Coastal Bike Trip

Part 2

Out of Seaside

So, we were at the Seaside hostel eating waffles and eggs. The sun burned off the ocean fog and it turned into a perfect, cloudless day. Chris, Ian and I packed up and rolled out.

A while ago I bought a GPS, the Garmin Edge 605, and have played with it some, but haven’t totally figured it out. This trip was the first time that I found it to be really useful. All down the coast I watched for side roads that would detour off the busy 101 into coastal neighborhoods, scenic routes, anything that might be quieter and that would link back into the highway. There were a surprising number of these short detours, so we were able to stay off the 101 for quite a few miles, and see some of the less touristy coastal neighborhoods.

The whole day of riding was awesome, and even on the 101 traffic wasn’t too heavy. The shoulder was plenty wide for most of the way, and a constant wind blew out of the north, gently pushing us along.

At one point, a long way into a climb, traffic was stopped, and a long line of cars waited as we slowly made our way past. At the front of the line a road worker in an orange vest held a stop sign. We asked what was going on and he said there was a film crew taping a commercial. It would be a few minutes. The road had ascended a long way off the water and the view was phenomenal. These are the famous curves on which all sorts of car companies have filmed commercials.

We got off our bikes, had a snack and some water while taking in the view. Not too much time passed before three motorized tricycles came around the corner with a black car following. The trikes were obviously the stars of the filming. The black car had a giant mechanical contraption attached to the roof with a camera on a sort of robotic arm that moved around for dramatic action shots. Their whole crew pulled off the road and the Sign Man gave the signal for cars to go. The tricycles u-turned beside us and one of the women riders smiled through her face shield as she went past. They stopped not far up the road to wait for the line of cars.

We quickly packed our bikes and started up the road. As we went past the trikes I stopped and asked the woman about what they were doing. She didn’t answer me, but said instead that we really shouldn’t be riding on this road. They were going to be filming for the next hour or two, and we shouldn’t be out there because it would be dangerous. I kind of laughed and told her that we ride pretty fast, and it wouldn’t take long for us to be out of the way. She shook her head and said that we really ought to turn around and go the other way. Did we have any idea how much money it cost to block the road and film this? It would be a waste of thousands and thousands of dollars for them to have to wait for us.

I looked at her funny and started riding up the hill. I didn’t even know where to begin to argue with that. She must have been riding on motorized adrenaline, not thinking very clearly. I heard her call after me to wait, but the tail wind quickly washed her voice away. I glanced back and saw that Ian and Chris were with me, pushing up the hill.

Less than a quarter mile up and around a bend was a turn-off for cars to stop and take in the view. There were a couple of full length touring busses, the kind that rich bands travel in. Under a pop-up tent there were a couple of people in white shirts serving catered food. It looked like the nominal headquarters for the commercial crew. People milled around, milking the trike cow. I thought about checking on what they were serving.

A hip, young crew member with big sideburns ran out into the road as we approached. He had his hands up for us to stop, acting like we were going a lot faster than our 6 mph climbing speed. In one hand he held a 2-way radio. He must have gotten word from the trike lady that we weren’t following her orders.Mr. Sideburns peeled open a big fake smile, “Hey fellows, we’re filming a commercial here. You’ll have to stop and wait for a few minutes.” He acted like he was our buddy, doing us a favor. “The camera crew is going to be racing up and down the road, going really fast. It’s going to be really dangerous."

I rode on past him. At the far end of the parking area was another, smaller turn-out. And here was a guy who looked like the younger brother of the Mr. Sideburns. He held his 2-way radio in up-raised hands, in the same signal of distress. I stopped. Ian and Chris pulled up and we watched as three trikes roared past like caricatures of something cool. The tricycle bearing my new-found lady friend went past and she gave us a thumbs up. The black car with the robot camera followed in a big hurry. I thought of grabbing my crotch, but I restrained myself.

