(Washington state and the far NW)

‘There is always time for a second coffee,’ has become one of my mantras during this trip, not always to my advantage as mornings drift past and away from me, making the resultant cycling more stressful than needs be. Yet on this particular morning, if I hadn’t lingered before setting off running, then I’d have been first on the scene. It was shocking enough, looking back over my shoulder, wondering why the Ranger’s ATV had stopped. What were they looking at? Some wildlife that I’d also love to see? No. The way the head and shoulders of the man who had been washed ashore were buried in the sand was like a scene from one of the Scandi Noir series I’ve become addicted to over recent years. But this was real. For lack of any sense of what else to do, I kept on running through the fog towards the lighthouse, aware that I would need to pass back this way shortly. At least I hadn’t seen his face, his eyes, I came to think later. I’ve been haunted enough by the sight of his body as is.

A fellow cycle tourist, who’d grown up in Seattle, commented to me the other day that Washington state is ‘dark’, and there is perhaps some validity to that claim. Of course, coming upon a dead body isn’t ‘standard’ in any state, if certainly very dark. But frequent fog, rain, mist and drizzle certainly isn’t unusual, meaning it often didn’t quite get light. My route down the coast took me through depressed towns which time has long forgotten (Aberdeen, Hoaquim, Raymond) where the current North American crisis of homelessness and addiction was especially apparent. Kurt Cobain was  born and grew up in Aberdeen, and his angst perhaps isn’t surprising.  The writer of the Twilight series of books (and resultant films) set her series in Forks without even having visited – she just had a sense that it was the right kind of a dead-end place with plenty of creepy motels for vampires to hang out in. And then the unforgiving driving of the logging trucks down the west coast which brought my own mortality to mind on more than one occasion…I’d been warned that the trucks down this coast were particularly bad, and been recommended to instead head to Seattle, down to Portland and then back to the coast at Astoria. Of course, hindsight is a fine thing, but I imagine it would have been more fun. I’ve always wanted to visit both cities, and one good friend back home had even promised me that I’d meet the love of my life in Seattle and that we’d cycle into the sunset together forever!

Having arrived in Port Angeles on the ferry, I followed the Olympic Discovery Cycle Trail due east. It’s a popular route, but already things felt a little edgy. I’d have happily camped beside one of the many cycle paths I followed in Nova Scotia. Yet here was a large tent and a shopping trolley of belongings from one homeless person. There was another homeless man, walking along the track with his eyes glazed. I said hello, and he didn’t register. I don’t mean to be critical of homeless people here. It’s a desperate situation in which to find oneself. But it must also lend life a certain desperation, especially if addiction is also involved, and I was glad that night to stay in a state campground by Dungeness Spit. The great thing about cycle touring in the west of the USA is that most state campgrounds have hiker biker areas where you can camp for a fraction of the cost, and with no need to reserve a pitch many months in advance (in contrast to vehicular tourists). I was especially glad of this as I turned up in Dungeness as the light began to fade and I had my choice of the five or six empty pitches.

After a late night (well, for me anyway – probably only 10pm) I was in no rush the next morning to set out on a 12 mile run along the sandy spit; I’d not quite forgotten how much the Savary Island run had taken from my legs. The mist was down, and I could see no point in hurrying out running before one large coffee. Two. Still the mist lay low. I had better get going… A Towhee bird scampered through the undergrowth on my way to the spit. My poet friend Jonathan Skinner had recommended this walk out into the sea because you could feel like you could touch the liners. Today though, all that I could touch was thick wet air. A foghorn from the lighthouse boomed periodically, making it feel even spookier, not safer. The spit was more of a bird habitat than a human one, and I took to walking through immense groups of several hundred seagulls of various kinds so as not to set off flusters of wings and beaks and cries. I overtook a good number of people as I ran, but none coming the other way. And I’d already run about 4 miles when the ranger’s ATV passed, everyone on board waving and smiling to me as they went, unaware that they were about to come across the body of a 32 year old man from Portland  on the beach ahead…

The only way back along the spit was to return the way I’d come. When I returned past the scene, the rangers and passengers were all staring into different angles of space / fog. I thought of asking what I could do, but they all looked a bit too spooked to engage with. Yet as I began to pass other walkers coming towards me, it struck me as not quite as ridiculous a question to ask as I’d thought. Nobody else needed to be haunted by what I’d just seen, so I took to weaving up and down the sands to warn people of what lay ahead. Different people reacted in such different ways. Some people turned around immediately from respect. One woman just said, ‘WOW! A DEAD BODY?’ And then wrapped her arms around me in a hug in case I wasn’t OK. Separating parents from their children to communicate what I’d seen was a real task. Once the sheriffs had driven past in another ATV I reckoned I was relieved of my job and that the beach would very soon be sealed off.

