Author: David & Ashley

David: “It was the best of rides, it was the worst of rides….”

Ashley: “It was just the best!”

The Leggett climb is notorious among Pacific coast bike tourists, winding up and out of the south fork of the Eel River and over the southern end of the King Range, of Lost Coast fame. We spent at least two days dreading it—which turned out to be a mistake. Yes, it’s a long climb, and at some point during the triumphal descent you discover that there’s yet another long and seemingly steeper climb. Yes, there’s no shoulder and traffic can be heavy.  But it’s a beautiful cycling road, well-graded, with serpentine curves that are exciting going up and perfect going down. The forest wall of redwoods offers little vista but some shade, welcome when it’s hot—and this was the hottest, sunniest, stickiest day we’ve had.

Before Leggett, we climbed a couple thousand feet along 101 out of Garberville. We were using alarmingly low gears from the get-go, and by the time we reached our lunch stop—The Peg House, just at the base of the real climb—we were feeling overheated and out of gas. But the cop in Rio Dell had promised that The Peg House’s double fudge brownies would do the trick. So we took a long lunch break, downed half of our substantial brownies for dessert, and took off.

At Leggett, we took a right turn to join Highway 1 for the first time, the road that will take us most of the way to the Mexican border. In contrast to our expectations, this turned out to be as fun as long sustained climbing gets, and traffic was lighter than we’d feared. It’s the constant variation in grade, the succession of varyingly sharp curves, the aesthetic pleasure of a narrow and winding road, especially after bustling and noisy 101. You might have a plan to shift back and forth among your lowest gears to adjust for slight variations in the grade, but in the end you drop into the most venerable of granny gears and settle in for the long haul.

Typical of David’s view during the climb (though the picture doesn’t do justice to the grade).

Signaling the first descent.

We stopped several times to reapply sunblock and chug water—or at least sip it, since there are zero services between Leggett and just north of Fort Bragg and we didn’t want to run dry. The road is narrow and curvy, so you never know what’s about to happen, and the steepest sections were often in the bends themselves. A few passing cars and trucks chose a more dangerous moment than we would have liked to pull into the oncoming lane, but we ourselves never felt in danger — we only feared for any oncoming vehicle. But there were few if any really close calls, most drivers erring on the side of slowness and caution. Not a road you’d want to be texting, or DUI on.

Waiting at a lane-closing construction site; luckily there was only one such hold-up on the climbs.

Both the first and the second descents were spectacular, the road exquisitely banked for speed. The curves came one after another, and every one was a put-your-bike-on-its-side kind of curve. We were going as fast as any motorized traffic could, so we felt no pressure to give up the lane.

Note the fog bank, keeping well offshore

Just north of Westport, Highway 1 emerges from the interior and the mighty Pacific explodes into sight. We stopped half a dozen times within a mile or two to take pictures and to try to process the sudden splendor.

Looking south at the steep coastal cliffs you can’t not imagine San Francisco, Santa Cruz, Santa Barbara, Malibu, San Diego…. Not for the first time this trip, we were almost speechless.

We are so lucky to get to ride these roads, to smell the primeval redwoods, to feel that sea breeze day after day, to smell the salt, to live this life.

In Westport we reconnected with Kristof, a young German tourist riding from Seattle to San Francisco. We flagged him down while lunching at The Peg House, warning him to eat there before tackling the Leggett climb. He pushed on instead, but in Westport he admitted the mistake. “I’m killed,” he exclaimed, wiped out from the ride. He’s been solo for the whole trip, so suggested that we ride together to his camp site just north of Fort Bragg. Kristof—wearing gym shorts, a black sweatshirt, and sneakers, a rubber dry bag bungied to his rack—kept us moving at a brisk pace, but we stopped him twice for pictures. We took a few of him with his camera, the only ones—he told us—he had of himself on this epic voyage. “My mom will be so happy,” he beamed.

Four miles outside of Fort Bragg, having said goodbye to Kristof, we turned off Highway 1, not sorry to be done with its relentless short climbs for the day. We joined a mostly level and somewhat gravelly bike path that took us right along the beach in perfect early evening light. Starving, and racing to get into town before the brewpub closed, we were hauling tail—though we did stop to give a desperate stranded fellow cyclist a patch kit.