I wonder if they captured the romantic vision they were looking for, that marketable sensation that would make someone want to buy a motorized trike? They definitely had the scene right, the only problem was the subject. The trikes appeared somehow out of place, like a wiry hair on a toilet rim, or a booger on a clean shirt. They look a little too plastic and space-age, a little too childish, like an expensive toy for someone too inept to ride on two wheels, or a transformer that doesn’t do anything cool, but makes the rider seem more ridiculous than they already are. I’m sure they’re fun, giving a sensation similar to riding a motorcycle without any of the skill involved.

We waited for a while, but not too long. The next wave of cars came past which was our signal. As the last car passed we crested the hill, so we had the entire road to ourselves as we made the long descent.

The rest of the afternoon was wonderful. We continued exploring detours and side roads that the GPS opened up for us. We ate fish burgers at a bar in Manzanita and stopped at all the viewpoints. Before this trip I’d never ridden on highway 101. I wasn’t all that interested because of heavy traffic. I’ve been up and down the coast by car quite a few times, and when I think about doing it by bike I can’t help think of the constant stream of cars. But on this trip I realized that heading from north to south is not too bad. I don’t know about the rest of the year, but in late summer the tail wind kicks you along. I noticed as well that the shoulder on the west side of the road is, in many places, much wider than the shoulder on the east. I’m not sure why that is, but it was welcome.

On this particular day of the trip my heart was won over to the 101. It has so many side roads paralleling it, and the scenery was amazing. Like I said, I’ve been down the coast many times by car, but this trip was the first time that I really feel like I got to know the coastline. Usually when going to the coast I travel from Portland to a specific beach or coastal town. When I’ve had to go from one town to another the distance blows past so quickly in a car that it’s pretty unmemorable. But on the bike I was able to take in every curve and every hill. We pulled off at most every turn-out, at least to take a look.

Anyway, Chris Ian and I pedaled a total of about 70 miles that day. In the late evening we got a little turned around in the hills beyond Tillamook. We looked for a campground that was vaguely printed on one of our paper maps, but that wasn’t really there. We ended up pulling into the campground at Cape Lookout State Park right around dusk. I’d never been to this campground, but it turned out to be really nice. The hiker/biker campground was off in the trees, and we could hear the ocean while we slept.

By the time we set up camp it was late, and we had to wear headlamps to get our tents together. We made a hearty dinner of refried beans and some sort of Indian sauce (Tasty Bite), flat bread, avocado, tomato, a little left-over cheese. When the flat bread was gone we used the empty avocado halves as bowls. We basically put together all the food each of us had and made a “fusion” meal. It was one of those meals that couldn’t have been planned, but was welcome and delicious.

The next morning we packed up and Chris and I said goodbye to Ian. He had to get back to Portland for work. Chris and I continued heading south. Almost immediately out of the campground was a long, fairly steep climb. Not a bad way to start the day, to get the blood flowing. On the latter part of the descent we came across a vast field of sand dunes at Sand Lake, a place neither of us had ever seen. It’s a recreation area for all sorts of fat-tire vehicles, but there weren’t too many out at the moment.

There were a few big climbs that day. By the time we came into Pacific City we were hungry. Pacific City has two small sections of town, one with a gas station and a couple of hotels, the other with the Pelican Pub & Brewery, a market/gift & sweets shop, a surf shop and a taco bar. We stopped at the taco bar, which had a walk up window.

After eating French fries and fish tacos we went across the road to the market for ice cream. They serve local Tillamook ice cream. I don’t consume too much dairy, but it was hot and ice cream sounded good. I ordered two scoops, one of peanut butter & chocolate, and one of hazelnut. One scoop of ice cream is almost never enough, especially if you’re riding a lot of miles. The large woman behind the counter had her own ideas about what two scoops of ice cream looks like. I asked for my scoops on a cone and in a cup. I watched as she dug the scoop in, rolling up a ball the size of my fist, then the size of a grapefruit. She dug it out and dropped it into a cup as large as a pint glass, forcing it down with the scoop. Then she dug out an equivalent portion of the other flavor and stuck that on top. For a moment I thought she was kidding, the ice cream was way over the rim of the cup. It was massive! I knew it wasn’t a joke when she capped the cup with an overturned cone. Then she planted a useless little spoon in it, and I thought proportionally about planting a flag on the moon.

