It's January, it's 2016, and I live in Portland, OR now.
In June of this year, I and two of my Appalachian Trail cohorts are planning a southbound thru-hike of the Pacific Crest Trail. What with the impending climate disasters and all, maybe better to hike now, work later. Yes? Yes.
I've been reading some former PCT hikers' blogs in preparation, and it's gotten me inspired. But more on that as the day dawns.
In 2015, as 98% of you know, I biked from Portland, ME to Portland, OR with my life and adventure partner, best known as Stringbean.
A Summary:
COWS. 100% of America, 100% of the time. Either it's corn and soy for cowfood or it's fields for grazing. We're both vegan now, motivated in large part by our disgust at the growing bovine occupation. And I'll just encourage you and encourage you to get on that boat. It is a true, real, actual problem.
The _____'s:
The Coldest: Kancamagus Pass in New Hampshire, where we biked down our first mountain into a screaming, rocking wind wearing everything we had, taking frequent breaks to jump up and down.
The Scariest: Biking on the interstate along the Columbia River Gorge. There are points when the shoulder is about a foot wide. Never will again. Also, all of Ontario.
The Prettiest: Lolo Pass on the Montana/Idaho border. Lolo Forest and the night camping by the hot spring will live long in the annals of Toast & Stringbean nostalgia. Second place is a tie between North Dakota Badlands and Manitoulin Islands.
The Buggiest: Algonquin Park in Canada, which doubles as Least Fullfilling Moosewatching Location.
The Headiest: Our side-trip with fellow Appalachian Trail '14 alum Maxheap to see The Grateful Dead in Santa Clara.
The Sandiest: Sand dunes on the Oregon Coast, friends! Have you ever run down a sand dune? No? Tie up your running shoes, then! And then take them back off because you'd never get the sand out. That would be a waste of shoes.
Our Best Anecdote:
In Canada, after some frustrating and circuitous biking on horrible roads, we stayed with a Dutch couple (Fred and Carolyn) that owned a bike shop in Huntsville. They gave us great advice and helped us plan a reroute, then told us the story of the last group of cyclists they'd helped. According to the couple, we were looking pretty professional compared to this crew. The three offending Ottawans were using plastic buckets as panniers, carrying cast-iron cookware, and (unsurprisingly) sustaining injuries due to their overweight loads. Their beater bikes were used past the point of reason. After a recent rain, which had filled their buckets and soaked their gear, the group was about ready to call it quits. The nice couple helped tune up the bikes, gave their worn-down guests food and showers, and after two nights, the Ottawans decided to continue (to Fred's surprise). It made us feel better about ourselves, it's true.
A few nights later, we stayed with another great couple at the base of the Bruce Peninsula who helped us a lot, and told the story to them. We enjoyed wondering how the Ottawans were cooking with the cast-iron, since it would take so long to heat.
We continued up the Peninsula and onto Manitoulin Island, which was a major highlight. That night, we had arranged to stay at a communal permaculture farm. We arrived to a motley crew of under-30's, many of whom were cyclists themselves. While sitting on the decomposing couches, I got into a conversation with one of the residents. Although I cannot remember it verbatim, I will do my best to reproduce it in essence.
Her: I love it here. It's so simple. I've never really been around nature before.
Me: Where do you live?
Her: Me and (boyfriend) have a tent over there. It's really nice; we found this beeeeeautiful mattress that someone had thrown out. It covers the whole floor.
Me: Oh, cool. But I meant, like, where are you from?
Her: I grew up in this kind of big small town called Ottawa.
Me: Oh.
Her: Actually, I biked here, too!
(Stringbean and Toast exchange looks of dawning comprehension)
Me: Did you? What road did you take?
Her: 60!
Me: Did you stay in Huntsville?
Her: Yeah! We stayed with this weird Dutch couple -
(her boyfriend pipes in with a dead-on Fred impression)
Me: Wow.
Later, as we were rounding up the escaped turkeys, Connor and I relished our good luck in stifled whispers. We even saw their cast-iron cookware hanging in the outdoor communal kitchen area.
_______________________
I don't intend to bike tour in the United States again and I wouldn't recommend it to most people. Ultimately, the constant underlying threat to your life ruins the magic of the road. You can die on the Appalachian Trail, and people have, but it is very uncommon. You don't feel the weight of it. But bike touring, every time a semi swings too close or a redneck guns their engine in your face, you feel that threat. And it happens often.
Also, as stated, the homogeneity of the landscape from New York to South Dakota is, frankly, torturous. Amber waves of grain my ass. In a lot of ways, the trip really started after we crossed the Continental Divide, and I'm not sure we'll permanently cross it east-bound again.
That said, the highs of the trip made up for all the lows and then some, and I got two uninterrupted months of hang-out time with my best bud. It was hands-down worth it.
