pedadidact

March 12 - Day 27
Bear Creek Campground > Forks & back
Distance Biked: 13.5 miles (in the worst head-wind)

North Westerners sometimes speak of moods shifting with the sun. Not a few admit to having been broken down, as it were, by incessant rain, almost shut in with gray walls and water-logged with melancholy. I would not expect myself to be moved by weather so much, except for an occasional rise of heart with the sudden emergence of cheerful sun, but the dripping steel plate fastened thick to the heavens this morning seemed appropriate to my disconsolate spirit. If reports could be made for the condition of hearts, the atmosphere of mine was “partly cloudy throughout, with occasional showers.”

[Portion omitted until manuscript complete, continued below.]



The heart is an arm by which we lay hold of love, and legs which chase after it. Now, as many times I had learned to do, I slung my broken limb in the sling of an objective truth: these mortal desires are corrupt with personal interests which often look to temporal gratifications more than to an intentional glorification of God. In heaven this will not be so; the hearts of saints are then changed to willfully prefer and rejoice in nothing more than God's exaltation. Then, if not now, I shall understand how painful trials were for His glory, and will take greater pleasure in the remembrance of momentary ordained grievances and their eternal fruits, than ever I imagined would come from once-fancied aspirations. If joy alludes me now in part, it will envelop me then in whole, for all things will be worked together for His glory and the good of those who love Him.
Mighty winds opposed my progress on the road to town. In fact, the strong breeze made pedaling necessary even on downhill grades, a phenomenon I previously supposed to be more likely exaggerated than factual. Sometimes one has to get blown down to learn a thing.


Are these even real?

In the dark of the previous night demons of thermodynamics had possessed my left earphone, causing a spirit of muteness to obscure half of my portion of morning audio-bible tracks. This kind cometh not out but by repurchasing; so I decided to exercise the problem with a new pair. For a mere $10, their sound was as good, though less ergonomic to my shape than the ones replaced. I also stocked my pack to the brim with rice, oatmeal, and cocoa for the coast.

The sun dipped behind its gauzy veil as the pastor of Forks Calvary Chapel, a conservative quasi-non-denominational denomination of typically generous Christians, pulled into the lot at Sully's Burgers – I had been improving my sorrows with their incomparably delicious onion rings. After a somewhat formal greeting, we hoisted my estate, trailer and all, into his spacious Suburban Utopia Vehicle. He and I had some interesting chats, having both graduated some years ago from the same bible school, but nothing prolonged; we were headed just a few miles to a weekly men's home study.



The fellows, seven or so, met at Ron's house. The home was kept tidy as a yacht, and Ron was himself something of an Old Salt, been-round-the-block kind of gentleman with that sharp outdoorsy up-dress of Northwest professionals. Beneath a silver brow he wore kindly creased eyes and a compact stature. The crew besides him was unified in their diversity, one being as perfectly ordinary in appearance as another memorably peculiar. Chris, for instance, was in every way a large specimen of manhood, endowed with an immense frame, full jowls, turkey-leg forearms embossed with a broad green tattoo of a dragon; his great Patriarchal beard was exceeded only by the length of his prayers and apparent largeness of heart.

They gathered first for a hearty meal,– the “young hiker” was pressed upon to receive a "side of steak with his steak", a mammoth potato and fresh salad, too – before digging as eagerly into a discussion of John's Gospel, chapter 5. Several simple old songs were crooned a' Capella, no one seeming too concerned if he knew just half the words; a joyful noise was enough. The conclusion was an extended time of prayer on behalf of such needs and wants common to men and families, and one might say the evening was every way wholesomely spent. Though not a directly spiritual motive, I was glad to have a diversion from my own thoughts for a while.

Pastor Nathan drove me “home” to Bear Creek, rain belting down hard and causing some apprehension, probably in both of us, for the merit of beginning my hike the next morning. We agreed that if within nine days I had not contacted him, he ought to consider the situation an emergency. After scrawling some contact numbers on a card, I bid him thanks and farewell. He laid his hand on my shoulder and prayed God grant a safe journey. As I lay down, my prayers were only an amen, 'Father, bless me and keep me. Your will be done.'

March 11 - Day 26
Bear Creek Campground

__Someone set the sky a'weeping,
____howling billows sobbing loud.
__Spilling down, her black eyes seeping
___tears in waves from broken clouds.

My peaceful slumber was carried off in a true torrent of rain, drumming down hours before sunrise and lasting to mid-morning. Several times I became concerned the wind, now worked up into a violent huff, would any moment snap the tent poles and carry off the fly like a kite. Memories returned of a trip in Joshua Tree, California, where my tent was left unattended through a storm and found its way into a thorn tree. Thankfully, this night, the low-profile of the shelter did its work and she held her own admirably.



