The month is July, the year 2018. The State: Washington. Destination: somewhere heading north through the Cascades. The Bicycle: that lovely bestie Bianchi, my two wheeled seemingly half work horse and half well oiled machine accompanied by that lifetime shignangan of a touring mate: Mr. O'reilly. It’s about to begin and Bianchi is all suited up in her best attire. She always looks most beautiful with draperies of used and abused gear. Her true Celeste green eyes twinkle beneath the scrapes and bruises she been lugged through. I have gotten a few inquiries about Ralph, the stuff reindeer, as the details of the trip lined unfolded. He actually hadn’t been invited this time; he’s big and heavy and I’m old. But a handful of shocking responses to that answer changed his plans to his completely and utter delight. I figured I was just too old for him. Some things that one can get away with in your twenties just looks plain old stupid in your 30s. Strolling around with a stuffed animal on a bicycle was one of them in my opinion. But shit, when I've got a handful of 60 something year olds asking why Ralph isn’t coming...I guess I’m making room for the most spoiled 16 ounces of stuffed reindeer.
As for O’Reilly and his steal framed boy named Action...the pounds just piled on Action since last summer. He is beyond insanely heavy. He came equipped with a blow up lantern, 3 vintage copies of his favorite Steinbeck novels, and 6 boxes of Mac and cheese.
It’s late afternoon just as a breeze rolls down the Colombian gorge. We stand ready starring up the Wind River hwy just outside of the town of Carson Washington. And like that another summer begins with two humans and two bikes head north into the dusk of the day......
Well that was the original plan at least, until O’Reilly missed his morning flight into Portland international airport where Bianchi Action Ralph and I were awaiting his arrival. Lesson of the day, things don’t always go as planned in life. Our crew, 2 bikes, 2 humans, and one reindeer departed the start line a day late in the blistering sun...but life isn’t about getting from point A to B, it's everything that happens in between.
DAY 1
One ounce of salt later, we lay lifeless in a tent on top of some mountain north east of Mount St. Helens. The salty Mac and cheese fed our soul like injected drugs. We are high on salt; having a love affair with salt; sprinkling it on every surface area of the orange cheesy glutenous shell as if it were gold.
The salt granule fixation was a result of 60 miles and 6,000 ft of climbing on a 60lb bicycle. The day was filled with a healthy forest of very very tall trees. Astute and full of pride in their grandioseness. They are all really really really green. The vivid green setting on the iPhone photo app. Lush like they have an urge to crawl and cover any damp part of the earth. They grow like darts everywhere, packed into open lands like a perfectly packaged box of Pringles. Black raspberries grew like polka dots infecting a green canvas. The asphalt was rolled out like a red carpet that only seemingly went upwards. But at least there were a bounty of wildflowers in the sideline cheering us on with their bright colors of glee. And then there was Mount St Helens in the distance, she stood like a beautiful sexy bitch in the corner of the oil painted landscape.
DAY 2
Let me explain the magic of bicycle tour. The day consists of pedaling. Maybe up a gigantic never ending mountain, maybe even the sun throws in a few skin shredding spears of orange arrows. But that’s all you have to do, from sunrise till sunset. That’s 16 hours of sunlight. You’ve got all day to look at pretty scenery, to swim in rivers so blue that you yearn to drink them through a straw, you lust for the trees to tuck you into a pine needle bed. And then you eat food, sweet and salty foods specifically. Usually those that come in cans and boxes but magically taste as if you’re sitting at the French Laundry.
If I wanted to get from point A to point B I would drive a car. But you only see it in a car, you don’t truly live it like one does through sweating out the miles. Landscapes vividly stick in memories. It becomes sewn into your tendons. It pierces my whole being; it changes the way you think about life. It’s not a lie, it’s hard, it’s real. It’s a lot of pedals going round and round for hours and days. A tiredness sets deep within the muscles of our legs. There is struggle in the moment: you fall asleep dirty, you wish you had a real bed and pillow, and real milk for coffee upon sunrise. But that struggle doesn’t wreck the heart. It only dampers the physical being that is replenished mostly with a good nights sleep and and solid meal. And that’s why cycle touring is magic. It’s an adult escape into an enchanted land of utopia. By 8pm we had melted into exhaustion, and nature had tucked that’s tiredness into bed as the transparent blue river hummed our posse to sleep.
DAY 3:
The forest exhales oxygen. It breathes life. Pines reach their long green pointy fingers toward the manicured road. They cringe at being tamed by humans in automobiles.
As we lingered on the side of cliff a kind hearted tourist pulled up to Ralph in a black rental car, asking if the crew was ok? Unfortunately he also happened to mentioned the cuteness of the teddy bear. Ralph being Ralph lost it, he’s a reindeer, not a moose, and definitely not a teddy bear. Took him a minute to settled down after the explanation of who looks more ridiculous here: A stuffed reindeer mistaken for a teddy bear or a 30 year old girl on a bicycle tolling around her childhood stuff teddy.
Thoughts rolled in and out of the mind throughout the day. That is...until it got too cold to think about anything else. It’s July, and clothed in every layer of cotton packed into our panniers, it feels like it’s going to snow. The damp forest itched it’s way under the pores, into the bones. Fingers and toes froze to a numbness as we made the climb up and over some famous scenic mountain.
Outside the last town of civilization, yesterday morning the locals mentioned a resupply at the top of the mountain. So in the effort of efficiency we decided not to stock up on wine, whiskey, or food and to our deep regret, they were very very wrong. 50 miles from any sort of town the only thing is sight was an overpriced cafeteria on the pinnacle of a sloping glacier that lay 2000ft above our campground.
It was 3 pm, wearing all 3 pairs of underwear and wrapped in every ounce of cottons fabric, slumber happened in the tent buried in a sleeping bag. Warmth finally took over. Hours faded by in dreamland, the kind of sleep that happens when the body goes from frostbite to melting warmth. "Wake up" The magician O’Reilly appeared as if from the dream, across his shoulder a souvenir canvas bag that read Mt. Rainer National Park. During Ralph and my 2 hours warm slumber O’Reilly hiked the 2000ft trail, 3 miles to the top returning with $100 of cold burgers wrapped in coffee filters and nibs of wine. It was miracle. We nearly bought out the supply of campground wood that night. Our fire blazed deep into the evening, and although I didn’t see this particular mountain, a miracle happened at campsite A5 instead. Like I said, it’s not about getting from point A to B but the miracle of cold hamburgers that happens in between.
DAY 4
DAY 4
Departing Mt Rainier National was bitter sweet, leaving behind it’s freezing glory in exchange for the hot flat desert. We hit Trump town at about 4pm. The hand carved signs screamed in our faces, "make America great again!" as we approached a sort of civilization. Naches, Washington, a town populated with 700 inhabitants has an eery feeling of some lost and lonely purgatory. The menacing Brown hills that line the backdrop of a nearing ghost town stare down on scorched rocks and dirt. They show little signs of life. It’s hot, 97 degrees to be exact. American flags line the deserted streets of downtown and annuals with faded color attempt to bring life back to this sleepy town. Boarded up shops and old diners lay untouched for decades. An abandoned car, windows down and dusty sits in an unused parking lot. This is a town one could fade away in. Disappear from society and become a ghost. A town that could drop off the map and no one would notice.
5 days without a shower, lathered in sunscreen, a night of luxury was a must. The only motel in town sat across the street from the rustic, wooden and grandly historic 1885 Vans saloon, brown and weathered like the leathery ghosts who walk through this sun stung street. Shacked in between buildings sat a stark white 24 hour laundry mat. Our room, "New Orleans #2," came adorned in burgundy red velvet, a bath tub the size of a San Francisco apartment kitchen, and a ceiling fan that was about to going flying off the wall. And so the night ended around midnight with some warm red wine, a fluffy pillow, the air conditioning blasting on high, and clean feet.
DAY 6
DAY 6
The Spirit of Trump hung in the air like a hazy brown and stinking smog. The road out of Naches turned from purgatory to hell as fully loaded trucks and ruthless humans swerved by our vulnerable pedaling posse. They kicked up tar and road grit and slapped it across our faces. They would have run our posse over without even stopping to say sorry. Terrified this might be our last day on this planet we turned around after mile one and rerouted. Unfortunately, there aren’t many roads out in the middle of nowhere so two options remained: head north east following the desert or climb the 51 mile mountain we descended the prior day. In the spirit of wide shoulders, big trees, and those tropical blue alpine rivers, the crew climbed all day back up that mountain pass to the crazy white glacier.
After the trauma of the morning and O’Reilly’s near panic attack on hwy 12, we put Ralph on traffic duty, who this morning was called a cute fluffy at the local cherry stand. Taking charge of directing traffic by slowing the speedsters to a bicycle speed halt for a proper passing was his job. Really, you gonna run a girl off the road who is carrying a stuffed teddy with beaded eyes staring you down?
The brutal heat of the mid afternoon planted us at the last stop below that big mound of glacier ice. A gas station run by some strung out kids and an overpriced lodge called the Whistling Jack were the only buildings in town. Hours lulled by as we just sat and watched the cars with people roll in and out: vacationers with RVs towing the whole family, teenagers grabbing bags of Cheetos and extra large cokes, to locals from the town next door hauling hay and farm supplies up and over the mountain. We watch dozens sit at the bar, pound a few drinks and hop back into their oversized pick up trucks, speeding off into the distance as if this were a daily routine. Ralph safely navigated the crew to a campsite. The campfire burned vibrantly till sunset, we talked about the meaning of life until dusk quieted the air, and finally after a long day we all passed out like sun drenched superstars.
Day 7
Ralph stinks. He smells like a damp dirty wash cloth mixed in with a dusty campfire. The route winds back the way we came, through the little town of Packwood. It’s fresh green odor is quite the relief from the brown stench of the previous day. Established in 1889, Packwood was known then for its riverside huckleberries and basket weavers. Situated at the base of 3 mountain passes it appears to be the hub for winter sports and summer hiking. It’s an adorable little town. The one road that leads in and out is scattered with hand crafted store signs straight out of the 70’s. Fat Elk Pottery stands spritely to the east, Blue Spruce Saloon slumps drunkenly to the West, and to the north, the great mountain range with the familiar and menacing Mt. Ranier, wearing its gown of glowing white glaciers is unmoved and unchanged from here and forever. Down the road stood the Sweet Dirt Farm who’s market we wander through like children, buying trinkets and petting dogs.
Roasting in the oven of the forest valley, the river that carved out the town of Packwood was the perfect ending to a somewhat short 40 mile day. We rolled in and out of afternoon naps along the sandy beach of the Celeste green river, a refreshing and cool wind brushed against boiling skin. It crawled its way up the ice cold water lifting the pheromones of stone and minerals. Nothing could have been more perfect in that moment. In fact nothing could have been more perfect period, and so naps seamlessly rolled into a very long and good nights sleep.
Leaving Packwood was a hard goodbye. The town had won a special spot in our memories. The last stop before days of desolation was The Mountain Goat Coffee Shop. Outside locals and tourists gathered at the Saturday morning farmers market. Artisans lined the grassy front yard hugged by a mountainous forest green backdrop. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and decadent homemade cheddary scones wafted from the doors and windows. Stuffed full of rich coffee and buttery goodness, the crew was filled and ready to depart back into the southern cascades.
Leaving Packwood was a hard goodbye. The town had won a special spot in our memories. The last stop before days of desolation was The Mountain Goat Coffee Shop. Outside locals and tourists gathered at the Saturday morning farmers market. Artisans lined the grassy front yard hugged by a mountainous forest green backdrop. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and decadent homemade cheddary scones wafted from the doors and windows. Stuffed full of rich coffee and buttery goodness, the crew was filled and ready to depart back into the southern cascades.
DAY 8
6 mountain passes in 8 days. Nearly 25,000ft of climbing and 400 miles. Ralph’s mid section has been flatten to a thin pancake. His seatbelt that holds him strapped tight to the rack is ingrained in his fluff. At 23 years old, he has nearly 5,000 cycling miles under his belt. His body reads weathered like a road worn, dog eared book. So needed and adoringly loved. He has seen more of this country than many of the people who patriotically call it their home.
After another 90 miles through a big forest we landed ourselves back to where it all began 8 days ago in Carson Washington. It was 105 degrees as we road into town. The kind of heat in which you just can’t drink enough water.
And like that, the magic world, the bubble that encapsulated our lives was about to burst as we returned to the real world. Left are the memories of an experience few will fully understand. They are never forgotten, they are woven into our physical being, they remain like crisp photos within the mind.
A great lesson of the road tags along with us as we return to the world: To Be Flexible. Things many, many times may never really seem to go as planned. Bike parts brake days from bike shops, roads become impassable, O’Reilly misses his flight, food or water are in short supply, and the weather drags limbs to a frozen stop. The list could go on. Our plan was to ride the length of Washington, and had I known this trip was going to be an out and back four times over the southern Cascades mountain range, I would probably not have wanted to go. I would absolutely never enjoyed that 51 mile decent knowing the next day we’d be climbing right back up in the brutal heat. But now all said and done I wouldn’t have done a single thing different, even the wild and crazy town of Naches.
When I was younger the curiosity of people and the world propelled my cycle touring adventures. I used to think the more I saw, the more I experienced, the more people I meet, heard their tales of hardship, I’d simply just understand more. As I grow older, I realize there are many things I will just never fully understand about some parts of this country, but that doesn’t steal a never ending drive towards curiosity.
The perfect ending to this tour was watching the trains roll down the Colombia river at dusk as we picked rich, ripe and wild juicy blackberries. To our utmost unexpected surprise an older white man in his white diesel pick up truck rolled by yelling at us for trespassing. We nearly laughed the berries out of our cup as we were five feet off the paved city road, no fence, no trespassing sign in sight, simply waiting to watch the train chug on by. We’ve seen so many men in the past week wearing their pistols strapped to their belly like they own the land. They proudly carried them to dinner in restaurants and friendly family campgrounds. "Fuck this guy" ran through my veins. We scurried up and over the tracks and down to the river to watch the sunset. Hiking out we were met by the the local county sheriff asking about some the kids up on the tracks, "no sir, haven’t seen them, we’re just picking blackberries and watching the sunset." And as we followed the paved road around the bend, we broke out in utter and complete laughter. The perfect ending to 400 miles of riding through Washington.
The End...until next summer.
