Wednesday, August 9th
My jetlag was receding and I’d started to wake up at a more reasonable time of 6.30. I took my time getting setup for the day, and headed down to the beach in the morning to write a little and take in the view with another cup of coffee from the park’s welcome centre which I spilt mostly on my hands and shoes. It was foggy, of course, and the first 7 or 8 miles were much the same. Busy highway until some nice hilly coastal roads took me to Yaquina Bay and the lighthouse which sat on top of it.
I’d agreed to meet Brian a little later down the road as he was a slower starter but a significantly faster rider, and I imagined our paths would overlap sooner rather than later as not long after I began cycling the pain in my right knee returned and seemed a little more acute. I did my best to ignore it, and planned to put ice on it for a long time in the evening. Until then, ibuprofen would help, and I’d try my best not to think about it.
Yaquina bay was a pretty area overlooking dunes and the Newport Bridge inland. The houses were colourful but a little windswept. The lighthouse was shut until 11, so I decided to press on, over the bridge, and continuing on the 101 the other side, picking up coffee at a place which also specialised in bait and seafood on a sad looking stretch of road which also smelt like bait and seafood.
The next 10 miles were straight along the highway, close to sea level a lot of the time, which gave plenty of opportunities to stop and access the beach or look at the sea. I stopped at Lost Creek then Seal Rock – a stretch of rocks which descended in size like prehistoric teeth.
I passed up the opportunity to stop at one of several chainsaw art enters and crossed into the small town of Waldport where I picked up a sandwich and continued on to eat it in Yachats. It was here I ran into Brian again, who was running a little behind as he’d cycled 3 miles in the wrong direction in the morning. We also bumped into Tamzin, the old guy from Indonesia who carried far too much stuff (including an entire bottle of ketchup and a kilo of peanuts), took his time, and always looked happy, if somewhat confused.
After picking up dinner supplies, and eating my sandwich too fast we climbed out of Yachats and began a 20 mile stretch of coast which was the most scenic of the trip so far. Every few miles was a vista point to pull in at and admire the view. The road narrowed and traffic was heavy, but each turn provided something new and interesting. It was the best few hours of riding so far.
Being from Oregon and having spent his honeymoon nearby, Bian knew this stretch of coast intimately, and was able to point out the highlights and the best spots to view things from. We passed the Devils Churn, a lighthouse i’ve forgotten the name of, the Sea Lion Caves. We aimed for Florence, where soon after was the Jessie Honeyman State Park, and a place to camp for the night.
On the outskirts of Florence we stopped at a large shop called Bi-Mart so Brian could pick up a specific type of dry camping food he was a fan of – Mountain House. I picked up a beef chilli mac and cheese variant – apparently well regarded as the best flavour. You boiled water, poured it in the bag and left it for a while, then you could eat it right from the bag. The shop had an extensive range of guns, and just about everything else you need to survive a night in the wild, or an apocalypse.
After such spectacular riding in the afternoon, the early evening took a bit of a dip. We emerged from the supermarket to find the sun had disappeared, the sky had returned to grey and mist, and I was looking forward to calling it a day. Florence was essentially a long stretch of gas stations, motels, and Mexican restaurants. Often I found the towns with the most elegant names were over-compensating for their entirely mundane contents. The park was still a few miles beyond.
My feelings for Florence slid further when we crossed the bridge out of town and I heard a hissing sound from the front of my bike. The tyre rapidly deflated and I changed the tube at the side of the road – a quick job if I didn’t need to remove almost everything attached to my bike in order to flip it upside down and remove the softening wheel.
I put some tape inside the tyre to cover what seemed to be a small hole created by a nugget of glass, and we covered the last two miles to the park, picking up ice for my knees and two beers on the way.
The hiker biker site was a pretty spot, nestled in some woods at the side of the park. It was busy with tourers – a mix of older retired people, some from Germany, Montreal, an English girl who had abandoned a PCT attempt and was cycling instead. Also Tamzin, and the guy from Portland who had been at the previous two campsites too. Most people were following the route by the book and we had been in sync for a few days now. Part of me enjoyed this a lot, but another part of me wished to be cutting my own path, far away from the comforts of hot showers and company.
I was too tired to be sociable and engage the conversation at the table. I put my tent up at the edge of the campsite, using a tree stump as a makeshift table to bring my freeze dried bag dinner to life, fix the punctured tube, and prepare for the night.
A retired guy next to us was keen to make conversation about things like the measurements of his tent and the width of the tyres. It was the kind of conversation I found incredibly dull and pointless, particularly when tired, but thankfully it got dark and we retreated to our tents. I ate my macaroni, spilling it on myself and my tent of unknown dimensions, and was happy to go to sleep.
Map