pedadidact

2010 February 16
Sequim Bay State Park > Port Angeles
Distance biked: 25 miles

Apprehensions of beasts danced voraciously through my dreams when a sudden crashing noise arrested my brittle slumber. Jarred and dazed, I groped in the darkness for a knife, and then the flashlight. One-hundred and eighty lumens cut the darkness to reveal a sizable opponent. A certain raccoon of the baser sort had climbed the table and discovered my food canister. This he threw to the earth, like a great nut, hoping to crack the shell and steal the innards. "Yaw!" I shouted at the masked varmint. He scurried off instantly. Remind me to write Bear Vault, "Thank you. Your BV450 stood the test."





After pulling camp, I met Chuck, a southern California native and trucker who knew the area as well as anyone. A year ago he moved up to Sequim with his wife and two pit-bulls, with no regrets. If at all possible, he told me, visit Quinalt.



I also met Adam and Tina, jocular individuals who, I think, were half-buzzed at 11:00 AM. Despite his crass mouth, Adam was kind and generously offered me marijuana and Keystone Light. I passed the first and accepted the second as a token of goodwill for the journey. Before leaving Sequim I decided to sink-bath. Good choice. Dr. Bronner's minty freshness perked up the mood for the long ride out.



I should mention here that during morning prayer I asked God to provide some feathers to send to a friend who collects them. I thanked Him in advance and just one hour later came upon an owl so fresh that it looked alive. It must have been hit by a car, just for me? I snipped a few large wing feather but forgot to photograph them. Thank you, Lord.

Coming into town, I made a stop at Hurricane Coffee to update the blog. They had the most delicious chocolates, eight for $2, and all sorts of flavors. My favorites were peanut butter, raspberry, and mint. I also checked a forum and found that an article of mine had received a favorable reaction.



Because of all these hangups, I didn't really get riding until the sun was nearly down. Even then, I stopped again at a natural food store to buy produce and mingle with some other cyclists. They were very, very outfitted with the latest touring gadgetry and must have thought I was a total greenhorn. I can't argue; I am.



Those who know me well understand that I am a very social person, though inclined to periods of isolation. ENFJ is my "type" according to analysts. All this time alone was beginning to create a social vacuum in my life. My digital voice recorder, brought for journaling, now began filling the role of a bosom friend to whom I could reveal all. My pocket weather radio also filled the active place of friendship, informing me of the latest Canadian news. A song by the oxymoronic Small Sins, spoke empathetically,

I will leave on holiday,
Find a place where I can stay,
Far away from everyday,
I will go away on holiday.

Rather than becoming more rural after Sequim, the landscape was developing into a regular suburbia. This would not make stealth camping easy. In fact, Wal-mart now loomed on the horizon, the sure sign of Americanopolis spreading its industrial tentacles over my anachronistic hopes of desolate western wilderness. One must work with what he has. I entered Big Dubya and purchased chili, nylon webbing, and an enamel mug.



Now it was nine o'clock and still no clear site to bed down. Anywhere would have been fine, apart from all my gear. Its hard to conceal a trailer. So I rode on, and on. Then suddenly, over a hill, was Port Angeles! What I had naively expected to a be a tiny town was in fact the throbbing northern hub of Washington peninsula life, and, at this hour, rather seedy life at that. Tattoo shops, whiskey parlors, strange women and husky fellows fringing shadowy alleys. This was not where I wanted to be with all my gear at late hours.



Near Safe Way grocery on Lincoln, I punched a curb with my trailer, flipping it clean over, like a toppled tortoise. Praise God, it still worked once righted. Two rather dodgy-looking Hispanic fellows standing nearby approached me. I took initiative and asked them how to reach Hurricane Ridge, where my guidebook said Heart o' the Hills camp is. I also offered the shorter one, Jonathan, as he named himself, the Keystone Light. He gladly took it and returned the favor by running to a bus stop and checking a map for directions. He and his brother, Michael, then pressured me to accept a gift of charity. "We'd like to buy you something, in honor of your journey." They didn't appear to have much, themselves. I capitulated, and they purchased me a bag of rice! The three of us talked for a while; I found them to be very fine, helpful young men. Before going, I had the pleasure of explaining the gospel to them and encouraged both to begin attending church.



Now I that I had directions and a goal, I was much more relaxed. Up the steep grade of Race street I rode, cheerfully anticipating the National Parks camp at the top. Instead I found a flashing sign, "ROAD CLOSED. LANDSLIDE." Wonderful. Faced with the proposition of going back into the city, I instead took my chances bunking in the shadows behind First Christian Church - a rather pretentious name, since I highly doubt the accuracy of it. At least I could hope for compassion if discovered by a church worker. "Lend to him that has not," right? Nevertheless, my first night of homelessness was uneasy and I went to sleep in a cross-legged position against the wall of a bungalow.

"Goodnight, Lord. Please protect me, and all the other people out on the streets tonight."