2010 March 3
Elwha Campground > Sol Duc Campground
Distance Biked: 35 miles
After several weeks outdoors, especially in northerly parts, one begins to feel keenly his need of certain things. Gloves are amongst them. When I woke at 5:30 AM, and discovered my Thinsulate gloves had used their thumbs to hitch back to who-knows-where, I knew discomfort would brew black with my coffee that morning. Wet metal tent poles, ice cold anodized stakes, tiny knots of damp nylon rope: all had to come down quickly to be out of camp on time, and all of it bit sharply at the skin. Opening the bear canister, consolidating foods, setting up the trailer, provided a hundred opportunities to pinch fingers, slap or scrape knuckles because of clumsy numbness. One might think two degrees above freezing would anesthetize his fingers from all pain but the opposite is true. Every hurtful sensation is heightened, the nerves necessary to dexterity being the only ones seized useless by the blizzen weather. These issues and others conspired so that I was fully two hours late in breaking camp.
Ice cream consoles my pain.
The initial pull uphill was very discouraging. Legs were stiff, wheels seemed to be oiled with glue. While checking tire pressure I tipped the bicycle so that it came crashing down, then rode a quarter-mile looking for the dislodged mirror. For the first time I was really not enjoying myself.
Limited shoulders around the lake.
Thankfully good sense returned quickly. I thought, Why am I in a hurry? Where do I have to be? I am here because I wanted to be here. Despite the initial rough start, the day warmed spiritually into a fine one. In a single sitting sitting, as it were, pedaling on the bicycle, I listened to the whole of an audio version of Piper's, Fifty Reasons Why Jesus Came to Die. This was good food for my spirit, and lead to an extended time of prayer for friends and family. This was while rounding Crescent Lake, one of the most scenic landscapes I had ever witnessed. The quality of light upon Pyramid Mountain cannot be duplicated in description, though perhaps some painter of the Romantic era could do something for it. Teddy Roosevelt would be proud.
[View larger] Crescent Lake
At the western end of the lake is Fairholm, which I found is neither town nor anything really. Just a "summer only" campground. No signs of other camps were visible; I had gone over 22 miles already, but now would have to push for the next clear option, 12.5 miles away. Canadian riders from Port Angeles forecast an almost entirely uphill path to Sol Duc, and they were right.
Half-way up the climb, I decided to make dinner and thereby forfeited any possibility of arriving before dark. A ranger stopped to inquire where I had come from. "Lilliwaup," I said. "Impressive. It must be rough riding with a mountain bike." The growing consensus is that knobby tires are setting me back ten to fifteen miles a day.
Near the top of the road I was literally shouting and thrashing at my legs to keep pumping. They weren't sore: they just wouldn't go farther. When at last I came to the grounds I sang aloud for glee. No sooner was camp raised than I was down in the bag to sleep, not later than 8:30 PM.
Elwha Campground > Sol Duc Campground
Distance Biked: 35 miles
After several weeks outdoors, especially in northerly parts, one begins to feel keenly his need of certain things. Gloves are amongst them. When I woke at 5:30 AM, and discovered my Thinsulate gloves had used their thumbs to hitch back to who-knows-where, I knew discomfort would brew black with my coffee that morning. Wet metal tent poles, ice cold anodized stakes, tiny knots of damp nylon rope: all had to come down quickly to be out of camp on time, and all of it bit sharply at the skin. Opening the bear canister, consolidating foods, setting up the trailer, provided a hundred opportunities to pinch fingers, slap or scrape knuckles because of clumsy numbness. One might think two degrees above freezing would anesthetize his fingers from all pain but the opposite is true. Every hurtful sensation is heightened, the nerves necessary to dexterity being the only ones seized useless by the blizzen weather. These issues and others conspired so that I was fully two hours late in breaking camp.
Ice cream consoles my pain.
The initial pull uphill was very discouraging. Legs were stiff, wheels seemed to be oiled with glue. While checking tire pressure I tipped the bicycle so that it came crashing down, then rode a quarter-mile looking for the dislodged mirror. For the first time I was really not enjoying myself.
Limited shoulders around the lake.
Thankfully good sense returned quickly. I thought, Why am I in a hurry? Where do I have to be? I am here because I wanted to be here. Despite the initial rough start, the day warmed spiritually into a fine one. In a single sitting sitting, as it were, pedaling on the bicycle, I listened to the whole of an audio version of Piper's, Fifty Reasons Why Jesus Came to Die. This was good food for my spirit, and lead to an extended time of prayer for friends and family. This was while rounding Crescent Lake, one of the most scenic landscapes I had ever witnessed. The quality of light upon Pyramid Mountain cannot be duplicated in description, though perhaps some painter of the Romantic era could do something for it. Teddy Roosevelt would be proud.
[View larger] Crescent Lake
At the western end of the lake is Fairholm, which I found is neither town nor anything really. Just a "summer only" campground. No signs of other camps were visible; I had gone over 22 miles already, but now would have to push for the next clear option, 12.5 miles away. Canadian riders from Port Angeles forecast an almost entirely uphill path to Sol Duc, and they were right.
Half-way up the climb, I decided to make dinner and thereby forfeited any possibility of arriving before dark. A ranger stopped to inquire where I had come from. "Lilliwaup," I said. "Impressive. It must be rough riding with a mountain bike." The growing consensus is that knobby tires are setting me back ten to fifteen miles a day.
Near the top of the road I was literally shouting and thrashing at my legs to keep pumping. They weren't sore: they just wouldn't go farther. When at last I came to the grounds I sang aloud for glee. No sooner was camp raised than I was down in the bag to sleep, not later than 8:30 PM.
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Your photograph of Crescent Lake is stunning!
Why thank you, Bethany, and thank God more for making Crescent Lake what it is!