2010 February 24
Elwha Campground > Port Angeles > Elwha Campground
Distance Biked: 22 miles
Weather forecasters in the Peninsula are notoriously wrong. In other lands they would be called witch doctors, but the folks of Juan de Fuca accept that theirs is an imperfect art, if not a black one. This time, however, predictions seemed on. From midnight on rain patted upon my tent fly. Repeatedly I woke and thought about riding ten miles in the downpour, as i intended later in the day to visit the Post Office. Thankfully, at 8:00 AM, just as I was riding to make breakfast, the sky changed its wet, gray coat for something fresh and blue. Without delaying, I packed my trailer and was off.
Once in Port Angeles, I connected with Pastor Elam at his home. He very kindly provided me with packing materials. Into the box went a change of clothes, winter gloves, a book, and, surprisingly, the majority of my camera gear. A fancy DSLR with high quality lenses was to be shipped home; the point and shoot would stay. This decision was mostly made on the basis of weight, but there was also the factor of liability and loss. Besides, everything I had taken so far on the trip has been captured with the point-and-shoot, and the images were going fine. Still, as a professional photographer venturing into scenic wonderlands, the choice to bring only the "little" camera was unexpected.
The previous night I had determined to pick up a hurricane lantern, the sort that burns kerosene or paraffin oil, while at Wal-Mart. Not only would an oil lamp conserve batteries and add ambiance but, more importantly, I thought it might warm up the tent a bit. Sleeping is one thing, inside a nice synthetic bag, but wtriting in 35F is a challenge and breeds idleness. Thankfully, I had sense to call and make sure the lamps were in stock. As it turns out, none were and so I was spared a ten mile round trip for nothing.
Nonetheless I still needed stove fuel; if not from Wal-mart, I would have to find it elsewhere. Pastor Elam recommended Swain's General Store. "People who play outdoors go there," he said. People who eat popcorn also go there, because Swain's has a machine by the front door and they sell big bags for 25 cents. Despite the mellow exterior, Swain's turned out to be a buzzing fantasy land of supplies: an immense selection of real-world outdoors equipment, hardware, clothing, food, and almost everything else one could want for a trip like mine. The sock aisle alone had scores of types to choose from, and that they had a whole aisle dedicated to socks is saying something. Not only did I find the fuel, but Swains carried some very fine oil lanterns. I picked out a miniature V&O hurricane lamp, ten inches tall, in forest green. I also picked up a bag of popcorn.
A block away a man named bill was running his own hot dog stand, as indicated by the hand-scrawled sign, "BILL'S HOT DOGS." Despite the exhorbitant cost and the marked inferiority of his product compared to Wisconsin brat vendors, I patronized the man for a schnitzel with sour kraut.
The afternoon was spent recharging electronics and updating blogs in Bella Rosa Coffee, a hip little nook with plush leather couches. Then on to Safe-Way for groceries, since I had my trailer with me. Amongst other things, I bothered the butcher for two slices of applewood bacon, half a dozen eggs, and one slice of cheddar.
Just as I arrived in camp, rain began to fall. Even this was short-lived and within the hour I was not only cooking scrumptious breakfast, but making a cleaning catastrophe of my non-non-stick pots. Scrambled eggs, I learned, are a match for Scotchgaurd sponges.
After sorting out my dishes, I paid a visit to Jim. He and his friend, Dave, a 71 year-old foul-mouthed blaggard in coveralls mucked with chew spit, were outside the RV shooting the breeze over a couple beers. They immediately informed me that two "pretty young things" had arrived and were even now struggling to get a fire going of the wet brush lying around their site. "Go on and help 'em," the men coaxed. "Maybe you'll get lucky with one o' them. We would try, but we're too old. They're college age. You go and have fun for us." Of course, this was communicated in much filthier terms.
Had I intended to mingle with them it wouldn't have mattered. Within fifteen minutes the girls' impulsive camping trip petered out like the coals of their hapless fire. They packed up and left, probably to go back to their dorms. All the same, the event triggered thoughts of how vulnerable I am as a twenty-five year-old male, single and unoccupied. "God protect me," I prayed, "from easy women, and the blackness of my own corrupt inclinations." How much of one's morality exists only because it has not been tested is hard to say, and not something I am keen to find out.
With oil lamp burning, and the temperature in my tent soaring to 60F - a near tropics - I lay up 'til midnight sketching ideas for a getaway hut named Geneva. Three bunks could be lofted at 8' to free up the floor and take advantage of rising heat. Each would have a brass placard baring the name of one of the three magisterial Reformers. Mounted on the center pile would be star horns, the Swiss flag slung beneath it. A wood stove and wine cellar, bookshelves, mounted weapons and a dart board, would make for a man's winter chalet, for study, respite, and fellowship. From these waking dreams I slipped into slumbering ones.
