In July 2020 I pedaled 350 miles around the Puget Sound. I rode to See the Salish Sea by Saddle.
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Showing posts with label #olivemybike. Show all posts
Showing posts with label #olivemybike. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 29, 2020
Monday, July 29, 2019
Just across the Sound
Have I mentioned how much I love my bike? And bike camping? And getting away by ferry? Another S24O to what's becoming routine. I hoped to make the 6:30 pm ferry after a day of meetings and appointments. I left the house in time, but when running through the option of paying the ferry with my Orca card, I realized I left my wallet in the bowl by the door. I turned around at the light on Yesler, waving again to the same group of boys at the park I saw just moments ago.
I arrived to the ferry terminal just as that 6:30 boat was pulling away. Never mind--it was sunny and I hauled myself up on a concrete barrier like a harbor seal, soaking it up. I chatted on the phone with a dear adventure friend, and felt inspired. Late city workers rolled into the lane and we all boarded the 7:30 with following the call, "BIIIICYCLES!"
I never tire of seeing the city from the water, or the spy hopping of Mt. Rainier. I am in awe of this all. Just miles from my home. On the boat I chatted with three women, also who were going bike camping, and one recognized me from the Gigantic Bicycle Festival last September. Another woman she was with was totally new to bike camping, and the other I would learn later in the evening while brushing our teeth in the bathroom of the state park, had been a cyclist whose talk I attended in March at the Stoked Spoke event. It seems I was meant to miss that 6:30 ferry.
I pitched my tent at dusk and was invited to gather with these women and their friends, who would be hanging and camping, and also leaving early to get to work in the morning. The stars exploded with light, and while lying in the sand, I tracked satellites. I delighted in the Sound, the sizzle of the surf, and the strong waves that crashed beside us as the tide rolled in.
In the morning light, I saw the others roll away early. I heard the chatter of the osprey and squawk of the bald eagles. I soaked up the sun, the shade, and the solitude reading beneath the faded driftwood leanto. It's all breathtaking.
I arrived to the ferry terminal just as that 6:30 boat was pulling away. Never mind--it was sunny and I hauled myself up on a concrete barrier like a harbor seal, soaking it up. I chatted on the phone with a dear adventure friend, and felt inspired. Late city workers rolled into the lane and we all boarded the 7:30 with following the call, "BIIIICYCLES!"
I pitched my tent at dusk and was invited to gather with these women and their friends, who would be hanging and camping, and also leaving early to get to work in the morning. The stars exploded with light, and while lying in the sand, I tracked satellites. I delighted in the Sound, the sizzle of the surf, and the strong waves that crashed beside us as the tide rolled in.
 |
| three times a charm... orange you glad I stopped at the bakery? |
Monday, September 24, 2018
We are now here.
You never know until you go.
I left my house on a whim at about 4 pm to catch the 4:45 Ferry across the Salish Sea. Flying downhill in the bike lane on Jackson, I could see the Sound in front of me. It was dark ahead but as I turned back, not only did I see my reflection in the ferry window, I saw my city aglow in the late daylight that pierced the clouds. That beautiful magic light always enchants me.
On the other side, the pavement was dry under my wheels, as I biked the trails and forested roads of Bainbridge Island. Early fallen samara from big leaved maple trees and some cedar speckled the shoulder.
By the time I arrived at Fay Bainbridge Park, less than an hour ride from my house, the skies had opened up. Maybe I missed the mark and misjudged the weather. I set up the tent in the rain; a deluge I haven't seen in awhile. I was drenched, but chuckling as I admired the speed at which I pitched and hoped it was a water tight as it looked. I rolled the bike up to the shelter nearby to cook dinner, tucking the stove behind the fireplace to get out of the wind.
By the time I finished dinner the rain had slowed and then stopped, rather unexpectedly. Before dark, I explored the rest of the park, the boardwalk access to the beach, and the pay station. I also noticed another shelter with a smoking chimney. I rolled the bike under cover, added another log, hung my gloves and jacket on the mantle, and fired up the stove for hot chocolate. Here I was. I sat reading by the heat and light of the serendipitous night until my eyes fell heavy and I crawled into the dry tent.
The full moon danced in and out of the clouds. Clouds dumped a few strong storms between 10 and 1 am. The rain thwaps on the tent drowned the sound of the surf and stirred me awake once. Yet, the same cloud cover kept the evening warm enough that when I went to the bathroom at 4 am I needed not my jacket, nor my socks.
