Redwoods and Sea Fog

The five remaining members of the Intrepid TransAm Team cruised into Florence, Oregon in fine style.  Actually, that's not true: it's just the way it was supposed to be.    Jessica had a flat tyre two miles out, then, when we stopped in a confused bunch at an intersection without any idea of how to get to the Pacific Ocean, she gently bumped into Wim's bike.  Being clipped in to her pedals and unable to get a foot out in time to brace herself, she fell over sideways in a very ungraceful manner on the roadway.  We then discovered we still had five miles to ride to the beach.  When we finally arrived, Jessica's mother, who had flown out from Florida with her partner for the occasion, met us with two bottles of champagne in the carpark.

The beach turned out to be an unappealing expanse of grey sand bordering an equally unappealing expanse of grey, freezing ocean.  The wind was bitterly cold.  Nevertheless, two insane Belgians and one Geordie (the name implies insanity) decided to swim.  Jessica and I sipped champagne and
huddled in our jackets while they pretended to enjoy themselves, leaping about in what, just a little way north of here, is called the Arctic Ocean.


The next morning we had a farewell breakfast in a cafe in the Old Town area - the only attractive part of a town completely choked by shopping malls and used car lots and bisected by the constantly busy US 101.  While the others headed for Portland, and their various routes home, I threaded my way between the trucks and RVs, alone on the scary Highway 101, heading south for San Francisco.  I was already missing the camaraderie, the support, the company of these great people.

The Oregon coast is rugged and beautiful, with thousands of rocky islets dotting the bays and river mouths.   The towns are mostly small and spread out, but the through traffic on 101 is relentless.  Log trucks and giant motor homes shot past constantly, buffeting me with their backdrafts and, especially in the narrow sections, threatening to blow me off the road.  The riding was not fun.  It's hard to enjoy yourself when you're having a near-death experience every five minutes or so.

Most summer days in these parts start with a damp, drizzly fog rolling in from the sea.  Usually, this lifts by lunchtime and the afternoons are sunny with a cool breeze from the north - a convenient tailwind for a southbound cyclist.  Some days it doesn't lift, and the whole day is gloomy and damp, with low visibility on the narrow, hilly roads - especially on the crests and peaks.  It was on a typically foggy morning, on one of my detours away from US101 on a scenic parkway, that I had my first encounter with the giant Coastal Redwoods.  I rounded a bend and there they were, looming out of the fog - spooky and awe-inspiring.  For the next couple of hours I rolled silently along the quiet road, just gaping at these fabulous trees.  They are the tallest living things on Earth, and they can live for 2,000 years.  They have existed here in these moist, misty coastal hills for 20 million years, and have survived climate change, volcanic upheavals and massive movements of the Earth in this volatile geological region. In the last century and a half they have been decimated by logging, and - believe it or not - they are still being logged!  Is there no limit to the rapacity and greed of human beings?  Once back on Highway 101, I noticed that the squadrons of log trucks that were passing me all carried the carcases of magnificent Redwoods, destined to become building timber.  It literally made me cry.

I wasn't alone for long though: on day three, I met Jeff, an Australian who lives in Vancouver and works as a set designer in the film industry.  He was cycling from BC down to Los Angeles, where he had an appointment with his agent.  I'm not sure whether he always cycles 1000 miles to attend appointments.  We rode together and chatted for the rest of the day, then shared a Chinese meal, a bottle of wine and a motel room in Crescent City that night.

While the coastal scenery remained much the same, crossing the California state line ushered in a whole new cultural landscape.  Rambling, ranch-style homes appeared immediately, as did roadside fruit stalls, alternative - looking people with unconventional clothes and hairstyles, VW Kombi vans, shop signs in Spanish as well as English, organic food shops and even more traffic.  The weather didn't improve much.  Some afternoons the fog lifted around three or four o'clock and the day finished with weak but welcome sunshine and a chilly breeze.  Other days it stayed foggy until dusk.

I camped in state parks and forest  campgrounds, and met a succession of other riders battling the traffic up or down the Pacific Coast.  Three jovial Swiss men were riding from Vancouver to Chile.  A Canadian was riding from Vancouver to somewhere in Northern California to visit his sister.  A hulking Dane was completing a half circumnavigation of the globe on his bike.  He had started in China, tracked through Southeast Asia, and cycled against relentless headwinds from Darwin to Brisbane.  He was a tough man, physically and mentally.

Six days after leaving Florence, I reached the urban fringe of San Francisco.  One last night of camping in a state forest reserve, and I packed my tent up for the last time. I stopped on the waterfront in Sausalito to photograph the Golden Gate and Alcatraz across the bay, but the fog obscured most of the city and the wind was freezing.  And this is summer.  Eventually, I climbed the last of a long succession of steep, winding hills and rode on to the bike path across the bridge itself.  Welcome to San Francisco.  Coming the other way across the bridge were thousands of pedestrians and hundreds of cyclists.  Threading my way through them amidst the roar of the traffic and the shuddering vibration of the bridge was a serious strain, but it didn't diminish the sense of achievement and, yes, pride, that I had pedalled my bike all the way from Washington DC - close on 5,000 miles. 

Must have taken a wrong turn somewhere!

I had intended to spend several days in SF, rekaxing and taking in the sights, but the hostels were all booked out, there was nowhere within 20 miles to camp, and I ended up in a downtown motel room that smelt like an ashtray, had cigarette burns on the furniture, mould in the shower, and cost $75 a night.  I rang Qantas to find out when I could get a flight, and the choice was the very next day or a week hence.  I decided to bolt for home.

I'll post one more blog entry for the journey, with some reflections on the ride and impressions gained from my one day walking around San Francisco.  For now, it's quite nice to have the bike packed up in a box, and not to be riding for a while.