With dewy grass for a clean table, I made breakfast under the vestibule, an artful task with a venerable history to those who know it. The meal consisted of simple oatmeal and, rather than the staple cocoa, an experiment with one unmarked slip of tea given by a friend in Wisconsin. The smell was herbal, my preference usually being toward black or green; but to my taste, so long as one crosses his teas with a few dots of sugar, I think there is none too bad. In one of his Sierra tales, memorable as the scent of fresh-ground nutmeg, Muir mentions the flavors which prevailed among California shepherds of his day,

“Coffee...has its marvels in the camp kitchen... A low, complacent grunt follows a mouthful drawn in with a gurgle, and the remark cast forth aimlessly, “that's good coffee.” As to tea, there are but two kinds, weak and strong, the stronger the better. The only remark heard is, “That tea's weak,” otherwise it is good enough and not worth mentioning. If it has been boiled an hour or two or smoked on a pitchy fire, no matter, – who cares for a little tannin or creosote? They make the black beverage all the stronger and more attractive to tobacco-tanned palates.”

The weather having hemmed me in, I set about listing supplies for the beach trek that coming Saturday. The proposal meant hiking three miles to the bus stop in Sappho, riding an hour to Niah Bay, and trekking some forty or more cumulative miles to Rialto Beach over wilderness coast. Trails were reserved to a few overland tidal crossings; I looked forward to free-strolling down sandy slabs, an occasional starfish twinkling out from nearby pools.

By the maps I estimated a week for the route, resting all the Lord's Day, and covering seven miles daily for the others. To make the trip more manageable arrangements were made to leave all excess stuff with a pastor in Forks. I suspect he thought I was a bit of a gazer, but he was gracious to assist me. The wild card for this excursion was the backpack, not substantially different from usual school bags having three pockets, and supported by neither stays nor belt. Backpacking was never originally factored into the journey; the bag chosen was minimal to the anticipated needs and probably insufficient for more. Those who travel by foot know the importance of proper support and functionality in a bag.

In my case, a portion of gear would have to be strapped at all angles to the outside, because the inner volume was quickly gorged with the bear canister, sleeping bag, and cook gear. How this stuffed bird would lay on my back, I preferred not to imagine, but it was no feather-weight. In all the rig was probably about 35 lbs, fairly light by most backpacking standards, but not without some sort of hip harness. The waist-belt fashioned in Elwha was yet to be tested but still held promise of transferring weight to my hips. I would soon find out the worth of my stitching.

The following is an account of the beach trek list:

- pack
- maps
- 1 liter water bottles (3)
- large survival knife, SOG GOV-TAC, 6" blade
- Leatherman Charge multi-tool
- 2AA Fenix flashlight, 180 max lumens
- LED keychains, green and red
- sunglasses
- compass
- first aid kit
- bear canister, ten days provisions of
__> rice
__> dried soups
__> oatmeal
__> peanuts
__> raisins
__> chocolate chips
__> cocoa

- tent, etc.
- 50 yards nylon cord
- sleeping bag, liner
- air mattress, 2.5" x 25" x 78"
- cook gear
__> Trangia alcohol stove
__> fuel, 1 liter
__> .9 liter pot
__> .6 liter pot/lid
__> 16 oz. insulated mug
__> 9" spoon
__> pot scrubber, 2" x 3"
__> BIC lighter, matches

- toiletries
- ebook reader
- Metrical Psalter (1650)
- weather radio
- voice recorder
- iPod & ear buds
- camera
- pipe, tobacco
- small hand towel
- bandana

__
I am no fine singer, but during late and lonesome hours of the night one may find familiar amusement in humming his own songs and the steady words of the Psalms.

"I saw the Son" (By yours truly, with bonus mid-song yawn)

Download .mp3

I saw the Son

He was coming back in a cloud,
__with a voice like an angel
__and a sword preceding from His mouth.

He was coming back with a flame,
__to judge all the world
__who did not trust in His name.

He was catching up to the clouds,
__all the saints who were alive
__and remained to the trumpet sound.

Have you seen the Son?
You'll see Him come.
We'll all see the Son.

Psalm 16:8-9 (words: Scottish Metrical Psalter; tune: Michael Spotts)

Download .mp3

Before me still the Lord I set:
__sith it is so that he
__Doth ever stand at my right hand,
__I shall not moved be.

Because of this my heart is glad,
__and joy shall be exprest
__Ev’n by my glory; and my flesh
__in confidence shall rest.

March 10 - Day 25
Bear Creek Campground > Marymere Falls > Forks & back
Hiked: 2 miles

Virgin opportunities beckon from all sides as mankind careens down muddied highways of decision, too steep to stop; life's trackless pavement seeming to exist as nothing but a sequence of off-ramps spilling into off-ramps, one after another. Every exit is an apparent round-about flowing into the same endless array of choices, so that a man feels himself perpetually curving back into the rush. Onward the race speeds, shifting and merging, frantic and bold, until arriving - often suddenly, for rarely is a sign posted, "Next Left" - at the final destination, that one end which is truly dead.



