Author: David & Ashley

It was a cold gray morning in Castle Rock, WA, with thick cloud cover and a stiff breeze. After a couple of Subway breakfast sandwiches—way more appetizing than the Burger King greasestains we had inflicted upon our stomachs the morning before—we were off, around 9:30.

The chilly day started the way you don’t want a chilly day to start: a long downhill, which ended when we cut right to join a bike path populated otherwise by dog-walkers.

The weather warmed up some, the sun shone much of the time, but a steady 8-10mph headwind cooled us as much as it slowed us. We were grateful for a dozen easy miles to Kelso, which had the last gas station—for water, nuts, and bathrooms—for a while. The bike lane in Kelso was nothing other than a sidewalk, which we rode for a couple of miles, dodging men on riding lawnmowers and feeling six years old again.

There is a moment every day—in this pre-callused phase of the tour—when it’s none too comfortable to touch one’s butt to one’s saddle. That moment comes a little earlier every day. That’s where chamois cream comes in, a bum-lotion specially designed to reduce chafing….We’re not sure how much it helps, but we know it might help, and knowing it might help really helps. That said, chamois cream creates a moderately disconcerting sensation—think riding around in a diaper full of margarine.

Other aches and pains we never imagined: the numbness in hands, wrists and arms; the stiffness of the neck and shoulders; the runny nose and watery eyes from inhaling god knows how much roadside pollen. All this, including the above exquisitely described monkey butt, combines with the general weariness of the legs and sense of caloric deficit when peering down the road at the next big hill, spiraling up and over some forested ridgetop maybe 40 or 50 miles into a 70-mile day. Those hills always look, in the distance, like asphalt walls. We pretend to be undaunted, and pedal on.

Today, at least, the climbs were well-graded, 5 or 6%, and the highway shoulders wide and mostly smooth, especially once we were rolling along the mighty Columbia River, at first on the Washington side, then after a 30-minute ferry ride, on the Oregon side. Except for Kelso, very rural: small towns, long stretches of road with no services and little habitation, lots of logging trucks, and a few districts of elegant homes perched high above the river.

This was more or less the route taken 213 years ago by the Lewis and Clark expedition, who ended their westward journey with a miserably cold and rainy winter at Fort Clatsop, just south of here. We, on the other hand, got out of Washington without being rained on at all.

As we neared Astoria, still riding into that persistent headwind, signs of modern civilization increased along with the maritime haze signaling one of the world’s great land-sea convergences at the mouth of the Columbia River, spanned by a big bridge said to be very scary for bicyclists, so thank Wahkiakum County for the ferry, the last one to be still operating on this river.

Here in Astoria, where we sit enjoying the amazing view at Buoy Beer Co., the Columbia is as wide as a large lake, wind-whipped, lined with freighters and tankers bound upriver for Portland, and surrounded by hills which, alas, day after tomorrow, we will be climbing to get out of here and head down the Oregon coast.

Day 6 totals: 70 miles, 3596′ climbed, and–for the third time in six days– a riding time of 6:14.

Tomorrow is Day 7, and on the seventh day we rest.

Day 5, the longest day yet (and the late spring days are looong this far north) began as we packed up the camping gear and took leave of our lovely hosts at Elma RV. After a quick BK breakfast we rode south along the Chehalis River through an increasingly agrarian landscape: stacks of hay bales wrapped in white plastic, barns and silos, a guy discing his field who waved at us, and grange halls plastered with announcements of Saturday pancake breakfasts.

There’s a dark side, though: Ashley noticed as many vodka bottles discarded along the shoulder as cows and horses in the pastures. And, of course, the occasional sign “FBI=DNC” or “TRUMP-PENCE” — this is, after all, a very conservative state and in many ways, as we ride past overgrown homesteads, abandoned doublewides, piles of junked cars, and long-shuttered and decaying corner stores, very midwestern.

After spending two peaceful miles trying to decide when we’d last encountered a vegetable, we pulled into a Chehalis Indian reservation gas station for a little corrective:

Coming into Centralia felt a little like leaving Kansas and entering Des Moines. We were suddenly negotiating traffic off I-5 and our first logging trucks, mixed with city traffic and commercial sprawl. Safeway proved a good bet for lunch and resupply, after which our Adventure Cycling Pacific Coast route cleverly directed us on side streets, right smack across the local community college campus, back to the rural roads we’ve come to love. Then, a right turn and a 15% grade; we fell out of love with the road fast. No more flat and rolling river roads for a while, but ones with “hill” and “grade” in their names. This paid off, however, when we finally leveled out on a logged-off ridge and caught a glimpse of the snow-streaked slopes of Mt. St. Helens, 35 miles to the north and 38 years after its eruption, the most destructive in US history.

