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On a Monday morning In Mckinleyville, California I slipped out of my hammock into the salty ocean air. Thankfully the pacific fog hadn't settled too heavily overnight and the ground was dry as I walked through tall grass toward the shop bathroom. Stopping by the garden I collected fresh carrots, kale, strawberries, broccoli and cucumbers, resisting temptation to eat them immediately. Working my way through a mental checklist and looking over my supplies, I questioned the trustworthiness of my Trek 750 and tried to envision what the next twenty four hours had in store. Although I had spent all day Sunday preparing, last minute realizations ensnared me with anxiety as I unpacked and re-packed 75+ lbs of gear within two pair of cycling panniers several times. Along with the fact that I was venturing alone, this was officially my first bicycle tour and I rode on the edge of certainty. Being the only two left on the farm, Rebecca and I shared a brief breakfast over peanut butter toast. Demands of work and life had called everyone away to Portland, Seattle and St. Louis. By the time I had assembled my gear into composure it was past eleven o'clock and I left unseen. The morning chill was fleeting as I rolled out of the driveway. Considering the fact that this was my first time carrying more than ten pounds of gear, I was a little concerned by the way the bike seemed to shimmy under the extra weight.
Despite my uncertainty I pushed on down Woody Road. Linking up with the Hammond Coastal Trail I bypassed Arcata and after encountering the first hill I found downhill glides to be forgiving, even enjoyable. By five o'clock I had made it 32 miles. This landed me on the outskirts of Fortuna, CA where I made camp for the first night. I stayed for an extra day, and paid for it. On Wednesday I traveled another thirty miles and met up with the Avenue of the Giants. I camped at Burlington Campground just outside of Myers Flat. Shaded underneath the majestic giant sequoia trees I glided in reverie, thankful to be off of the roaring shoulder of Highway 101. On Friday night I emerged at the southern entrance and rejoined the 101. Inland several miles, I cringed under the heat of the California sun. I pulled off in Garberville and worked on a project at a small Mexican taco stand. The ice block in the water dispenser quickly shrank, sweating with condensation as I simultaneously worked and contemplated whether or not I could continue any further that day. After three hours had passed I decided I could bear another ten miles. Facing another uphill groan I biked until my rear end was howling in pain. The shoulder of the 101 continually disappeared over bridges and road construction, leaving only inches between me and the 70 mph flow of traffic. After a logging semi carrying over a dozen full size Doug Firs signaled its air horn behind me, I could feel the oncoming inertia of its massive weight behind me. As the truck passed I was blasted by a wake of wind, disrupting my balance and forcing me into the ditch. With minor scratches and a bruised ego I picked myself up and remounted, trying to ignore the onlooking flow of traffic. I considered stopping short of my destination, but I held account to my goal. Finally I pulled in to Richardson Grove and vowed not to consider biking on the morrow. My body quaked with relief to sit still. The sun was still up and hung in the sky for longer than I would have wished, hot at it was. I swayed unsteadily as I made for the showers. Although I paid $0.75 for five minutes of hot water, I kept the temperature cool. I was thankful when night fell. Along with continual shade, the night brought new arrivals. Since leaving I had seen many cyclists, but I hadn't actually spoken with anyone. So when Don and Julie—a married couple biking from Canada heading for San Francisco—pulled in to my hike-and-bike site around twilight, I was reminded of the great joy new people bring. Their vital spirits and wild stories refreshed my sense of adventure and soon our conversation wore into bedtime hours. We reconvened briefly in the morning and I headed out. Despite reaching maximum physical capacity just 12 hours prior, I felt good as new. It wasn't a far push before I came to Standish Hickey State Reserve. Seeing a swimmer icon on the highway information sign I praised God at the thought of being able to swim, and after making a quick trip to my campsite to unload, I found the swimming hole.
The voices I heard carrying distantly from below distracted me as I searched for the path down. In my haste I foolishly chose a steep discontinued footpath. Scaling down the slope I relied on brush and small trees to maintain balance. My bare feet seared with pain as I crossed the hot sandy ground and plunged into the water. Flowing over a hundred miles inland through the Mendocino County heat, the Eel River was much colder than I expected. I drifted in the shimmering blue water, impervious to the blazing heat baking the landscape. I sat in a small pool and let water rush over my shoulders across my torso. As quickly as I came to the water, I exited. The next portion of my afternoon was spent hand-washing my clothes and drying them in available sunlight. That night a band called The Eclectic Coyote Band came and entertained a small audience at the restaurant across the street from my campsite. I learned the venue was called The Peg House. During a break I was introduced to the singer and at the mention of my own music he pulled me onstage. After singing three songs, the crowd was like family. Several people approached me afterward buying my beers and getting my information including a gentlemen who gifted me roughly an ounce of quality Mendocino County pot. I decided to spend Sunday at the reserve as well. The day flew by, swimming and resting in such an oasis.