Chris ordered his two giant scoops and we sat out in the sun to eat. There was a little boy dressed in a long-sleeve pajama top, under ware and rubber boots. He had a cup of ice cream in his hands but was so charged up on the sugar that he couldn’t eat anymore for the activity. He was running around in circles like an overly excited dog, squealing and sloshing the melted remains of his ice cream all over the place. He had chocolate all over his face and front and sleeves.

An older couple came up with their giant dog. The dog looked like a white-furred wookie; like a snow wookie. It was obviously very uncomfortable in the hot sun. It lay down on the cool cement in the shade. The man went into the store and in a few minutes returned with two massive ice cream cones. He handed one to his wife and then lowered the other to the dog. The dog licked at the cone, kind of timidly at first. After a few moments you could tell he was getting into it because he sat up and began licking more vigorously, drips of melting ice cream flipping off his tongue. I thought at first that the owner was just sharing with the dog, and after a bit would take it away and begin eating it himself. I mean, it was a giant ice cream cone, and some people are that close to their dogs, they don’t mind swapping spit. But no, this dog got his very own ice cream cone. He lapped at it until it got down to the cone and then he nipped pieces off. It didn’t take long before he was chewing up the last of it.

A few people gathered to watch. There were some young Australian surfers who had clearly been reading the same fashion magazine for beach ware. They were dressed identically, all the way down to the butt crack they each showed. The sugar-spastic little boy had paused to watch the dog, but he just couldn’t stand it, and started squealing again. When he saw the dog lapping at the cone it must have reminded him about his own ice cream. He was doing a sort of jig and tipped the cup at his mouth. He shook the upturned cup over himself and little splatterings of liquid chocolate rained down on his face and hair.

I rode out of Pacific City feeling bloated, and wondered if I would be sick. I didn’t eat all the ice cream, but it was so good I ate most. Chris seemed to be revitalized, so I followed and didn’t say much.

A few miles down the road, just past Neskowin, was a turn off for the Old Scenic 101 route. Someone at the Cape Lookout campground had told us to take this route because it was quiet, and it would avoid a huge climb on the main highway. The old 101 was very quiet, and started with a gradual climb past farm houses and a school. As the road started into the forest the climb steepened, to the point that we were in our granny gears, pushing each pedal stroke. The trees were huge, and a thick unworldly green moss covered all the lower branches and undergrowth.

Whoever had told us that this route would avoid the big climb on the main highway must have been joking. We went up and up for about 6 or 7 miles before cresting the hill. The forest was awesome, exuding the lushness of rainy northwest plant life, so thick you could feel it. While we climbed, Chris went into a monologue about the giant ferns, how they were eaten by dinosaurs and how the ferns compacted over millions of years helped create oil. It was very illuminating.

The descent was awesome. Not incredibly steep, but it was long, full of lazy curves through the trees. Better still, we didn’t see but 2 or 3 cars on this entire detour.

We arrived at Devil’s Lake just before Lincoln City in the late afternoon. Because of the evening rush hour, we turned off to take the side roads around the lake rather than deal with the line of speeding cars and trucks on the main road. The lake detour turned out to be kind of long, with a lot of short steep hills to climb. No rhythm was possible, it was: Climb hard, coast down; climb hard, coast down.

On the far side of the lake we stopped at a park and boat launch to rest and snack. I had hoped there would be camping somewhere around the lake, but it was all residential. While Chris and I ate we watched a couple of yahoos on the lake with a jet boat. They both had long hair that stuck straight out behind them as they blasted back and forth across the water. The boat was so loud that it echoed for miles, like a hot rod without a muffler. They raced up and back, bringing the boat up to speed and then turning sharply to skip sideways across the water. This stalled the motor, sometimes killing it. They sat there and idled for a moment, or restarted the motor, then jammed the throttle and with a thunderous roar took off, often spinning in a couple of tight circles, doing donuts, before shooting off in another direction.