I felt shaken that afternoon, and was glad I’d planned a fairly easy ride after my run – right enough mainly uphill but only 17 miles to the Heart O’ the Hills campground in Olympic National Park. Having had to leave the Rockies sooner than I’d hoped, I most definitely needed one last dose of mountains between here and the Andes. And Mount Angeles and the Klahane Ridge, up above the mist and fog that persisted down near Port Angeles and Dungeness, didn’t fail to deliver. The scrambling towards the summit of Mount Angeles was more involved than I was up for (alone, overseas), but the views across to the glaciers on Mount Olympus and down over the inversion above the sea were spectacular. And the Klahane Ridge extended north towards the sea on narrow paths which offered the best running I’d experienced all trip (if only my legs hadn’t felt quite so fatigued from running in sand the day before); along along and along and down to Lake Angeles whose turquoise waters did their best to ease the pain in my legs when I went for a swim. But failed. The resultant DOMs (delayed onset muscle soreness) lasted the whole next week – I could barely even crouch down enough to get into my tent. I’d taken the shuttle bus at the start of the day up to 5,500 feet, which in addition to the significant climbing I did myself, meant there was a long way to run down. My quadriceps came to know it.

The following day, the weather was equally wonderful, and I began to assume that the naysayers about Washington weather had been exaggerating! I’ve had most weather types this trip, but very little of my preferred daily high for a cycle tour in the mid to late 20s. And the route which my Komoot app chose for me along cycle paths and side roads was wonderful. ‘Nice’ is a terribly bland word. But this was just that. Really really nice riding. Almost right from the campground, the app took me off the main highways, away from the drone of passing vehicles. I saw 8 turkey vultures (poor buggers – imagine life as a hybrid of the two ugliest birds). I played peekaboo with a white tailed deer. And further down the road I encountered a lesser red-necked American who had rigged up a DIY shooting target range. A short distance on Highway 101 and then onto a cycleway which led me along the far side of a scenic lake. Life was good, albeit when the cycle path turned downhill and was marked with 10mph maximum speed signs, it was time to hit the road again.  Sometimes you just need to get there.

‘Entering Sappho,’ read a road sign.

‘Stage right,’ I decided to add. Got to keep it clean.

The next community down the road was called Beaver, and the local grocery store wasn’t half embracing it – the slogans on babygrows pushing the boundaries of taste somewhat. BEAVER FIRE DEPARTMENT stating things just as they were.

That night I was headed for a campground called Cycle Camp, which had been set up by a Californian biker and former binman hippy called Bob to cater for those travelling on two wheels. I’ve met a lot of great fellas called Bob while travelling through North America, and this was another one. His website blurb spoke just my language about how unwelcoming and unaffordable traditional campgrounds were for independent cycle or motorbike travellers. This resonated strongly with my own beef with paying the same as 8 people in an enormous RV (and showers extra). Bob likes to give every guest a personal tour, not only to help orientate you, but to make sure that you are a good fit with the site. Showers and laundry were ‘free’. There was a camp kitchen, and a communal firepit area which courtesy of its vehicle-port structure had been approved for campfires by the fire department despite state-wide bans. There weren’t set pitches – just find a spot which suits you. And there is no set fee – it’s pay what you like depending on what you can afford and how you’ve found the experience. It was all such a relief after the regulated expense of so many campgrounds. The perfect place for a rest day, agreed my hamstring muscles, as I settled down into a chair which had been roughly crafted from a tree trunk where I chose to pitch, and rested my beer on a rickety set of drawers which had been left beside it.

Of course, my previous two days of sunshine had been utter anomalies. Already that first evening, the mist set in and stayed and then dug in. Dug in more. Ideally it’s sunny on rest days. Ideally it’s sunny every day in fact! But on rest days in particular, since I’m sitting around not doing that much, and need to dry clothes, it’s kind of ideal, yet Washington state west coast had other thoughts. And who tries to dry clothes outdoors in what is effectively a rainforest…? I’ve got fairly strict rest day rules that involve not riding unless I really need to. But on this occasion I broke this; once I’d had enough of sitting around in the gloom, I headed down the road to Rialto beach to see the rock stacks and waves emerging from the clouds. It was at least an atmospheric and somewhat haunting change of perspective on the theme of grey. Meanwhile, back at camp, the clothes on the line were even wetter than before. Nothing for it but to risk the tumble dryer – if the clothes shrunk? Well then, so had I…that evening I sat around the fire with some bikers. It’s a strange combo. Cyclists and motorbikers aren’t the most obvious mix. But the bikers this camp probably aren’t the most obvious bikers.

