pedadidact

2010 February 17
Port Angeles > Elwha Campground
Distance biked: 15 miles

My first night of urban outdoorsmanship ended in bright lights shining on my face, and male voices. What's going on? My heart began to pound. Was it police, or worse? In the parking lot to my left a car had pulled and stopped. The lights went out and from it came five people, one very tall with dreadlocks. My nerves were racing, being alone in this obscure lot. Of all places, what were people doing here? My Casio Illuminator read 1:10 AM.



Now I noticed female voices and laughter. So they probably aren't here to pillage or maim me, that's good. In fact, somehow, despite headlights being directly on my pile of goods, they hadn't even noticed me. They were probably having too much fun being normal people, not thinking that just within the raven wings of a tree would be some homeless ruffian as myself battling the suburban elements.

Now, to my total amazement, they pitched two tents, lit a stove and made camp! Apparently I wasn't the only one who viewed this lot as ideal. Eventually I fell back into a fitful sleep, still not sure who or why they were there.



At 5:30 AM my alarm went off. I quickly silenced it, gathered my things and rode downtown to Peterson's viewpoint, overlooking the harbor. From there I made breakfast and watched sunrise. Midway into my preparations, a slight sound to my right caught my attention. Just six feet away and approaching closer, a raccoon was sidling up to steal my tin of oatmeal. Startled by his proximity, I barked loudly. He didn't even flinch but drew nearer. Raccoons, especially coastal ones, have a reputation for being aggressive and opportunistic. It's me or you, I thought, drawing my hunting knife. He came closer. Just enough for a photo-op. So I changed my tactics and bated him with peanuts and raisins, which, I realize, perpetuates the problem for others. Nevertheless, I popped off a few shots of the guy.





At 9:00 AM I visited the ranger station for information about the Ridge. "Closed for six weeks," they said. Happily, they also informed me of free camping in several other locations in the Olympic National Park, including Elwha River Valley, just ten miles away. The ranger gave me the "cyclists discount" on several postcards.





Outside of the station were several cyclists. One was tall with dreadlocks, whom I recognized as the fellow in the parking lot that morning. I approached him and confessed my being in the shadows when they pulled up. We had a good laugh and it turns out they were also blocked from Heart o' the Hills, and similarly considered the church a decent refuge.


Where I slept.





During daylight Port Angeles seemed not so sinister, and was, in fact, rather quaint and lovely. Hurricane Ridge glowered prominently over the horizon with a furrowed brow of cloud, but over the city sun shone on damp rooftops and moist pavement. Even Jack N' the Box looked wonderful, so I stopped and had nutrition-less tacos, two for a dollar. Before exiting town I dropped by the Post Office to mail letters and cards.





Heading west on the 101, I noticed the going become much harder. Headwind? No, the rear axle was coming loose. Glad I noticed that! My repairs were conducted near a Shell station, whose condiments I pillaged. The clerk also sold me a single Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, my recent favorite, to be had with an upcoming stew of potatoes, onions, mushrooms, and Bear Creek vegetable soup mix.







Finally, as late afternoon approached, I came into Elwha. The Olympics stood in a crescent all around and a turquoise river billowed down the valley. I made camp in site 15. My neighbors were a Swede and a German, 23 years-old, who made dinner of bacon, barbecue sauce, onions, and pasta noodles. Together we stoked a fire and talked the night away.