Stage 1: May 25, 2019

03:59am. I awaken to nature’s steady metronome from the ocean tides. A window open to the susurrations of the surf. Wide-eyed at this early hour I remain more connected to the rhythms of the eastern time zone than our more immediate four hour winged western migration by jet airplane. It is already morning light outside and so I arise and follow those placid ebbing surf sounds to the beach bordered from the remainder of the world by grasses and flowering shrubs. A path between them and my feet are in the sands. The gray particles stretch for a hundred yards to the ocean before me. The beach itself extends for perhaps a mile long and is strewn with graying driftwood trees, bulbous strands of seaweed, and shells pulverized by their own journey to their final resting place on this beach. To my right is Cape Flattery point rising out of the ocean floor. I stroll near the frothy surf. The moon playing its part in the endless push and pull cycle of the tides.

This morning the waters are receding - returning to their source - and revealing gifts from the sea. An abundance of sinewy cords-green and purple laced kelp, silver dollar shells with their floral patterned etchings, and jumpy small inch-long crustaceans dancing to their own tunes. Seagull feathers. I pluck one from the sands and dust it off. So delicate, weightless. And then I see a massive Golden Eagle, wings tucked, perched on a small rock not more than twenty yards forward. It turns to observe me just the same. Two beachcombers at dawn. Checkered abdomen, curved beak. I approach slowly and it lifts off briefly, more like a 747 then an F16 fighter jet. It stretches its massive wingspan and flies away only to land just a bit further along the beach. We repeat this dance a few more times. Soaring Hawk playing with a kindrid spirit. I accept the Eagle dance as a healthy sign as we begin our journey today. In some measure I believe the hawks and eagles will be observing and guiding us along our course. Perhaps even protecting for safe passage. A connectivity that I shared on my previous cross country expedition. I return to our cabins. Shower and dress into my cycling costume. Comfort elastic overall bibs with a generous chamois pad and our Norseman’s Passage team bike jersey. Everyone is stirring awake now. Peter prepares our breakfast rations of Quaker instant oatmeal. Others enjoy their hot coffee.

We pack up the van and head five miles to the end of the road at Cape Flattery point. From here we take the wooded walking trail downhill as it winds through a lush forest to reach overlook outcroppings. A narrow last stretch brings us to the spot I am searching for - the end of land. The furthest western longitudinal point in the continental US. A cliffhanger adjacent to a wooden deck. An island just off shore. Waves crashing into massive sea cave holes and over jutted rocky slabs. The energy of water. Mother Earth designing, reshaping, incessantly carving the land. A group photo at the point. A prayer to our creator in kind request for safe passage. I recite a reading from the Book of Proverbs, Chapter Four: “Keep your heart with all vigilance, for from it flow the springs of life. Let your eyes look directly forward, and your gaze be straight before you. Ponder the path of your feet; then all your ways will be sure.”

 We return to the parking area and provide final preparations to our bicycles. Four riders of different seasons in life. Sherpa and I closest in age, and close friends for a decade. Both of us just on the upper side of fifty years now; Breezer now sixty-five, retired and ready for adventure. And my son Jonah, with the full vigor of his youthful eighteen years. In transit from recent high school graduation to university studies. A bright future ahead of him. Peter, a vibrant South African septuagenarian, Safari lover and patriarch of wonderful children and grandchildren - he is our all-around support person and van driver and has signed up, voluntarily I might add, for his second tour of duty; Peter joined “Blaze Across America,” the maiden cross country venture, two summers ago. Three seasoned experienced cyclists and a naive rookie yet also ready for adventure - my son Jonah (aka ‘Spotty’). He will require tutelage from all of us and I trust Peter, Sherpa and Breezer to assist with looking after Jonah’s safety and development of his cycling skills. Perhaps even to enable a very positive rite of passage to manhood.