When I woke again at first light, it was to sunlight, and strong sunshine. The light filtered through the blue tent wall so as to soften the pages of my heavy book. I devoured a hearty helping of pages before breakfast until I finished it.
When the tide is out the table is set. This Coast Salish expression refers to the bounty of the tide flats. Oysters, clams, and more. I spooned oatmeal down and took my tea for a walk, along smooth stones, some slick with green seaweed. Eel grass pulled in the direction of the tide. My flip flops flapped, keeping my toes from the sand. I walked the shore with my eyes on the birds. When the tide is out, the table is set for us all. The long neck and long legs of the heron reflected in the still water between rippled sand. She speared a small fish and wiggled it down. Gulls dropped shellfish from above hoping the help from physics pops them open. I couldn't pry my eyes off an Osprey, deftly diving into the sound. The eagle gave chase and I followed the Baldie back to his perch in the tree above me.
This is indeed was a feast. I was in my happy place, merely being outdoors. I was sensing the weather; watching the winged world, the shift in the tides, and the leaves as they tumbled in the breeze. I also was reading, curled into a comfortable nook on a driftwood log. I marked a line from Leath Toninos essay in the current issue of Orion magazine that I curled in my hands, "...but nowhere is the middle of nowhere. Everywhere in the middle of somewhere. Nature has no edges. That center is relentlessly here..." It reminded me that the word nowhere can also be read as now here.
Here I am. Sun warmed my cheeks as I smiled. I'm glad I came. Here I am.
As I looked up from the page I saw a seal, bobbing its puppy like head in the waters edge. "And here you are," I said with a smirk before he sank away. When I turned back to the page, I heard a fellow beach goer yell, "Whale!" and looked up in time to see her point. It was impossible to miss the dark dorsal fin that rose from the water. Then with the smaller dorsal fin close behind. I was on my feet with a roar of excitement, my hands in the air in with the triumph of being alive and here to witness. I fancied myself as loud as the Seahawks fans I heard when I got off the ferry and rode past the stadium.
Here they are! Again and again the Orcas rolled, dove down, and up again. They were close enough I heard the hiss of the blowhole. Their audible sigh called me awake, and to the edge, much like a shofar blast I missed last week during the holidays. The next thing I knew, I ran down the beach, leaping driftwood beaming, mud kicking up on my calves from my flip flops till I stood, shin deep, in the sound with them. We are in this together.
We are here now.
Orcas are icons of our place. Yet, especially this year, and especially for the local J pod, Orcas remind us of where we've missed the mark. Tahlequah is the mother who carried her deceased baby orca around the Salish Sea for 17 days in a historically unprecedented and incredibly moving ritual of grief. When the baby would fall her mother would nose dive and reach down to bring her dead calf’s body back to the surface. Another calf in her pod, Scarlet, has died from starvation.
I thought of those two dead Orcas as two, and now a third, surfaced in front of me again. Those in view, so close to my city, gave me hope. They invite me to smile, dance, and delight in being present. They ask me to think where I've missed the mark, to think about what burden or grief I've been carrying around, and to consider what I need to nourish me in the year to come, and what can I let go of?
In what feels like the middle of nowhere, they remind me to be here now.
*from http://www.endangered.org/memorial-for-tahlequahs-baby-and-j50-first-we-mourn-then-we-organize/
* more: https://www.seattletimes.com/seattle-news/environment/orca-j50-declared-dead-after-search-southern-residents-down-to-74-whales/
I left my house on a whim at about 4 pm to catch the 4:45 Ferry across the Salish Sea. Flying downhill in the bike lane on Jackson, I could see the Sound in front of me. It was dark ahead but as I turned back, not only did I see my reflection in the ferry window, I saw my city aglow in the late daylight that pierced the clouds. That beautiful magic light always enchants me.
On the other side, the pavement was dry under my wheels, as I biked the trails and forested roads of Bainbridge Island. Early fallen samara from big leaved maple trees and some cedar speckled the shoulder.
By the time I arrived at Fay Bainbridge Park, less than an hour ride from my house, the skies had opened up. Maybe I missed the mark and misjudged the weather. I set up the tent in the rain; a deluge I haven't seen in awhile. I was drenched, but chuckling as I admired the speed at which I pitched and hoped it was a water tight as it looked. I rolled the bike up to the shelter nearby to cook dinner, tucking the stove behind the fireplace to get out of the wind.