Checked into our basic-but-clean-and-friendly $70 motel, showered up, and walked down Main Street to the North Coast brewpub in good time for a hearty dinner and a couple of gigantic IPAs.

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The numbers for Monday: 68.8 miles, 5972′ of climbing, in 6:43. Total for Sun-Mon (days 16 & 17): 161.1 mi, 10,011′.

California’s official Avenue of the Giants stretches from just south of Eureka nearly to Garberville, though smaller groves and isolated stands continue south for another 200 miles. Much of today’s record-setting (for us) 92-mile ride took place along this touristy but delightful, shady and sun-dappled alternate route paralleling Hwy 101, peacefully pedaling along galleries of towering redwoods like columns in a Gothic cathedral.

Traffic was surprisingly light.

The south fork of the Eel River frequently popped into view, its gravel beaches and bars sometimes speckled with bathers and boaters on this sunniest of days — in short, one of our loveliest riding days, and a reminder of how lucky we are to be here, and how lucky humanity is to have these last remaining groves of very large living things.

CalTrans wants to remove redwoods from this iconic grove in order to widen Hwy 101 to accommodate larger tractor-trailers.

Breakfast came in Eureka, just 10 miles in; more guac-and-lox and another scramble at the other Los Bagels. Here we were panhandled for the first time, and offered probably sound advice from a nevertheless dubious source: a somewhat sketchy local recumbent cyclist who looked a tad like Robin Williams in his bushiest-bearded phase, but sounded all too much like Peter Lorre (“heh-heh, you want a route with less traffic? heh-heh, come to my house”). These encounters left us ready to bid Eureka adieu.

These far-northern coastal towns seem a little like their transcontinental northern New England cousins, bearing traces of extractive-industry pasts — fishing and logging– and playing sometimes a little uneasily the new role of providing services — espresso, gourmet cuisine, luxurious lodging — expected by passers-by and affluent migrants. The waterfront mills, canneries and rail yards lie vacant or, in some cases, are repurposed into arts centers, breweries (like Redwood Curtain in Arcata) and other entrepreneurial retail.

In the little town of Rio Dell, right before the redwoods, we had lunch at a local cafe called The Green Bean, a couple of paninis and–a this-will-be-a-long-day treat–milkshakes. After lunch, heading out of town by way of a memorable historical marker (picture below), we stopped to chat with a father-daughter pair of bicycle tourists from northern Virginia, Mike and Christina.

David talked with Mike, a sensible friendly guy with touring experience. Ashley chatted with Christina, recent college graduate who admitted/bragged, “I’m not much into cycling.” Also Christina: “We’ve learned to keep a lot of snacks, because I’m a real b*tch when I’m hungry.” Christina requires coffee within five minutes of waking up and can’t handle any caffeine after that; Christina has struggled on this tour. They’ve got a hard deadline for San Francisco (where they’re to connect with the rest of their family), and, Christina said, unapologetically, they had to cheat “a little,” apparently taking a 150-mile cab ride to skip half of Oregon.

A local cop stopped to chat, and to offer some friendly advice to bike tourists–how to avoid a nearby long bridge you have to walk your bike across, where to get the best brownie to power you up the notorious and daunting Leggett climb, etc. Taking his advice, we four returned to 101 for a few miles before cutting back to the Avenue of the Giants, which we followed with few exceptions for the next 45 miles.

Our new friends stopped to camp pretty soon after we met up with them, so over the last few hours of the day the shoulder was all ours. We passed through a few tiny towns (populations circa 300), but it was a relatively rural, quiet Sunday until we got into Garberville, our home for the night.

The climbing today was gentle, almost always, steady and gradual, and after a couple of rest days we felt better than ever 75 miles in. The last few miles the climbing picked up, and we were a little more relieved than usual to see our hotel come into view.

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Daily totals: 92.3 miles, 4039 feet of climbing, in 7 hours and 40 minutes.

Trip total: 947.5 miles–a little more than halfway.

Rest day(s)! We got into Arcata CA Thursday evening, were warmly welcomed by our hosts Travis and Katie Ramsey May and spent Friday doing laundry, working on the bikes, and relaxing. Bought a new rear tire for Ashley’s bike, repaired her rear view mirror, rewrapped handlebar tape, tightened bolts, lubed chains. For breakfast we devoured a couple of innovative gourmet bagels at Travis’s Los Bagels, and later borrowed Katie’s car to pay a visit to Six Rivers brewery in McKinleyville, a few miles north.

