should one expect in a rain forest?” Walking in a rainforest can be an incredibly humbling experience. “This is what it’s all about” I confidently wrote that evening.

Three new friends that I’d met in Seattle, and I spent a day mountain biking in Washington’s Capitol Forest. The next morning, I set out at the crack of dawn, I switched back to my street and set off on the 130-mile leg to Portland. It took me eight hours to ride. After my second break, I finished the ride with a biker who was out for a recreational ride. John had been trying to catch me for three miles. Once he did, he volunteered to break the wind for me. We managed to push 23 m.p.h. for the last 15 miles to my friend’s house. I was wasted. My feet, hands, and butt were bummin’. Boy was I glad to have beaten the setting sun. I rolled to Biff and Torn’s house. I stayed with them for the following week.

Portland’s half-million population occupies a valley at the confluence of the Columbia and Willamette Rivers. Neatly divided into quadrants, directional street name prefixes make it an easy town to get around in. Mt. Hood’s 11,239-ft. peak peers down onto the town. If the Cascade Mountains were not just 60 miles east, the town’s topography would make it very much like Cincinnati. However, Portland’s proximity to the sea and sierra give its citizens a recreational outlet not available here. Biff, Tom and Jerry live in the SE quadrant; Hawthorne St. is their cultural district. The E-W avenue is crammed with coffee shops, bakeries, and new age book and music shops. Brewpubs and coffeeshops make the cities of the Northwest a potentially gluttonous experience. I stood to the challenge.

Tom and I borrowed a car to take to the ocean, going to Cascade Head. All of the magical things that you’ve heard about Oregon’s coast are true. On arrival we hiked into thick fog. With eight feet of visibility, we climbed down, down, down. We knew that we were in a large open space, but now large and where in relation to the ocean I could not tell. We stopped and opened the Pinot Noir. Our smiles were as big as bananas. Suddenly, a gust blew a hole through the mist. You could see the foam of the ocean churning through the rocks a thousand feet below us. The vision was on fractals.

One by one sight windows opened and closed, giving us clues of our surroundings. The switchbacks led us down to a cliff that was not visible until I was four paces from it. My mind was running wild trying to fill in all of the information that was not there. It was a wonderfully stimulation experience in closure that I will never forget. The power of the fog can be overwhelming. Denied sight, other senses kicked in. I was able to feel all vibrations. “My senses are an open-faced sandwich, nothing can hide…moisture, blindfold, spin, low reveal, wonder.” Someday I will go back.

After allowing my body to rest for five days, Jim and I hooked up. We planned a direct to Denver, then on to Cincinnati. Half of the trek was behind us. We were excited about the thought of the northwesterly winds pushing us towards home. The logic was simple-we had ridden into the wind toward the ocean; now that we were going the other way it would help instead of hinder us.

Steering toward Mt. Hood, we climbed from near sea level into the Cascade Mountains. Although Wapinitia Pass is only 4,027 feet, I felt the thinning air after being at sea level for nearly three weeks. We would ride for the next eight consecutive days across the high Oregon desert, through a finger of the great basin and over the Rocky Mountains into Denver.

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