First town up the following morning was Forks. I’ve not read the Twilight books, nor watched the films. Vampires aren’t really my shtick. But it’s obviously many people’s shtick, and the constituency of tourists was so different from anywhere I’d passed through yet. Younger. Gothier. Wearing shades of grey and black that sat well with the weather. Following tours of bleak looking motels. Shops. Boundaries. Drinking coffee, the feckers. I’d skimped on my second coffee that morning since sitting outdoors in the mizzle was somewhat less than the good life. Forks was only just up the road after all…all the drive-in coffee joints were backed up with queues. There was barely even standing room in the espresso joint attached to the supermarket. I liked the queue and claustrophobia of the joint even less than I love coffee, and set back off feeling grumpy. Barely awake in fact. And I’m not sure that I fully woke up all day. The rain eventually eased, but it really didn’t get light. Apart from some wonderful moments such as Ruby Beach, the views were enclosed by trees. The mist hung low. It wasn’t the kind of day which lent itself to expansive thinking, and I found my own perspective on the world retreating inside itself. Road. Pedals. Food. Oh yes, that’s the one – food! I pulled into a grocery to stock up on supplies before a stealth camp that night, and got into conversation with a couple from Monterrey – ‘you are doing what?!’ they said.

Google satellite maps is a great tool for finding stealth camp spots; on this occasion, it was especially useful since I was mainly going to be travelling through (a) deep forests and (b) native reserves. Yet just beyond the Queets river, just beyond the reserve boundary, I spotted an area of river-beach (which in fact turned out to be a state recreation site) which was perfect. I gave the portaloos a wide swerve, and wandered a good quarter mile down the river shore to a spot where no trucks would come off-road marauding…the patterns in the pebbles told a tale in that regard. And yet not a vehicle nor a person disturbed me. The following morning, the only things marauding were two otters splish splash playfighting in the river, only several metres away. And when I got on the road – promptly for once, despite two coffees – I witnessed an entire herd (50 or so?) of elk crossing the river, just like in a wildlife documentary.

That night I was headed to the US version of Aberdeen, where I’d organised a warmshowers stay that night. It was a 70 mile ride, and those who had warned me about the riding along this stretch of highway, were right. The shoulders of the road were narrow. The logging trucks (now that it was a weekday again) frequent and unforgiving. 25 miles in I stopped at a petrol station with a store attached where I bought a cookie and perhaps the worst coffee I’d drunk all trip (which is saying something in the USA. How can they make filter coffee – as opposed to espresso coffees – taste so bad? The coffee did it’s work though, forcing me to risk venturing into the ‘service station’ portaloo. Nothing like a blocked urinal to make me realise that I really didn’t need the toilet after all. How is that even possible? I didn’t even glance at the actual loo for fear of what horrors might confront me.

‘Which is the more scenic route?’ I asked the woman behind the till at another petrol station cum grocery store further down the road, pointing to the shorter option continuing along the highway, or a longer route along ‘side-roads’ (as best North America does such things).

It’s funny how people so often answer the question at the front of their own mind, not the one that you’ve just asked. ‘Oh you definitely want this route,’ the woman replied, pointing to Highway 101. ‘It’s much shorter.’

‘Yeah, but is this one more scenic?’

My follow up repetition of the question seemed to puzzle her. ‘Well yes, but…’

I’d love to know how the views were from the main highway; the side route wasn’t unscenic as such, it was just mile after mile of trees lining the road that can characterise riding or driving hereabouts. And yes, certainly longer, which meant that when I came upon a road sign up ahead as I planned to swing back east towards Aberdeen saying that the road was CLOSED, I made the decision that the notion of closure would have to be relative. No way was I returning back the way I’d come. No wonder the side road had been so much busier than I’d expected. And so that was what all those diversion signs had been about!! Turned out that riding an empty highway has a lot going for it anyway. When I came to the bridge that they were repairing, the workmen just shrugged at me and said, ‘well watch out for yourself won’tcha’ as I weaved in amongst the highway vehicles and cruised on down towards Aberdeen, taking the corners wide as you like!

Of course, I hadn’t done much more research into Aberdeen and neighbouring Hoquiam than I had of anywhere; the two towns were certainly the most depressed places I’d travelled through yet. Out west. Somewhat forgotten. I was mighty glad yet again of the hospitality of warmshowers hosts, on this occasion Ralph and Kathy and their wonderfully chatty two young children Eva and Wesley, who welcomed me into their home. In fact, into an entire basement of bikes and bike gear and a spare bedroom and shower. Ralph likes to design recumbent and cargo bikes, and gave me a ride down to  a brewery taproom on his recumbent tandem to sample some local beers before they fed me wonderfully. I slept wonderfully. The next morning Ralph showed me the way out of town on his electric wheel, as much I suspect to accompany me past the haunts of the many homeless and addicts who had set up ‘home’ by the bridges I would have to travel over and under. His ‘wheel’ has a Bluetooth speaker which pumped out the tunes as we made our way through and beyond town where I made my own way.