Sunday night proved to be much the same at The Peg House. An identical image from the night before, the Eclectic Coyote Band held the stage. Again, I was called up to the stage to play. This time I played longer, free from the nerves I felt the night before. As I sang I noticed the singer who had called me on stage sitting with a beautiful dark haired woman. I couldn't take my eyes off her. After I finished playing we made eye contact and stimulated conversation. As if we were friends catching up after many years, we talked at length. She wanted to go swimming. How easily I could have been misconstrued when I suggested the swimming hole I had visited earlier. Complete strangers, our trusting each other was like crossing thin ice. I couldn't let my recommendation go unheard. After all, this really was an amazing place to swim.
"There is a great place to swim at the campground where I am staying." I said. Without waiting for a response I continued, "I swam there earlier today and it is potentially the best place I have ever swam in my life. It's just across the street." She looked me over with skeptical blue green eyes.
"At the place I stopped before, they said I should go swimming here." She agreed.
Not long after, we accompanied each other to the water. I entertained her with stories from my trip and we marveled at the clarity and beauty around us. Treading in the turquoise blue water we drifted close and she told me about her life. Surprised by her willingness to share intimate details of the dissatisfaction for her living scenario in Fort Bragg, I listened carefully. When she seemed exhausted with the subject, we swam in contemplative silence. Soon the sun had set below the tree line and we left the water. Returning to the Peg House we found the Eclectic Coyote Band still entertaining the crowd. After a jumbo order of oysters and beer on the house, we left. She accompanied me to my campsite for a short stay. I rolled a joint with the weed I had been gifted the night before, showing off the large bag and its contents. Soon after she decided to head home. Just before she disappeared I called after her and we exchanged information. She was very beautiful to me and I thought I may never see her again.
In the morning a chill hung in the air that nearly took my breath away as I started out of the campground. I stopped and drank coffee as I waited for the sun to reveal itself. Two days prior, Don and Laurie had enlightened me about the 2,000 ft climb I would have to make at this point of the journey. Well slept and rejuvenated by the past two nights, I rode swiftly and reached my first checkpoint before the sun had reached the tree line. Highway 1 marked the halfway point of my tour. At this point I had traveled a little over a hundred miles, most of those miles being inland following the heavily trafficked Interstate 101. Not only did this checkpoint mean permanent separation from the the truck ridden highway, but also the gateway to the coast where I would find cooler weather and fewer mosquitoes. Before I reached the coast, however, forty four miles of windy uphill road lay ahead of me—or so I thought. Against the steep grade, I was unable to pedal my bike without losing balance. Panting, I pushed the rig uphill, slowly climbing the winding mountain pass. Only the first ten miles were spent toiling uphill like this, but the labor rendered me delirious. With the prevalence of mountain lions great, I anxiously watched the hills above me, as cougars are known to hunt around sunrise. I reached the highest point well before noon and soon only 22 miles of winding downhill runs carried me gently westward. As the road leveled off the temperature dropped dramatically and heavy fog lumbered through the sky, casting everything in gray light. I rode through the cool fog slowly in disbelief. The horizon of the mighty Pacific Ocean soon became visible through the fog as well as the jagged shoreline below. Upon seeing the ocean again I felt accomplished—finished—yet in juxtaposition was my ballpark estimate on miles remaining before I reached Fort Bragg. I wasn't finished, in fact I wasn't even halfway. All morning I had been contemplating reaching out to the woman I had met at The Peg House. Feeling the weight of the distance behind me—approximately one hundred and thirty miles—I noticed a sign hand painted wine-tasting and pulled off on the long dirt driveway leading to a small farmhouse. There in the basement, a small parlor had been arranged around an ornate bar and I sampled a glass of red blend. The wine was so good and potent I caught myself dozing off in my chair after just a few sips. I became aware of how exhausted I was and suddenly felt isolated. The tiny farmstead on the shore looked so settling from the road, yet sticky with sweat I sat in my chair and questioned whether stopping was a wise decision. I sipped my wine and approached the ocean. When I sat down in the assembly of red Adirondack chairs I closed my eyes. Immediately the world became new in my imagination. Unlike when my eyes were open—focusing too heavily on the eerie fog and melancholy gray clouds thus making my body feel cold—I was removed from the present moment and I felt warm. In my mind's eye I was surrounded by lush tropical paradise—sea gulls cried in the breeze, waves crashing on the shore. Before long I regained confidence in my mobility and continued on. The wine did not aid my agility however, and I moved at a snails pace. I had twelve miles to go.