Looking forward to the PCT.
In June of this year, I and two of my Appalachian Trail cohorts are planning a southbound thru-hike of the Pacific Crest Trail. What with the impending climate disasters and all, maybe better to hike now, work later. Yes? Yes.
I've been reading some former PCT hikers' blogs in preparation, and it's gotten me inspired. But more on that as the day dawns.
In 2015, as 98% of you know, I biked from Portland, ME to Portland, OR with my life and adventure partner, best known as Stringbean.
A Summary:
COWS. 100% of America, 100% of the time. Either it's corn and soy for cowfood or it's fields for grazing. We're both vegan now, motivated in large part by our disgust at the growing bovine occupation. And I'll just encourage you and encourage you to get on that boat. It is a true, real, actual problem.
The _____'s:
The Coldest: Kancamagus Pass in New Hampshire, where we biked down our first mountain into a screaming, rocking wind wearing everything we had, taking frequent breaks to jump up and down.
The Scariest: Biking on the interstate along the Columbia River Gorge. There are points when the shoulder is about a foot wide. Never will again. Also, all of Ontario.
The Prettiest: Lolo Pass on the Montana/Idaho border. Lolo Forest and the night camping by the hot spring will live long in the annals of Toast & Stringbean nostalgia. Second place is a tie between North Dakota Badlands and Manitoulin Islands.
The Buggiest: Algonquin Park in Canada, which doubles as Least Fullfilling Moosewatching Location.
The Headiest: Our side-trip with fellow Appalachian Trail '14 alum Maxheap to see The Grateful Dead in Santa Clara.
The Sandiest: Sand dunes on the Oregon Coast, friends! Have you ever run down a sand dune? No? Tie up your running shoes, then! And then take them back off because you'd never get the sand out. That would be a waste of shoes.
Our Best Anecdote:
In Canada, after some frustrating and circuitous biking on horrible roads, we stayed with a Dutch couple (Fred and Carolyn) that owned a bike shop in Huntsville. They gave us great advice and helped us plan a reroute, then told us the story of the last group of cyclists they'd helped. According to the couple, we were looking pretty professional compared to this crew. The three offending Ottawans were using plastic buckets as panniers, carrying cast-iron cookware, and (unsurprisingly) sustaining injuries due to their overweight loads. Their beater bikes were used past the point of reason. After a recent rain, which had filled their buckets and soaked their gear, the group was about ready to call it quits. The nice couple helped tune up the bikes, gave their worn-down guests food and showers, and after two nights, the Ottawans decided to continue (to Fred's surprise). It made us feel better about ourselves, it's true.
A few nights later, we stayed with another great couple at the base of the Bruce Peninsula who helped us a lot, and told the story to them. We enjoyed wondering how the Ottawans were cooking with the cast-iron, since it would take so long to heat.
We continued up the Peninsula and onto Manitoulin Island, which was a major highlight. That night, we had arranged to stay at a communal permaculture farm. We arrived to a motley crew of under-30's, many of whom were cyclists themselves. While sitting on the decomposing couches, I got into a conversation with one of the residents. Although I cannot remember it verbatim, I will do my best to reproduce it in essence.
Her: I love it here. It's so simple. I've never really been around nature before.
Me: Where do you live?
Her: Me and (boyfriend) have a tent over there. It's really nice; we found this beeeeeautiful mattress that someone had thrown out. It covers the whole floor.
Me: Oh, cool. But I meant, like, where are you from?
Her: I grew up in this kind of big small town called Ottawa.
Me: Oh.
Her: Actually, I biked here, too!
(Stringbean and Toast exchange looks of dawning comprehension)
Me: Did you? What road did you take?
Her: 60!
Me: Did you stay in Huntsville?
Her: Yeah! We stayed with this weird Dutch couple -
(her boyfriend pipes in with a dead-on Fred impression)
Me: Wow.
Later, as we were rounding up the escaped turkeys, Connor and I relished our good luck in stifled whispers. We even saw their cast-iron cookware hanging in the outdoor communal kitchen area.
_______________________
I don't intend to bike tour in the United States again and I wouldn't recommend it to most people. Ultimately, the constant underlying threat to your life ruins the magic of the road. You can die on the Appalachian Trail, and people have, but it is very uncommon. You don't feel the weight of it. But bike touring, every time a semi swings too close or a redneck guns their engine in your face, you feel that threat. And it happens often.
Also, as stated, the homogeneity of the landscape from New York to South Dakota is, frankly, torturous. Amber waves of grain my ass. In a lot of ways, the trip really started after we crossed the Continental Divide, and I'm not sure we'll permanently cross it east-bound again.
That said, the highs of the trip made up for all the lows and then some, and I got two uninterrupted months of hang-out time with my best bud. It was hands-down worth it.
Looking forward to the PCT.
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