By the time I finished dinner the rain had slowed and then stopped, rather unexpectedly. Before dark, I explored the rest of the park, the boardwalk access to the beach, and the pay station. I also noticed another shelter with a smoking chimney. I rolled the bike under cover, added another log, hung my gloves and jacket on the mantle, and fired up the stove for hot chocolate. Here I was. I sat reading by the heat and light of the serendipitous night until my eyes fell heavy and I crawled into the dry tent.
The full moon danced in and out of the clouds. Clouds dumped a few strong storms between 10 and 1 am. The rain thwaps on the tent drowned the sound of the surf and stirred me awake once. Yet, the same cloud cover kept the evening warm enough that when I went to the bathroom at 4 am I needed not my jacket, nor my socks.
When I woke again at first light, it was to sunlight, and strong sunshine. The light filtered through the blue tent wall so as to soften the pages of my heavy book. I devoured a hearty helping of pages before breakfast until I finished it.
When the tide is out the table is set. This Coast Salish expression refers to the bounty of the tide flats. Oysters, clams, and more. I spooned oatmeal down and took my tea for a walk, along smooth stones, some slick with green seaweed. Eel grass pulled in the direction of the tide. My flip flops flapped, keeping my toes from the sand. I walked the shore with my eyes on the birds. When the tide is out, the table is set for us all. The long neck and long legs of the heron reflected in the still water between rippled sand. She speared a small fish and wiggled it down. Gulls dropped shellfish from above hoping the help from physics pops them open. I couldn't pry my eyes off an Osprey, deftly diving into the sound. The eagle gave chase and I followed the Baldie back to his perch in the tree above me.
This is indeed was a feast. I was in my happy place, merely being outdoors. I was sensing the weather; watching the winged world, the shift in the tides, and the leaves as they tumbled in the breeze. I also was reading, curled into a comfortable nook on a driftwood log. I marked a line from Leath Toninos essay in the current issue of Orion magazine that I curled in my hands, "...but nowhere is the middle of nowhere. Everywhere in the middle of somewhere. Nature has no edges. That center is relentlessly here..." It reminded me that the word nowhere can also be read as now here.
Here I am. Sun warmed my cheeks as I smiled. I'm glad I came. Here I am.
As I looked up from the page I saw a seal, bobbing its puppy like head in the waters edge. "And here you are," I said with a smirk before he sank away. When I turned back to the page, I heard a fellow beach goer yell, "Whale!" and looked up in time to see her point. It was impossible to miss the dark dorsal fin that rose from the water. Then with the smaller dorsal fin close behind. I was on my feet with a roar of excitement, my hands in the air in with the triumph of being alive and here to witness. I fancied myself as loud as the Seahawks fans I heard when I got off the ferry and rode past the stadium.
Here they are! Again and again the Orcas rolled, dove down, and up again. They were close enough I heard the hiss of the blowhole. Their audible sigh called me awake, and to the edge, much like a shofar blast I missed last week during the holidays. The next thing I knew, I ran down the beach, leaping driftwood beaming, mud kicking up on my calves from my flip flops till I stood, shin deep, in the sound with them. We are in this together.
We are here now.
Orcas are icons of our place. Yet, especially this year, and especially for the local J pod, Orcas remind us of where we've missed the mark. Tahlequah is the mother who carried her deceased baby orca around the Salish Sea for 17 days in a historically unprecedented and incredibly moving ritual of grief. When the baby would fall her mother would nose dive and reach down to bring her dead calf’s body back to the surface. Another calf in her pod, Scarlet, has died from starvation.
I thought of those two dead Orcas as two, and now a third, surfaced in front of me again. Those in view, so close to my city, gave me hope. They invite me to smile, dance, and delight in being present. They ask me to think where I've missed the mark, to think about what burden or grief I've been carrying around, and to consider what I need to nourish me in the year to come, and what can I let go of?
In what feels like the middle of nowhere, they remind me to be here now.
*from http://www.endangered.org/memorial-for-tahlequahs-baby-and-j50-first-we-mourn-then-we-organize/
* more: https://www.seattletimes.com/seattle-news/environment/orca-j50-declared-dead-after-search-southern-residents-down-to-74-whales/
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