Wheels roll eastward. The sound of spinning returns me to my own youth ever again. The cycle of life. I am gaining an enduring appreciation for the interconnection of all things. The completeness I receive through cycling. I revel in this moment and squawk with joy towards my kin. A new adventure finally begins. Cape Loop Rd spins us towards Neah Bay, the most western town along the Strait of Juan de Fuca. The Makah Indian headquarters. Large totem carvings. Bird images. Pass the cultural center as we exit the quiet stretch. A cemetery with grave plots decorated with Native American art. Steady short climbs and bends and descents. We are hugging the coast from a precipice. Coolness mixed with episodic rainfall. Ever shifting cloud cover. The Strait to our left is known as the Whale Trail for our migrating mammal friends who are often sited along their own journey to warmer waters. We cross the Sekiu River where its mouthy effluent finally meets the ocean. Then across the Hoko River and spin through the small town of Sekiu and onward a few miles to Clallam Bay. The road bends right and inland as we begin a steady 18mile climb along Rt112 to the Sappho Junction.

Through this area lay thick forests, dotted lakes, and ugly clear cut harvested tree sections. I focus on the beauty of the blue wildflowers and yellow budded bushes reflected by the sun’s warmth. The air remains cool, a crispy refreshing taste from the mix brewed by oxygenating forests and the sea. Skies ever threateningly gray. Shifting light. I am accompanying my son for his first long and steady climb of the journey. It is like observing a child’s first steps. The struggle to maintain proper posture and balance and stamina. Encouragement offered. A bit of razzing as well. His buttocks and quads not quite ready for the more dramatic ascents that we will soon attempt to conquer along this journey but I know he is a quick learner and was born with a naturally inclined hearty dose of motivation to succeed. A self-learner and tinkerer. Jonah and I, along with my daughter Abigail and a few close friends and our dog Violet, have been hiking sections of the Appalachian Trail (AT) these past eight years or so. I recall now a well-known aphorism on the AT among thru-hikers, those who venture to hike the entire 2200mi length of the AT northbound from Georgia to Maine (southbound sojourners not withstanding) in one continuous stretch. “No Rain, No Maine.” The travails of hardship through rainy mountain passes, the mental toughness needed to overcome weather’s challenges that can sap morale through depravity of homely comforts along the trail. I turn to Jonah as he struggles physically to pedal up another steeper section and think of a slightly more appropriate version of this phrase for the moment, perhaps many more ahead on our own “thru-bike”across North America. “You know Jonah: No pain, no Maine.”

Our journey is headed to the coast of Maine in forty-one days. No pain, no Maine... Hopefully he will elevate his mind just as he does his tush off his bike seat to lessen his discomfort from time-to-time. I notice his icy blue eyes are beginning to engage nature. The calls of birds and insects and the wind. The aromas of dewy ferns and wildflowers. The tastes of ocean air and cool gusts. We push to the junction to mile45. “Well done, Spotty!” I congratulate him. Jonah earned his nickname in Capetown, South Africa one year prior. We were visiting Peter’s family and enjoying bucket list bush safaris near Kruger National Park. We entered the grand cycling event - the Cape Argus race in Capetown - and Jonah was wearing a colorful spotted jersey. Not nearly a single mile from the start and the locals lining the route kept offering him congratulatory words - “Well done, Spotty!” and I laughed and sneered at them. But we have 66 more miles to go?! Turns out it is a common British and South African slang for encouragement. Peter, Sherpa and Breezer are relaxing at the van. Jonah calls it a successful first day. He is drained and needs rest. I take in some nutrition. The three older Norsemen continue onward as we turn right on Hwy101, cross over the Sol Duc River and turn left onto Mary Clark Rd. We enter the Olympic Discovery Trail, a tremendous network of paved forested bike-walk paths in the region. Wonderful planning by those with the vision to create the opportunity to enjoy the solitude with nature on foot or bicycle.

Twenty miles later we pop out of the dreamy verdant woods in a euphoric state to see the van parked at the trailhead. No reason to stop just now. The evening is young and our hotel accommodations just ten miles down the main road. But across the road the Discovery Trail continues. Why not continue on and enjoy a bit more of the forest. We do, of course. Adrenaline-enriched excitement of day one still pulsating through us. Peter and Jonah venture off to check into the hotel, the Lake Crescent Lodge, located on the south side of the nearly twelve miles long lake. Our trail winds and we take care cornering on wet pavement covered with pine needles and slick moss. At mile66 I see a straightaway before me and begin to experience a surge of energy emanating from my legs and to my core. I relax my breathing rate and pace through the forest light. I begin to notice blue waters below a ridge line to my right.