Down off the ridge and we were treated to a lovely flat ride along the Cowlitz River, where pioneers came into southwestern Washington from the Oregon Trail 175 years ago.

The story goes that, back then, the California and Oregon trails diverged near Ft. Hall in present-day Wyoming. The Oregon Trail branch was marked with a sign saying “TO OREGON.” The California branch was indicated by a pile of fool’s gold. Everyone who could read, they say, went to Oregon.

A few surprise hills, but nothing too daunting, and now we’re checked into one of the few motels in Castle Rock, and sitting in Parker’s brewpub eating dinner and watching MLB. Life is good. Tomorrow we head due west to Oregon.

Day 5 stats: 79.2 miles, 2138′ of climbing, average speed 13 mph.

A couple of bike tourists could be easily fooled into moving to the Pacific Northwest based on today’s weather: cloudless and warm, spring foliage in full bloom, and in the distance, 14,400-foot Mt. Rainier looming over all, in very rare full view.

After a wild night of IPA and deep-fried fresh seafood at historic and very social Toby’s Tavern in Coupeville, and a good night’s sleep with the windows opened wide, we geared up, checked out, and rolled across Whidbey Island to the ferry terminal to wait 75 minutes for the 10:15 to Port Townsend, a 30-minute crossing of Puget Sound.

Fueled by Gatorade and a couple of sandwiches picked up on the cheap in a super-local market, we pedaled along the mostly packed gravel Larry Scott Memorial Trail, a gorgeous ride through the woods–which only occasionally left us wishing for full suspension–far from Memorial Day weekend traffic. Good thing we saved half our sandwiches: after a long downhill around mile 20 we realized we’d blown by the last gas station for another 20 miles, and had no chance of further grub. We could climb the hill again, but…. We finished our sandwiches and held out for gas station potatoes at mile 40. They were sublime.

Any portapotty in a storm …

Mile 40 came crossing the Hood Canal and following its east bank south across rolling woodlands into busy Silverdale and Bremerton, and as the long hot (!) Northwestern afternoon turned into a beautiful evening, we rolled into Belfair and the only motel in town, a $63 room with somebody else’s hair all over the shower wall.

Day 3 totals: 74 miles, 3800 feet of climbing. Every road is a new road; every beer is a new beer; every portapotty is a new portapotty. La dolce vita.

Wednesday morning we packed the rental van with our bikes & bags, and bid adieu to home and (one of us more philosophically than the other) cats. North across Lassen, Modoc, and Siskiyou counties, a quick lunch at Klamath Basin brewery (where we decided we could fit a tin tacker and pint glass in the box we’re mailing home from Bellingham), and seven hours later we arrived in Bend, Oregon.

There we were swept up by the whirlwind hospitality of Todd and Cindy, who took us on a pub crawl through Deschutes (where we decided we could fit a second pint glass in the box) and 10 Barrel (where we decided we could fit a third pint glass in the box) brewpubs. Lots of talk, lots of fun, late to bed.

Another eight hours’ drive, over Mt. Hood, across the Columbia River and up through Seattle–where we crept slowly along the accident-plagued metropolitan traffic at rush hour.

Arrived at rental returns at the Bellingham airport, where friend Joseph, the wizard of East 542, renaissance man and most generous host, collected us, bikes, and bags. Got a late dinner at Boundary Bay brewing (where we decided we could fit a fourth pint glass in our box).

Drove thirty miles to Joseph and Dara’s beautiful cabin in Glacier, in the shadow of Mount Baker. Another late night, but reveling in good company and very ready to get this southward show on the road.

Spoiler: all four pint glasses didn’t fit in the box. So we threw out the clothes we were going to mail home–cheers!

The countdown continues as we complete last-minute prep like loading maps on devices, wrapping new handlebar tape, and color-coordinating our riding outfits. Nervously we watch weather forecasts for the Puget Sound area. And, as always, each of us spends an hour or two most days pedaling the stationary bike through various virtual landscapes, some of which resemble, in weird science-fictiony ways, the actual 3-D Pacific Coast. And some of which do not.