Pacific Coasting

After hopping off the train at Kelso we rode a short twenty miles that evening to a campground that turned out to be dead — the water undrinkable, and I didn’t bother with a shower. Still feeling low after Seattle, I slid into my tent early and slept badly. The next day would finally bring us to the coast, at the town of Astoria, a place thick with film history, having stood in for the settings of The Goonies, Free Willy, and a long list of others. Around the docks you can find whole colonies of sea lions lounging about and making their ridiculous noises, endlessly entertaining to watch. I also learned just how difficult it is to tell seals and sea lions apart — the trick, apparently, is ear holes versus ear flaps, the latter marking out the sea lion, like the fellow in my picture below. They are all pinnipeds regardless.

The salt in the cold sea air brought thoughts of home flooding back, and I had fish and chips for lunch, minus the mushy peas, unfortunately. The route pulled us slightly inland before delivering us into a beach town a mile short of that evening’s campground, so we hung around a while before settling in for the night. After a hot shower I sat in the steamy little room for a good half hour with my phone plugged in, stealing enough charge to make some calls.

We emerged from our tents the next morning and checked the map for breakfast options. Cannon Beach wasn’t far, so we rode on to eat there. It turned out to be a picture-postcard sort of town, and I had the best pastry breakfast of the trip — a bear claw and a doughnut. The town’s main draw is the great sea stacks standing offshore, and after picking our way down some steep hills to reach the beach, I took my shoes off and waded out along the sand for a closer picture.

The riding all day was magnificent, exactly as I remembered it from a previous trip down the Oregon coast — steep climbs up onto the cliffs, each one rewarded with a stunning overlook. We finished the day in Pacific City, almost a carbon copy of Cannon Beach, and watched a spectacular sunset from outside a small brewery while playing fetch with a dog. Life’s a beach.

Signs and markings at every turn make wayfinding easy in Oregon.

From Pacific City to Newport the pattern held, blessed with tailwinds and sunshine. Improbable homes perched on top of the rugged cliffs, waves crashing a hundred feet below with every swell — simply epic riding, and clear enough that you could almost convince yourself Japan was out there somewhere on the horizon.

The Oregon state parks along the coast are excellent, five dollars for a guaranteed biker’s spot and hot showers. By the time we reached Newport, hit the brewery, and made our way to the park, a heavy sea fog had rolled in, promising a cold, damp night. A man pitched next to us came over to warn us he’d be up at four for work, apologising in advance in case he woke us — which turned out to be needless worry, since some children’s disco raged on nearby until around ten, the kind where they slide about on their knees. He had been trying to get to sleep since eight. Hard lines, pal.

Oh my lordy, this Rogue Brewery Imperial XS 9% double IPA Hoporama came close to ‘topping’ my Vermont Heady. Eal described his stout in the background as the best he has ever had…

Newport Bridge

My Dad would love the fish and crab shacks every few miles. Perma-seafood-smell.

A cold morning greeted us with the fog still lingering. Looking two or three days ahead on the map, it was good to find a short forty-five-mile day into Florence — a place with some meaning for me, since that’s where I finished the TransAm. So I rode on ahead to have some time in the nice historic district. I had lunch at a small bakery, then found the cosiest coffee shop right on the river to catch up on some long-overdue blog writing. Eal found me a few hours later, by which point the caffeine had me feeling palpitations coming on. We rolled a few miles further up the road to another state park biker spot set amongst a huge circle of trees. That evening we were joined by an older guy from Maine and an Irishman who I suspect was either quite drunk or simply born bleary. Camp notices warned of a recent bear sighting, so nothing was allowed in the tents. In the middle of the night something snagged itself on my rear tent rope and gave it a tug — not bear-sized, more like a fat raccoon, but it kept me lying wide-eyed for a good hour, holding my breath, before I finally drifted off again.

Florence Flashback #1

Florence Flashback #2