This must be Lake Crescent. Uh oh - I realize we are on the north side of the lake instead of the south. Oh well. What’s a few extra miles added here and there to another journey of over three thousand?! I think back to my Blaze trip two years prior. The wonderful experience of serendipity. ‘Take what the road gives you.. Everything will be alright...’ It will be alright. I accelerate. Thirty mph and holding gloriously steady. Three miles in a forest tunnel. My mind I returns me to dawn at the beach. Soaring with the eagle. I am beside my son rushing downhill. Menories etching a new adventure. Glorious endless flow of radiant energy. Happiness. An interruption. ‘Kchhh-Ssssssss.’ I have struck a small rock with my front wheel and have flatted my tire’s inner tube. Stop or go on. Sherpa and Breezer are somewhere behind me now. I can ride for a bit on a flat without injuring my wheel rims. I decide to continue for a few more miles as the flow recedes. But then the paved trail section turns to gravel. Not good. Hopefully it is for just a brief section. I continue carefully but then travel becomes too dangerous as gravel becomes chunks and boulders and roots and tree splittings. I need these wheels for forty more days. I stop reluctantly. The irony is that, while immersed in nature, our delicate racing bikes require man-made pavement to take us safely on this journey. Sherpa and Breezer arrive. Sherpa demonstrates his flat fixing skills once again. I admit I am not very adept at the machinations but am learning.

Fixed up, we continue and need to portage our bikes over the terrain. No riding on these unorganized cobblestones and forest debris. If only we carried mountain bikes in our back jersey pockets for just these occasions. We continue our “bike-hike” along a trail hugging a plateau of the lake. I can see our lodge across the way now. How pleasant it would be to sip a cold drink wrapped inside an Adirondack chair along the lake beachfront. If only a “bike-swim” could be easily accomplished instead but I imagine the 300 foot deep waters are a bit frigid in this early Spring. Eventually, after a few miles of bike-hiking and passing hikers and mountain bikers enjoying their experience, the messiness of the trail gives way to civilization at a parking lot where friendly pavement allows us to continue to cycle around the northeastern tip of the lake.

The sunset igniting the farthest mountains over the wondrously serene waters. A lone kayaker making a perfectly geometric triangular wake. Lake Crescent is one of the most beautiful natural amalgamation of water and land one can be thankful to see in a lifetime. Curved around a massive cropping of granite and trees. Mountains layered behind and above the horizon. It will be our home tonight and a visual sunrise feast for tomorrow.

We arrive at the lodge nearly ninety miles into our first quite pleasant and full day. Our bikes muddied from the trail. It is after eight o’clock. Sherpa and Breezer hose off our cycles as I shower quickly and then drive with Peter about twenty minutes up the road in the van to fetch take-out dinner from Tendy’s Garden on East First St. Website declares it has been voted a “Top 100 Chinese Restaurant in the US” but no saying by which agency. We enter and order a mix of dishes to satisfy the hungry Norsemen. We race back to the lodge. Breezer is in a philosophical mood as dinner is devoured and begins to discuss pleasant life memories and meanings. His love for his now departed mother. The essential question of the meaning behind our existence. Heady thoughts for day one into our journey. I like his style nevertheless. We may have more in common than I have realized. Fortune cookies are sorted. I inform my new traveling clan how I love the wisdom of fortunes but warn them to choose their cookies wisely. They scoff. As they read they find nothing particularly special inside. Accidental duds? I open mine with an open mind and smile before reading its contents out loud: “A quiet evening with friends is the best tonic for a long day.” How about that! Indeed, it is.

As others turn in, Breezer and I relax at the main lodge. Blog time to collect our thoughts. The building is a beautiful structure, not too imposing to challenge the beauty of the lake. I sit beside the fireplace and relax and type a few notes but my eyes are heavy. Nineteen hours into the first day I must return to the room and drift to sleep. It is my wife Judy’s birthday today. We have been created and paired together to realize that love has no end. A cyclist’s dream climb awaits tomorrow. There will be no shortcuts to Maine. —————— “Soaring high, through Norselands Ocean to Land, and back again No beginning, No end”

-SH-
 (I will end each stage with what I like to call a “Bike-OO” (similar to a haiku)