Top: guac & lox on a “slug” bagel. Bottom: housemade chorizo & egg on the slug

After all that, Travis took us to Redwood Curtain, one of Arcata’s newest breweries, located in a repurposed industrial park, where many varieties of beer are available only on tap in limited quantities, never in cans or bottles.

Afterwards, with Katie, we drove up the Mad River to the town of Blue Lake (where there is no lake) and the aptly named Mad River Brewing Co, for live “rockabilly soul” in an outdoor garden. and good food & drink.

Katie & Travis’s “Bigfoot”: a snugger home we couldn’t imagine, with the rain rattling romantically on the roof.

That evening, we made a game time decision, as the rain started to fall, to rest up 24 more hours before the next two riding days, which promise lots of long climbs (and few services) on the way to CA Highway 1. It wasn’t a hard call, given the gracious hospitality of Katie, Travis, Reyna & Zara.

David, Reyna, Zara (emoting) and Katie

Besides, Travis went deep-sea fishing early this morning and returned with salmon and halibut for dinner …

Travis prepares sashimi from the salmon he caught a few hours earlier.

The second rest day, after a savory breakfast at T’s cafe, we walked into town to mail home a box of pint glasses, used maps, and … gasp! … our cooking pot, cups, and camp stove, figuring that we can save the weight, should we camp, by stoically feasting on whatever room-temperature goodies we’re carrying, if a cafe or other eating opportunity isn’t nearby.

We took our hosts’ very well-behaved Cooper for a run in a nearby field.

Arcata’s Saturday market on the plaza was in full swing, with food booths, live bluegrass music, and plenty of dancers. We feasted on crab cake and corned beef hash benedicts, browsed a couple of bookstores (each buying the smallest lightest cheapest paperback we could find that we wanted to read: Henry James for David, PG Wodehouse for Ashley). In classic bike tourist style, we’ll be tearing the pages out one by one as we read them.

Ashley borrows Jasper for some power-lounging on the lawn (but he’s no replacement for Lassen and Patxi).

Showered, bikes tuned up and partially packed, we relaxed on the Mays’ front lawn in the Saturday afternoon sunshine with a kids’ party raging across the street, complete with inflatable bounce house. What a great neighborhood! The second such party in as many days!

Tonight, Reyna and Zara at Girl Scouts camp, we finished off Travis’s salmon sashimi and halibut skewers, then the four of us went out to have Humboldt Pie for dessert and a nightcap plus pinball at Dead Reckoning Tavern, Ashley & David thinking all the while about the summits awaiting us tomorrow, and tomorrow …

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The 78 miles from Crescent City to Arcata, our first day on the tour entirely in the Golden State, also earned us the most feet of elevation in a single day, just about 400 feet shy of a mile.

But the rewards for all that stolid low-gear grinding were considerable: beautiful mostly empty beaches, piled high with huge silvery driftwood logs; the sounds of crashing surf and barking seals; vistas across rocky bays to distant capes and ridges; and the Del Norte redwood groves, through which we rode avenues lined with trees the length of battleships.

We paused at the world-famous Trees of Mystery to buy postcards and marvel at three visiting school groups from Portland climbing all over Paul Bunyan and his blue ox Babe.

Today gave us probably the roughest roads of the trip so far as well, especially along some scenic coastal drives that provided occasional relief from once-again busy Hwy 101. Coming out of Crescent City we climbed gradually but steadily more or less all the way to Klamath, sometimes with no shoulder, always with the ominous rumble, over the left shoulder, of some load-bearing rig.

After Klamath, more climbing, through one construction zone after another. One flagger sent us through, while holding up the cars, which was very peaceful until we met, simultaneously, the asphalt-laying tanks and the pilot truck and its attendant caravan. After that we descended briskly through new, sticky, hot asphalt. Had to stop to clean all the debris collected by our tacky tires.

Lunch was nuts, cheese, a pre-made packaged sandwich, and Cokes, sitting curbside in front of the Orick general store.

After, we crossed the Klamath river, climbed more, and eventually refilled water bottles in Trinidad. The coastal track past Trinidad included several gravel stretches as the price of an epic view, and the Hammond Trail from there to Arcata, a hiker-biker-horse path, surprised us with an 8% gravel climb which we triumphantly managed, high-fiving as we panted at the top.

