Trek Log

This yarn is nearly unfurled, like flags on the Fourth, or rolltop panniers. From each day we have pulled out something new. Connections, dreams, determination. Or something new again. The joy of motion. The rhythm of afternoon ice cream. What it’s like to be a bundle of pure experience with no screen between. Same mileage today, double elevation. No problem. This would have been far more daunting last week. I guess we have learned and grown. We ride far more efficiently, and patiently. A hair more tortoise brings us closer to hare’s pace.  The days are blurred like spinning spokes. Cycling together. We ate at a gourmet gas station. What the English might call a Garage Majal. An eclectic mix of Kiss and Teddy Pendergrass imprinted atomically into the cream cheese. Two different flavors of love.  We reentered and watched Wimbledon while the half dozen deli hands took thirteen panini orders. We pressed them further with bungees and rode off to a picnic lunch overlooking a marshy bay. Across the bay, we found Fat Smitty’s bar and burger emporium, whose politics were made known in the window. They welcomed us and filled twenty water bottles, no questions asked. We asked questions. How long have you been open? 42 years. Why is every inch of the walls and ceiling covered in dollar bills? Every five years they take them down and donate to local charities. $60,000 since they began. The mulleted Don Henley looking fellow said we’re living the dream. Don’t stop. Fort Worden is beautiful, windy, and the ground is prickly. That’s okay. There are WW2 fortifications all around. The campfire ban made boiling 17 potatoes impossible. Brett saved us singlehandedly.  The end is beginning. Sentimentality is creeping in. The bubble of timeless freedom we have floated in is glinting in the sunset, soon to pop. Nothing to do but put the Wayfarers on, live it up and take it easy. The dream rolls on.

7/5 No pressing deadlines today. Just a choice. To bike Hurricane Ridge, or lie fallow? The fellowship of the ridge were nine. Four stayed back to hike, read novels atop cushiony moss, observe lush temperate flora and fauna on a slow drip. Two different views of “the finest sample of primeval forest of Sitka spruce, western hemlock, Douglas fir, and western red cedar in the entire United States”. The ridge riders set out after lazy breakfast and a woodsmoke blessing. Up turned out to be relatively easy with bikes de-panniered. The gradient was reminiscent of a Windows 95 PowerPoint background, seamless.  The view atop was reported to be “mountains”, and the gift shop was declared “top tier”, though it wouldn’t accept cash, meaning no cheap ice cream for the lactose enthused. Panorama scanned, the downhill jamboree commenced. Top speed achieved was 38 mph, and the ridge’s bluster proved frigid. Zach’s fender honked like an Aflac pitchman. Back in camp, Lowen tidied it up. Smooth as a Steve Ballmer pitch, we transitioned into hacky sacking. During the climb, our in-camp crew was treated to all manner of wildlife cameos. A portly olive-sided flycatcher made mince of our chip scraps, hopping all over our cook set in the process. After tonight’s curry, it’ll probably never to stoop to fly catching again.  A yellow fellow, perhaps the evening grosbeak, flitted about like Harry Potter’s golden snitch. Ravens clicked and cawed, chipmunks side-eyed curiously, and deer with no parasympathetic response idled between campsites. The temperate rainforest is quietly alive, in a state of heavenly decay. Every felled cedar is draped in moss as it merges back into the earth. The fungi bloom and bead themselves with dew jewels; the rain nourishes and decomposes incessantly. The hands of entropy work on a scale beyond conception. Life rolls, oozes, streams, falls, flows on. We haveno place to be but here. Here we are. Tomorrow we’re gone. The forest exhales.

Saturday July 5th0700 morning awoken by trumpets0800 breakfast in the galley0900 march towards Montreal1000 recalibrate navigation (we got lost)1100 refueling1200 lunch on base1300 hand grenades training (frisbee)1400 continued trekking1500 sea crossing into enemy territory (bridge into Montreal city)1600 arrive at barracks (hostel)1700 reconnaissance mission (laundromat)1800 reporting back to base (showering)1900 ruck to Japan (sushi Resteraunt)2000 land on the shores of Japan (all you can eat sushi buffet) 2200 victory celebration (live music in the street and Montreal jazz fest)

The trekkers awoke to a mostly dry version of Cumberland campground – starkly different to what they had fallen asleep to last night. After laying out the remaining damp items to dry, the group enjoyed yogurt bowls with fresh strawberries for breakfast. The morning moved quickly, as the group efficiently exited camp and approached the Canadian border. Once they arrived at the border they quickly realized the stereotypes about Canadians were right: Canadians are really nice. Soon after crossing the group found that they were very low on water, and had to stop at a gas station. The people who worked at the gas station were very kind and accommodating. They let the whole group into the office space to refuel their waters with filtered water. After a few more wind blown miles, the trekkers stumbled upon their French-Canadian campsite. The boys played various court sports against the young Quebecois, engaging in cultural transfer with the locals. Meanwhile, the girls explored the various amenities of the Canadian campsite. Including, but not limited to; a bingo night event, pool and hot tub, pond (which no one swam in because it had leaches, but it was still pretty), and washing machines with arcade games next to them (fun and bizarre placement combination). The group ended the day with a tasty dinner of fried rice and broccoli and hit the hay early to prepare for their adventure to Montreal tomorrow morning.

Rest days are deceptive. The bicycles rest. We do everything we don’t have time to do when straining the world through a 10 mph colander of the senses. That means bike repair and replacement, which means queuing up and praying shop mechanics get to work before hanging their cycling caps for the day. In this case, the goofy hats stayed on, and tires were trued in the blink of a Spandau Ballet. We bought a ticket to the world of Victoria, where parliament and shanties swirl into one Liberte brand yogurt of souls. We followed the thrift store map, browsed forlorn booty, and stopped between one and three times for thrice cream before our hotel pizza party and movie night. We watched a new film about ole Bob Dylan when he was young, A Complete Unknown, starring the eminently known Timothee Chalamet. “Dylan’s desire to break free of expectations drives him to experiment with electric guitar and rock instruments.” In a thrilling climax, he invents the semiconductor, eradicates malaria and brings an end to the whaling industry. Various other logistical ribbons tied neatly, we went for an evening swim, watched some abysmal wrestling on TV, and cooled our neurons after charbroiling them in novelty for the past fortnight. Eating is very important for teenagers, and we’ve been lucky to indulge, PACNW Pac-Mans and Pac-Ladies chomping away. So that’s what we did today. We just biked 50 miles after all. Tomorrow, the mileage is low, the elevation is high, and everything else will be summer in between.