I almost felt sorry for them. They looked like they really wanted to have fun, but there wasn’t anywhere to go, and no point to what they were doing. They had this expensive toy that they had to do something with, and I’m sure it was fun for about 15 minutes the first time out. But after that?

Maybe I’m wrong and they loved every moment of it. They kept at it for a good long while. The most disturbing part of it was the immense noise. Devil’s Lake is fairly large, and it was clear that from any point on the lake the noise from this one boat would be loud. Lakes hint at serenity, and this jet boat was diametrically opposed to the silence of nature. It would be one thing if the boat had any sort of purpose other than making noise and going fast. But really, that’s all this kind of boat does. Chris and I talked about how strange humans are, with their constant search for entertainment, and how the combustion engine has played into that. ATVs and monster trucks; boats like this one and giant Winnebagos. What would happen if gas were $10 per gallon? Or $50?

We didn’t find a campgroung around the lake. As we rolled into Lincoln City we happened across Trillium Natural Foods Grocery. It’s a great little co-op grocery, in what used to be a house. Wood floors, good smells, packed wall to wall with healthy organic foods. Chris and I stocked up for dinner and breakfast, and found out there is a campground in Lincoln City, we just hadn’t gotten that far. The entrance to the campground is right off the 101, and the woman at the grocery told us it is the only campground anywhere in a both a state park and within city limits.

At the campground the hiker/ biker camping is off to the side near the entrance. Chris and I climbed a small hill to set up our tent. It was kind of strange because we were setting up in a small grassy field right by a road in a neighborhood. We felt like we were in somebody’s yard. There was one other tent in the yard with us, but nobody else around.

As we set up camp Chris and I looked sideways at each other when we heard cackling from the other tent. The tent was set up beside a picnic table. It looked like someone had just cooked a big meal, ate some of it, and had left the mess. There was a catsup and mustard bottle, an empty chip bag and various wrappers and empty bags. Clothes were strewn around the perimeter of the tent, and a burnt ear of corn lay on the grate over the fire pit. There was a cat carrier and an open back pack with it’s contents thrown everywhere. All that was needed to complete the picture was a couple of small filthy children naked from the waist down sitting in the dirt and eating bugs.

The cackling continued while Chris and I set up. At one point a cheap radio came on in the tent, blaring static between stations. This continued the whole evening. Every now and then we saw the tent shake as somebody moved around. There was muttering, and I couldn’t tell if one person talked, or two. Cackling and singing, periodic blasts of radio static. But for the entire evening nobody came out of the tent.

The next morning Chris and I made breakfast. Our tents were damp with dew and the sun was just getting high enough to warm up the air, so we hung our rain covers and took our time making breakfast. The cackling started again in the late morning. The tent jostled and the zippered door opened. A woman stepped out of the tent, dressed in what looked like full rain gear. Her hair was dirty blond and nappy with tangles. In her arms she had a very young kitten. She kicked around at the clothes outside her tent, and then sat at the picnic table. Using one arm she swiped an area clear and put the kitten on the table. It was very young, brown and white. She held the kitten down and tried putting a harness on it, but the kitten protested and cried and mewled and it sounded like she was torturing it. After a few minutes without success with the harness the kitten really went wild. We stared at her and I was about to say something. She was becoming flustered and finally, suddenly, gave up and walked away carrying the kitten. I heard her muttering profanities as she left, and I envisioned her going down to the lake and holding the kitten underwater until it stopped moving. A few minutes later we saw her at the camp entrance, probably paying for another night.

There were fewer than 30 miles to go from Lincoln City to Newport, so we took our time. Newport was the end of this trip for me. I was meeting Maggie for yoga and surfing. Chris was going to head on down the coast into northern California, ultimately to Arcata.

