Thursday, August 10th
Today, after the endless and constantly beautiful coastal scenery of yesterday, was inevitably a slight comedown. The time was spent cycling almost entirely inland, points of interest were few, and it was mostly a case of getting from A to B – the first of two days like this before the last and final day in Oregon which promises, by all accounts, to be the best.
After arriving late, eating in the dark, and sleeping in my clothes, I took the morning slower, waking up late, sharing some coffee, before leaving on my own at around 10.
Inland the road passed through the Oregon dunes recreational area. A large swathe of sand which filled a gap of 20 or 30 miles in-between the coast and the road. I stopped at a viewpoint around 8 miles after leaving the camp and a State Park attendant explained to me how the it was sculpted by both Pacific winds and people riding buggies over it. Apparently both were essential to the ecosystem of plants and trees in the area.
A long climb followed, which reached a nice view over layers of forest with the Pacific in the distance. I descended past desolate railway track and scattered telegraph poles into the town of Reedsport, not a big place but a congested one filled with some of the curious Americana that I always found fascinating – thrift stores, overgrown motel pools, and badly parked Cadillacs in colours that cars don’t come in any more.
I also took a stop at McDonald’s spending an hour or so on their wifi, drinking ice coffee and eating chicken nuggets amongst the regulars there. It seemed I was entering a part of Oregon that was struggling slightly. Motels now had names like “Economy Motel” and “Best Budget Inn”. A caravan park I cycled past had a crudely wood carved sign on the entrance: “TRUMP”. More than any sign or thought I had, this one word said it all.
I stocked up on Pop Tarts and bananas at Safeway and left. I took a slightly unnecessary detour thorough Winchester bay, climbing up to Umpqua lighthouse (some place names in Oregon looked like they had been spelt backwards by mistake) then down back to the 101 after stopping only briefly to look at the lighthouse, at a whale bone displayed at the side of the road, and, again, the sea.
Many more miles followed, busy four lane highway, trees and trucks until I reached the Conde B McCullough Memorial Bridge, aka the Coos Bay Bridge, aka the North Bend Bridge. Essentially a huge bridge over an inlet which ferried traffic into the town of North Bend. One of the big topics of conversation in the campsites was whether or not to cycle over he Bridge – it was entirely legal, just dangerous, the road carried logging trucks and RV’s and I would guess any number of impatient and angry Trump supporters.
I stopped at a veterans memorial before the bridge to drink a bottle of Ice Coffee which had since become warm and sickly and to decide how to approach the crossing. On a picnic table someone had left three small metal crosses which had ‘Jesus saves’ engraved in them.
Because I didn’t want to get crushed just to prove a point I cycled on the sidewalk, which wasn’t totally straightforward since it was both narrow and windy, but seemed safer than the road at least, and allowed me to take photos. I looked down the the water from the middle to see a boat pass many metres beneath me.
Reaching the other side alive I passed under a sign announcing the name of the town above the road and I pulled into a park area feeling a sweet mixture of adrenaline and relief. I studied the map, saw a family of deer, and the first of many homeless travellers which seemed to call this town something like home.
North Bend was not a place I wanted to stay. It was the kind of place where dogs barked at you and people looked at you funny, and sometimes the other way around too.
I snuck through the suburban edges, through the town of Empire which seemed even more down and out, then through a ominous stretch of mega stores and lots with abandoned country bars, and more angry dogs behind rusted chain-link fences.
The weather had worsened again and everything took on an ominous dull glow. I crossed a small bridge lined with seagulls, and made a final stop in Charleston where I bought a single beer and more ice for my knee. It was still painful, mostly in the morning, and I had accepted I’d just have to live with it.
My hope was that finishing the day a State Park named Sunset Bay would redeem the previous 50 miles or so. It was not to be. There was no sunset and the area of the campground reserved for cyclists had a swamp-like ambience which made finding a level, firm area of ground to pitch a tent difficult.
I ate dinner with Brian, who’d made it there a couple of hours before, and surveyed the ground for a place to put my tent. Meanwhile a swarm of termites emerged from a tree stump in the ground. On the upside the showers were fantastic.
I got in to my tent just after the sun had set and then continued the nightly routine i’d developed – looking at the book and the map and figuring out what might lay ahead tomorrow. The California border was on the horizon, and, hopefully, some sunshine would be waiting there with it.
Map