Before finishing my wine I had reconnected with the woman from The Peg House. Stopping to send her a message, I was passed by two zealous British cyclists who inquired on my destination. As fate had it we were both heading for Fort Bragg. In my exhausted state, I told them I would catch up with them there at MacKerricher State Park. As I watched them disappear effortlessly over the ridge, I realized the weight I bore was too heavy. I decided that I would ship gear home as soon as I passed through as town with a post office. Not until after this did I hear back from the woman. She was enthusiastic about my arrival and offered to let me spend the night at her house. Ecstatic I rode south, counting the miles as they went. I rigorously checked my progress on my GPS and by the time I reached Fort Bragg my rear end again rang with pain. I feared I was shedding blood on my seat and riding shorts when I pulled into MacKerricher. Unlike previous five-dollar campsites, this campground charged ten. After I arrived that I cringed at the irony, realizing I had rode past the woman's home ten miles back. Peeved, I begrudgingly purchased a night stay. Pulling in I rendezvoused with my British pals and showered. They were impressed when I told them I had met a girl who was on her way to pick me up and we shared a great laugh. The two British fellows were musicians, cycling their way from Canada headed to San Diego, vacationing away from city jobs as music therapists. I decided I would leave my bike at the campground overnight, as I thoroughly trusted these fellows. The woman appeared in her vehicle more quickly than I expected. Brief introductions with the British gentlemen proceeded a quick departure. We stopped at the famous glass beach and then satisfied our appetites over sushi. Following a stop for ice cream and chocolate at the grocery store we pulled into the dirt driveway of an early twentieth century farmstead upon which she inhabited the guest house—a loft bedroom apartment constructed out of old growth redwood, something out of a Steinbeck novel. I was flattered to be in such an environment. The nighttime light complemented the aesthetic of her space as we watched The Count of Monte Cristo eating ice cream. Throughout the course of the film I slipped my arm around her, and her hand found mine. Sleep came upon us just as the movie had finished. In the morning we made coffee and she declined my request to stay another night. Humbly collecting my things I told her she could take me back to my campsite at any time. Our good bye was less than strangers. I found a coffee shop and caught up on work building up since Garberville. I felt a hollow spot in my heart where the last few days had been scooped out. Staring down North Main Street of Fort Bragg that Tuesday morning the day coasted along. Checking my progress and next destination, I did what I could to prepare for the days ahead. Stopping at a bike shop I picked up some necessary equipment and soon Fort Bragg was only a memory left behind.
The days following my experience in Fort Bragg and at The Peg House went by more gently yet less memorable. That Tuesday afternoon I rode to the nearest campground, not twenty miles further south. The night brought a coyote prowling in the moonlight and I chased a raccoon away from my vicinity. The next day I made sure to cover a lot of ground and reached Salt Point just outside Fort Ross. I met another cyclist traveling from Alaska to Panama. Traveling from Japan, his journey made mine look like a quick run into town. He spoke quietly as he told me about his plan. Having eaten all my food throughout the day I graciously accepted his two packets of ramen noodles and went to bed full. On the following day I reached Bodega Dunes, joining a large group of cyclists heading to San Francisco, just as I was. Although I re-stocked groceries, the night brought racoons that noisily ravaged my panniers and most of the food had purchased that evening was missing when I awoke. I brushed off the minor disappointment and carried on. That Friday morning less that 75 miles separated me from San Francisco. With the wind to my back I rode inland through Valley Ford and south along the Tomales Bay. By the time the road forked at Olema it was nearing sunset. To my dismay I learned that the Olema hike-and-bike campsites were over fifty dollars. I chose my words carefully as I spoke to the clerk in the office, but nevertheless was forced to turn back to the road and seek out the $7 hike and bike campsites at Samuel P. Taylor state park, six miles up a steep grade. I had lost my enthusiasm and powered my riding with adrenaline and aggression. Gladly, I reached the park just before dark. Being the last cyclist in that night had me sent to the overflow hike-and-bike site where I found two others with tents pitched. I spent the weekend there, as there was another swimming hole advertised on the signs and I wanted to enter San Francisco on a Monday during work hours.
Leaving Samuel P Taylor proved to be far more challenging then I had figured. Only 30 miles or so away I had settled in to cool down riding, very slow paced. Unfortunately after the day grew later, I begin to wonder if I was going to make it to San Francisco on time. My train was scheduled to leave at 9 PM and it was still afternoon, yet the unknown had me on my toes once again. Drawing near to the city, my GPS led me onto the freeway, interstate 101. Along with pedestrians however, bikers were contraband on this stretch. I realized my mistake as I was making it, but decided there was no other choice than to press on. I shivered as I rolled over shrapnel in broken glass while semis howled past, some honking. Not before long I was pulled over by a law-enforcement officer and redirected to proper bike routes. I was thankful for that policeman. Soon I rode into the city and across the Golden gate Bridge. Catching the BART across the bay I arrived in Oakland and after spilling sardine juice on my feet, forcing me to remove my socks, I boarded the starlight express and rode through the night, homeward bound.