We pulled into Newport in the afternoon. There were more sea lions on the docks and on the jetty than I’d ever seen. They barked and bickered and slept, while crowds of people stood around photographing them.

Chris and I ate fish and chips in the old part of town. We climbed the hill back up to the 101 and then said our goodbyes. Chris headed south, and I turned back north into the wind and pedaled the 6 or so miles to Beverly Beach campground where I met Maggie.

This was such an amazing trip, and part of me really wanted to continue south with Chris. The weather was perfect and the tail wind was dreamy. Each day as we started riding I had a feeling of warmth and excitement, anticipating seeing new places and things. As I said, I never was very tempted by riding down the coast just because of the road and the traffic. But now, having ridden some of it, I will definitely do it again. There are enough detours on side roads, and the shoulder is mostly wide enough. But, I can only imagine how amazing this trip would be were the coastal rail line turned into pathways like the Banks-Vernonia trail. That would make this trip exponentially more amazing. And it would get used, a lot. People from all over the world already come just to ride the coast. Imagine how many more would come if there were a bike path separate from the roadway. Wow!

We’ve been riding to Astoria every summer for the past few years. This year is the first time we’ve extended the trip. Next year we may actually spend some time organizing, and invite more people to join us. So far it’s been very loosely organized and the invitations have been very casual. No announcements or anything like that. I’m thinking more like a seven or eight day loop, with options for people who don’t have that much time. But anyway, we’ll see. If you’ve made it all the way through this long missive and you’re interested in the possibility of going next year, send me an e-mail. I’ll save your address and if we do put something bigger together I’ll send you an invite.

Astoria Bike Trip 2010

part I

This past week was our annual bike trip to Astoria. It’s not an official event, but several friends and I have been doing this for the past couple of years, and the number of us going each year has increased, so it almost feels like it’s official. This year there were ten of us riding. To see the route we take, mostly, click here.

We all met at the Forestry Center on Sunday, and rode about 65 miles to Big Eddy campground, which is just a few miles north of Vernonia. It's only as we got out past North Plains that it started to feel like we were away from town. As always, the Banks- Vernonia trail is such a great part of the day – no cars and totally off in the trees for a good portion of the way. It’s the first rails-to-trails project in Oregon, and spans 21 miles, a lot of which is in the forest.

Throughout this trip I kept seeing old rusty train tracks parallel the roadways, and it really makes me wonder how we (as a state) could put together the funding to transform some of these. They are there, waiting to be used. 21 miles between two rural towns it very cool, but there’s a whole huge network waiting to be put in place.

Anyway, we rode our 21 miles from Banks to Vernonia. Much of the trail is paved, but there is a section of about 6 miles that is gravel. I’ve heard rumors that it’s all going to be paved within the next year, but even the wide gravel and hard packed path is nice.

Where the trail ends in Vernonia there is a campground and RV park, but I’ve never stayed there. It would be a good overnight trip from Portland, to ride the trail and stop right at the end. But we always push on to Big Eddy campground because it’s more away from things, and it’s only another 6 or 7 miles up the road. There is a grocery store in Vernonia where it’s good to pick up the heavier food and beer that you wouldn’t want to pack all that way. Also, you ought to pick up a gallon of water, since the water at Big Eddy smells sulfuric.

At Big Eddy we set up camp. Mike was on Yeti patrol by the river, can in hand. We compared gear, figured out who was the biggest gear nerd, and the award went fairly unanimously to Nick, although we all had our claims to the title. Maybe I’ll go into all the things I learned about sleeping pads and tents and stoves and sleeping bags in another post. Suffice it to say that the technology that’s been put into gear is awesome, but some of it borders on the ridiculous. It’s like anything, I guess; some of it is genuinely good and useful, some of it is questionable, and some of it is crap. Things keep getting lighter and more compact, and if you want to keep up on it, and if you have the money, you can travel pretty light these days.