Instead of hammering it down Highway 101, Ralph had recommended that I detour west out the peninsula to Westport and down that coast before rejoining the highway at Raymond. It added a sizeable distance, but I was certainly up for less busy traffic and better scenery if it were on offer.

‘State prison ahead – do not pick up hitchikers read a signpost. Noted.

It was another grey Washington state day, and the estuary south of Aberdeen muddy. Westport is mainly known for oysters and fishing and great surfing. But while the coast south of there is lined by sandy beaches, again it felt like the holiday area which had been forgotten. This was high season. School holidays. Where were all the people? Certainly not mist bathing on the beaches. I preferred the landscape as it turned back inland again and became more estuarial and marshy. It was a different kind of a landscape than I’d experienced so far, and the views clear of trees. Oysters continued to be a major local business, and that and logging provide the basis for Raymond, the next town down the road.

Poor old Raymond. I really didn’t like him very much. The local sawmill was vast and impressive. But again, the town felt miserable and a bit weird. Perhaps I was just hungry, I thought, heading into the Hungry Heiffer deli and café for a very late lunch.

‘Are you here for takeaway?’ the young woman behind the counter asked – her own sideways approach to saying that they closed in 20 minutes and were no longer serving customers who wanted to sit in. I should have seen the signs. If they wanted to close up, I was hardly going to get the best food, and for the first time in my life I regretted not going to McDonalds! At least you know what you’re getting! I’m not one known for complaining about food, and the tuna melt sandwich was grand. But the chips were the worst I’ve ever (not) eaten). Horrifically greasy. Limp. And only half cooked. Again, I should have just given up and headed to McDonalds, but instead I headed back inside to ask for them to be cooked again. Second time around they were cooked, but the oil obviously wasn’t hot enough, and they remained limp. Barely edible. I continued on my way, preferring hunger, and suddenly just wanting to be shot of Washington.

Hunger wasn’t the best basis for my first 100 mile cycle all trip. But it was good enough. I’d been recommended a state campground down in the furthest SW corner of the state at the wonderfully named Cape Disappointment. And the going was fairly flat. Good. The wind mainly on my tail. And as the sun began to set, the campground didn’t disappoint. The following morning I decided to walk, not run, out to the neighbouring lighthouse, from where there are fabulous views of the mouth of the Columbia river and estuary, and I spotted a bald eagle perched on a branch directing its thousand yard stare out into the pacific. Suffice to say, I had a late start on my way towards the infamous Astoria Megler bridge, and I only made it three miles into Ilwaco village before I stopped for pizza, as the impact of riding 100 miles on empty the day before hit home.

The four mile long Astoria Megler bridge is infamous among cycle tourists, since there is little shoulder, and nothing to shelter you from the brutal side winds. Yet the tunnel on the approach was significantly more scary. Instead of slowing down behind me, vehicles just chose to overtake, causing those coming the other way to have to stop to avoid a head-on collision. It was some of the worst driving I’d ever seen. In comparison, I found the driving over the bridge mainly courteous, although the fact of a narrow shoulder meant I had little option but to cycle over the corpses of numerous cormorants who had been killed by the traffic, as if Washington just had one slightly dark trick left up its sleeve. ‘Lucky their bones didn’t give you a flat,’ someone said to me afterwards. Didn’t bear thinking about. And then the bridge turns steeply uphill as it approaches the far side and into Oregon. I’d read a lot about Oregon and its stunning coastline, and was excited by the way ahead. The sun even came out to welcome me! The wind was strong and at my tail.

So, what if I had fallen in love in Seattle? Would I have settled down and spent the rest of my life in the misty dark state? Perhaps. Always perhaps. Like, perhaps I’d have enjoyed it more had I headed to Seattle. Had I accepted the offer from a couple I met in the Rockies to put me up there. Had I enjoyed an easier hotter period of riding through farmland down to Portland. If I’d thereby avoided the bridge and the dead cormorants. If I’d headed to Port Townsend rather than running along the spit. Some singer sang a song involving lots of the word ‘perhaps’, and it wasn’t Kurt Cobain. I loved my time in Washington. I loved my experience in, above and beyond the twilight zone, albeit not the experience of encountering that poor young man. Love comes in all different forms, even those you don’t always like, I guess. As I passed into the brighter light of Oregon I realised, suddenly, why Washington has so many lighthouses. They need the light! Right enough, the beach beneath the Cape Disappointment lighthouse had been fairly glowing!