We rolled into Arcata at 7:15 or so, met by our friends, their two little girls, and two neighborhood kids. Eventually cleaned up, deposited our bikes in the garage and our bags in the camper that would be home for a couple of days. Enjoyed a delicious home-cooked meal and local microbrews with our tremendously thoughtful and hospitable hosts, Katie and Travis, Reyna and Zara, and then to bed.

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Day 14: 77.9 miles, 4756′ of climbing, 7 hours and six minutes.

… so we loaded up our bikes and rode to Crescent City. It wasn’t a long ride, particularly, but lots of steady climbing right from the get-go, over Cape Sebastian and other lesser capes, until 28 miles later we descended into Brookings — which involved two surprisingly big climbs after the city limits sign — for another friendly and satisfying Subway lunch, just a few miles from the border. Another cool, sunny, lovely day.

Note the freshly washed shorts drying on the sleeping bag — cleanliness is next to godliness

At the Cape Sebastian viewpoint we had our closest encounter with the three young bike tourists from Bend we’ve been calling the “dude bros,” as we tag-teamed them down the coast from north of Port Orford.

They were as far as we could tell only on a week-long tour, or less, but they had three fat backpacks and four panniers. They were so dirty, they can’t have had a change of clothes, so we figured a tent…and, based on their habits at rest stops, a whole lot of weed. At least half the bags, nothing but skunk, we decided. There was no explanation. Halfway to Brookings they told us that was their final destination, and then they’d hitchhike back to Newport.

We did stop briefly at the Brookings bike shop, which we would NOT recommend to those who follow us, being badly stocked and managed by a kind of drunk and clueless right-wing version of Walter White, who tried to sell us the wrong kind of tubes, excusing himself when we caught him by saying he couldn’t read the text on the box. Really, this guy is who might be working on your bike? As one online reviewer wrote, unless you have a serious breakdown, steer clear of this place. Walter followed us out of the shop, and what follows is a sample of his monologue:

Friend of mine, used to ride a lot, had to get some cancers dug out of his face, all stitched up now, had it done in Costa Rica, they got hospitals down there that look like Star Wars, friend of a friend of mine has a son down there training for their paramilitary force on the border with Nicaragua, those Nicaraguans doing to Costa Rica what the damn Mexicans are doing to the US, coming over to steal their jobs and get on their welfare, you should see the guns they got down there, they get ’em from the US, they got Sigs, man, Sig Sauers, gift of the good ol’ USA!

Et cetera. We rode away while he was still talking.

Along the way we came across three deer, a couple of feet from us across the guardrail, including one fawn. Bambi raced David, adorably, sprinting and hopping, showing how fast *he* could go. That was the highlight of the day, in wildlife terms. The low point was seeing the first dead raccoon.

Like any border between states with different laws about drugs, alcohol, guns, or fireworks, the Oregon side featured the biggest marijuana dispensary we’d seen.

But like most fronteras, this border is more than a legal fiction, more than a mathematical line drawn on a map. From craggy coastline and jutting cape, the landscape quickly transitioned to sprawling agricultural, from Easter lily farms to stoop-labor field crops complete with farm workers as if we’d teleported to the Salinas Valley. The slopes above were still thick with spruce and fir, and the coastal surf still pounded the sea stacks, but we pedaled through the Smith River estuary on mostly level rural roads apart from the trucks and other traffic on Hwy. 101, smelling fertilizer, gazing across vast flats, and passing farm machinery chugging along our quiet alternate route, of which Ethel Beavers — as we’ve christened our Garmin 1030 navigational device — thoroughly approved.

Ethel, and her owners, were very happy to arrive at last in Crescent City and ride along the coast to our lodging.

The Front Street Inn here, along with the Wild Chinook in Gold Beach, has changed our opinion of two-star economical motels. Perfectly clean, if aging and low on foo-foo amenities, friendly & accommodating and grateful for your business, and costing maybe a third of a Hampton or a Hilton. Our room was a 10-minute walk from SeaQuake Brewing, all we need at present.

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Today’s numbers: 61.2 miles, 2617 feet, in 5:10. Hope we’re not softening up. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day to Arcata.

Our June so far: