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 bicycles. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bicycles. 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.
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| 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/
Tuesday, August 21, 2018
Permit, rations, and bicycles--A prologue
If being at the ranger station 2 hours early was good for friend, Jaal insisted that being there 3 hours early was even better. We left Tacoma at 3 a.m. Jaal drove in the dark and by 4:30 I pulled my sleeping bag to the bench and front of the Rangers station for two more hours of sleep, having driven to Tacoma at 9pm, and only returned to Seattle the night before, at midnight, mind you, from a trip East.
The pre-dawn light was beautiful and at 6:30 our first fellow hiker joined us on the stone stairs. Diane was from Chicago, and had stayed the night with her mom in the Longmire Inn, walking over with her full pack, ready to go.
I noticed she had Red Fraggle strapped to her pack and asked her about it. "Family rule", she said, "Never hike alone. So I always bring a buddy." She is a pre-K teacher and this would be her second attempt at circumnavigating Rainier. Her mom would help her drive around rations, while day hiking for a few days.
When the doors opened at 7:30 on Thursday morning, we were first in line. Ranger Rachel helped us with our permit, 20 minutes of problem solving and clicking drop-down menus from a clunky 90's computer program. Finally, we had something. She smiled. Our dream plan, the one we had submitted in March, was to start at Mowich and go clockwise for 14 days. Ranger Rachel switched the trail head start, and our direction, to give us nearly all of our camp choices, and help us meet our goal: to hike around the mountain, to go slow, to enjoy The Wonderland Trail. Plus, our permit would start Friday. That gave us the whole day to mellow into things, drive our rations around, and communicate our logistics to others at home. In planning more, we headed back into the ranger station to look at the relief map and trace our route up and over bumps and blue river lines. I also noticed a night skies program for Friday night at Cougar Rock Camp where we'd be staying. Opportunities await!
We left Longmire for Carbon River. It didn't take long to start noticing the cyclists climbing up hill to Longmire. After a huge peloton, I realized today was RAMROD. 155 mile bike tour around the mountain. Closer to Eatonville, I noticed 4 women cycle -touring in our direction. I rolled down the window and cheered them on as we passed them. Then not too long after, they walked into the Eatonville bakery, where we were having second break fast. These gal friends from Texas and Georgia were on a week long tour from Spokane to Seattle. This was their fourth annual trip of the kind, traveling domestically and riding for a week together. Of course, we talked and talked about touring and warm showers, and my transition from tarmac last summer to dirt and wildflowers this summer. Being from the south, they didn't find the heat to unbearable today. The hottest part of the day was yet to come.
Cashing are food at the Carbon River Ranger station and the White River Ranger station was pretty easy. We were happy to learn this morning that park rangers would actually be driving them up to are pick up location (Sunrise, and Mowich Lake) due to limited space. We had thought would camp Thursday night at the White River campground, but by the time we had stopped in Enumclaw at Taco Time and for huckleberry ice cream at Wapato Woolies in Greenwater, all the first come first serve car camping sites were full. So we looked at the map. We found a very small campground just 0.4 miles off of the road halfway between white River and Stevens Canyon. We walked back into the Ranger station and ask for a permit, got it and headed back down the road.
As we packed up to head into our overnight camp, we caught the tail end riders for RAMROD. I cheered them on with Allez allez!, and high fives while running along side them through the car pull-out. One rider said her Garmin was reading 99 degrees Fahrenheit. I knew exactly how she felt, having been there a year ago, crossing the Canadian Rockies with the tarmac reading 42 degrees Celsius. I've been there knowing that just a little encouragement from a stranger can go a long way for motivation. I was motivated by these riders for my own dirt and wildflowers adventure.
And just like that, after months of planning, and a day of logistics, and a 15 minute hike, by quarter to five pm I was sitting along Chinook Creek resting in the shade and enjoying the nature, the stillness, and the beauty of Mount Rainier National Park. From my mossy seat, in a rock carved just for me, I really couldn't help but think it ironic that I ran into four cycling women and a plethora of RAMROD riders today of all days. As if I was being reminded to take all the lessons from the spokeandstories adventure into this one.
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| Mount Rainier National Park Longmire Wilderness Information Center |
I noticed she had Red Fraggle strapped to her pack and asked her about it. "Family rule", she said, "Never hike alone. So I always bring a buddy." She is a pre-K teacher and this would be her second attempt at circumnavigating Rainier. Her mom would help her drive around rations, while day hiking for a few days.
When the doors opened at 7:30 on Thursday morning, we were first in line. Ranger Rachel helped us with our permit, 20 minutes of problem solving and clicking drop-down menus from a clunky 90's computer program. Finally, we had something. She smiled. Our dream plan, the one we had submitted in March, was to start at Mowich and go clockwise for 14 days. Ranger Rachel switched the trail head start, and our direction, to give us nearly all of our camp choices, and help us meet our goal: to hike around the mountain, to go slow, to enjoy The Wonderland Trail. Plus, our permit would start Friday. That gave us the whole day to mellow into things, drive our rations around, and communicate our logistics to others at home. In planning more, we headed back into the ranger station to look at the relief map and trace our route up and over bumps and blue river lines. I also noticed a night skies program for Friday night at Cougar Rock Camp where we'd be staying. Opportunities await!
We left Longmire for Carbon River. It didn't take long to start noticing the cyclists climbing up hill to Longmire. After a huge peloton, I realized today was RAMROD. 155 mile bike tour around the mountain. Closer to Eatonville, I noticed 4 women cycle -touring in our direction. I rolled down the window and cheered them on as we passed them. Then not too long after, they walked into the Eatonville bakery, where we were having second break fast. These gal friends from Texas and Georgia were on a week long tour from Spokane to Seattle. This was their fourth annual trip of the kind, traveling domestically and riding for a week together. Of course, we talked and talked about touring and warm showers, and my transition from tarmac last summer to dirt and wildflowers this summer. Being from the south, they didn't find the heat to unbearable today. The hottest part of the day was yet to come.
 |
| Me and the gaggle of gals riding from Spokane to Seattle. |
 |
| The volunteer ranger at White River Ranger Station taking our cache. |
As we packed up to head into our overnight camp, we caught the tail end riders for RAMROD. I cheered them on with Allez allez!, and high fives while running along side them through the car pull-out. One rider said her Garmin was reading 99 degrees Fahrenheit. I knew exactly how she felt, having been there a year ago, crossing the Canadian Rockies with the tarmac reading 42 degrees Celsius. I've been there knowing that just a little encouragement from a stranger can go a long way for motivation. I was motivated by these riders for my own dirt and wildflowers adventure.
And just like that, after months of planning, and a day of logistics, and a 15 minute hike, by quarter to five pm I was sitting along Chinook Creek resting in the shade and enjoying the nature, the stillness, and the beauty of Mount Rainier National Park. From my mossy seat, in a rock carved just for me, I really couldn't help but think it ironic that I ran into four cycling women and a plethora of RAMROD riders today of all days. As if I was being reminded to take all the lessons from the spokeandstories adventure into this one.
 |
| Deer Creek Falls |
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