The next day we rode on to Astoria, another 55 or so miles. All of us who went last year had been talking about the climb over the coastal range, making it out to be this big tiresome haul. The people who hadn’t gone last year were expecting a monster climb that would go on for miles and miles. Maybe it was the freshly paved road, or maybe we’d had a head wind, or maybe we were just weaker, whinier humans last year, but this year the climb didn’t seem all that difficult, so that by the time we got to the top, the newbies were asking, “Is that it?”

One of the highlights for this leg of the trip is the country store at Birkenfeld, where you can pick up some low-budget energy food and refill your water bottle, and if you want to, you can get a fifth of Jack Daniels. The folks there are always friendly, although it looks like they wouldn't ride a bike unless it had at least a 750 cc motor on it. A couple of young guys pulled up while we were there. They wore head to toe camouflage. They had just been out bow hunting and had a deer in the truck that one of them had shot. Apparently he’d put an arrow right through the eyes, and the deer had still run off. They said they’d had to chase it for over a mile before it fell. They were very proud, slapping each other on the backs, talking loud and laughing big.

The rest of this leg of the trip is really good. It’s low trafficand not too many hills, lazy winding country road. There is a big elk reserve, but this year there were none to be seen. We arrived inAstoria early in the evening and met up with Chris’ friend, Jess. We ate dinner with her at a brew pub, then went back to her enormous apartment. From the front window of her place you looked out at the 101 bridge to Washington. She was very generous in letting us stay at her place, especially since she was leaving that night to drive to Portland to catch a plane. Her home could have slept 20 of us comfortably, and as it was several of us had rooms to ourselves.

The next morning we woke to rain and wind. Because we had a big warm dry apartment to stay in, none of us were in a hurry to head off into the next part of our adventure. We went to breakfast at the delicious Blue Scorcher Café, and milled around town for a quite a while. Astoria was where our group of ten split up, many folks needing to get back to Portland for work, etc. As the afternoon rolled around the rain seemed to let up, so Chris, Ian and I packed up, said our goodbyes, got on our bikes and and headed south.

As soon as we rounded the bend that makes up the tip of the peninsula on which Astoria sits, the wind hit us full force in the face. There are two bridges across the bay south of Astoria, but the shorter and lesser traveled of the two was closed. That left us with one option; taking the 101 bridge, a long, narrow floating bridge that is very heavily traveled, and completely exposed to the heavy winds off the sea.

We rode for about 50 feet onto the bridge, but it was clear that riding was totally unsafe. The wind pushed us toward traffic, and the big trucks blowing past pushed us toward the low guardrail over which was a drop into the water. This was one of the scariest miles I’ve ever traveled. Off our bikes, we stayed as far onto the small shoulder and against the guardrail as we could go. Putting our heads down we walked for the full length of the bridge. The bridge spans almost two miles of water, and most of it is too narrow to even safely walk on, let alone walking with a bike. The stream of traffic was constant, and the rain fell sideways. It was a very unpleasant crossing, but we made it without any real incident. On the other side we pulled under an awning and stopped to breathe.

From this point we took off on a small country road that wound into the trees. The wind died down, as did the traffic. The rain fell lightly and the day was relatively warm, so the riding was pleasant, even if wet. We followed this around through state forest and nature reserve, farmland and riverbed. The rain picked up on the final climb back over the hills. As we came down the other side the ocean wind picked up again, and the rain fell heavily, causing us to have to pedal to maintain speed on the descent. By the time we rolled into the small town of Seaside we were soaked through.

That night we took a room at the Seaside Hostel, which turned out to be a blessing. There was a quarter-fed dryer for our clothes, and a hot shower. That night we watched Aliens in the common room. Three young German women were trying to eat dinner while on the TV a slimy alien baby burst out of Sigourney Weaver’s chest, screeching and gnashing teeth. The German women didn’t last long at the table.

The next morning the hostel offered eggs to cook and waffle mix to make, which we heartily did. We packed our bags as the sun burned off the morning fog, and we were met with a clear cloudless sky.

End of part I