Elwha Campground > Port Angeles > Elwha Campground
Distance Biked: 22 miles
Weather forecasters in the Peninsula are notoriously wrong. In other lands they would be called witch doctors, but the folks of Juan de Fuca accept that theirs is an imperfect art, if not a black one. This time, however, predictions seemed on. From midnight on rain patted upon my tent fly. Repeatedly I woke and thought about riding ten miles in the downpour, as i intended later in the day to visit the Post Office. Thankfully, at 8:00 AM, just as I was riding to make breakfast, the sky changed its wet, gray coat for something fresh and blue. Without delaying, I packed my trailer and was off.
Once in Port Angeles, I connected with Pastor Elam at his home. He very kindly provided me with packing materials. Into the box went a change of clothes, winter gloves, a book, and, surprisingly, the majority of my camera gear. A fancy DSLR with high quality lenses was to be shipped home; the point and shoot would stay. This decision was mostly made on the basis of weight, but there was also the factor of liability and loss. Besides, everything I had taken so far on the trip has been captured with the point-and-shoot, and the images were going fine. Still, as a professional photographer venturing into scenic wonderlands, the choice to bring only the "little" camera was unexpected.
The previous night I had determined to pick up a hurricane lantern, the sort that burns kerosene or paraffin oil, while at Wal-Mart. Not only would an oil lamp conserve batteries and add ambiance but, more importantly, I thought it might warm up the tent a bit. Sleeping is one thing, inside a nice synthetic bag, but wtriting in 35F is a challenge and breeds idleness. Thankfully, I had sense to call and make sure the lamps were in stock. As it turns out, none were and so I was spared a ten mile round trip for nothing.
Nonetheless I still needed stove fuel; if not from Wal-mart, I would have to find it elsewhere. Pastor Elam recommended Swain's General Store. "People who play outdoors go there," he said. People who eat popcorn also go there, because Swain's has a machine by the front door and they sell big bags for 25 cents. Despite the mellow exterior, Swain's turned out to be a buzzing fantasy land of supplies: an immense selection of real-world outdoors equipment, hardware, clothing, food, and almost everything else one could want for a trip like mine. The sock aisle alone had scores of types to choose from, and that they had a whole aisle dedicated to socks is saying something. Not only did I find the fuel, but Swains carried some very fine oil lanterns. I picked out a miniature V&O hurricane lamp, ten inches tall, in forest green. I also picked up a bag of popcorn.
A block away a man named bill was running his own hot dog stand, as indicated by the hand-scrawled sign, "BILL'S HOT DOGS." Despite the exhorbitant cost and the marked inferiority of his product compared to Wisconsin brat vendors, I patronized the man for a schnitzel with sour kraut.
The afternoon was spent recharging electronics and updating blogs in Bella Rosa Coffee, a hip little nook with plush leather couches. Then on to Safe-Way for groceries, since I had my trailer with me. Amongst other things, I bothered the butcher for two slices of applewood bacon, half a dozen eggs, and one slice of cheddar.
Just as I arrived in camp, rain began to fall. Even this was short-lived and within the hour I was not only cooking scrumptious breakfast, but making a cleaning catastrophe of my non-non-stick pots. Scrambled eggs, I learned, are a match for Scotchgaurd sponges.
After sorting out my dishes, I paid a visit to Jim. He and his friend, Dave, a 71 year-old foul-mouthed blaggard in coveralls mucked with chew spit, were outside the RV shooting the breeze over a couple beers. They immediately informed me that two "pretty young things" had arrived and were even now struggling to get a fire going of the wet brush lying around their site. "Go on and help 'em," the men coaxed. "Maybe you'll get lucky with one o' them. We would try, but we're too old. They're college age. You go and have fun for us." Of course, this was communicated in much filthier terms.
Had I intended to mingle with them it wouldn't have mattered. Within fifteen minutes the girls' impulsive camping trip petered out like the coals of their hapless fire. They packed up and left, probably to go back to their dorms. All the same, the event triggered thoughts of how vulnerable I am as a twenty-five year-old male, single and unoccupied. "God protect me," I prayed, "from easy women, and the blackness of my own corrupt inclinations." How much of one's morality exists only because it has not been tested is hard to say, and not something I am keen to find out.
With oil lamp burning, and the temperature in my tent soaring to 60F - a near tropics - I lay up 'til midnight sketching ideas for a getaway hut named Geneva. Three bunks could be lofted at 8' to free up the floor and take advantage of rising heat. Each would have a brass placard baring the name of one of the three magisterial Reformers. Mounted on the center pile would be star horns, the Swiss flag slung beneath it. A wood stove and wine cellar, bookshelves, mounted weapons and a dart board, would make for a man's winter chalet, for study, respite, and fellowship. From these waking dreams I slipped into slumbering ones.
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