In the interval which constitutes the journey we pass numberless points of interest, occasions to deviate from one course and explore others. Signs held aloft advertise the peculiar virtues of each in symbols universally known. We are forced to heft the worth of our time and means. And though one had money to gain the whole world, yet there is not enough elastic in these carbon bodies to stretch over every experience available to the soul. Even the most pecuniarily robust baron exists on a tiny line of mortal credit, a capsule of borrowed time, and there is no telling when comes his calling to account. We must choose shrewdly. An exit to one pleasure may detour through unmapped griefs and take our course irretrievably off, forever barring the way to places we longed to see before ending this momentary tour, this brief mile of humanity. We are children with so many coins, choosing our sweets carefully, rejoicing in the tastes and enduring aches that attach.
Several times I had ridden past a saffron-lettered wooden sign notifying the turn-off for Storm King and Marymere Falls, first while skirting Crescent Lake's platinum rim to Sol Duc, and then on bus rides to and from Port Angeles. Renowned as the falls are, even free-wheelers are time-bound by other elemental bosses as sunset and rain storms, constraints which had thus far prevented my diverting back to see the area. Having gained so many miles and come to so sparse a wallet, every hope of Marymere seemed gone. However, those five blessed wind-bucks of the previous day had changed my fortunes. Morning was still rubbing the dawn haze from her eyes when she saw me at the shoulder with two dollars in hand for a day pass on the shuttle to Storm King.



“Where you headed now?” came a brusk voice as I stepped aboard the coach. On the forward bench was Mike, the gentleman whose seat I had shared several times on afternoon bussings from Port Angeles to Elwha. We laughed loudly at our unexpected reunion and I happily tossed my bag beside him. Spanning twenty-five minutes to my stop, we conversed about the region and Mike's youthful larks around the Ozette coast. Once again he strongly implored me to begin my proposed beach trek in his town, offering to show me about the Cape and even deliver me to the Shi Shi trail head. Supposing I left my bike and excess gear in Forks, and exited the coast at Rialto Beach to unite with trailer, et al, this plan seemed the most feasible; that is, assuming Mike was not a creepy fellow after all. A man who volunteers his spiritual intercourse with natural hot springs is hard to pin down for credibility. I agreed to call him midweek and confirm a Saturday arrival at the bus depot in Niah Bay.

For a balance of crisp solitude and fairly manageable weather, the months of February and March seem to be favorable in the Peninsula. Freedom from dense clouds of sight-seers is obviously due to the impracticality of traveling in the more rainy season. Every season in Washington is rainy to some extent, but this is not to be complained of. Gorgeous Esther and all the harem of pageant hopefuls could not have been better scented or more purified from twelve-months soaking and perfuming than these Olympics for their year-long cycle of freshening which the rain gives. She is worthy of a king and gives herself freely, void of Vashti's reluctance to parade a fair form before the adoring eyes of visitors who come to feast royally on the riches of her rare majesty. Ruddy boughs are voluptuously bared to the admirer, draped in weighty locks of carageen hair; rivulets curve in curious smiles to cascade pearl-white over rows of flawless, smooth stone teeth, and banked with passionate blushes of oxidized bark. She is ravishing and wild, the unrestrained paramour while at once dignified as a queen.



The singular ease I have thus far enjoyed perhaps owes to the year being what they call an El Nino, for I hear everywhere that the Evergreen State is enjoying an unusual streak of dryer weather. Facts be told, I have not yet endured an hour of straight hard rain and have been out for nearly a month. Precipitation usually lets off before dawn and resumes at light intervals throughout the night, seldom falling in sunlit hours. In this way, at least, nature is modest, preferring to turn down the blinds before bathing. Perhaps there dwells some Essene pleasure to be derived from washing in the dark? If I should survive to set foot in another tiled shower, I will have to follow her example and try it with the lights out.

A moist carpet of crimson chips and pellet gravel papered the way to the falls, rolling through an airy grove of trees. Erosion had exposed the roots of many to display shapes of inextricably knotted twine balls. Every ten yards became more lush than the last, dear ferns and carpet clover multiplying, and soil, where exposed, lying in dark bars of earthy chocolate. The trail was knowledgeable of the improvement and gained confidence proportionate to the distance, judging by the increased grade with which it stood taller and taller as I neared the point. My right knee also knew, and said so in pulses. Ascending a final ramp brought Marymere into full view; every voice but her own was suddenly silenced.





Crystalline spray encrusted the atmosphere with a fanciful opulence, but the jewel itself was in the falls. From a lofty perch eighty-feet up, a narrow stream, one arm-span across, leapt with blissful abandon over a granite lip. Spreading momentarily into a swan's tail of vapor, these innumerable links of liquid silver connected themselves into a tiered necklace of chains which hung luxuriantly down the sculpted breast of stone below. One could not resist a second look, nor was there guilt in it; the stain of lust cannot soil one's enjoyment of his rightful possession. Nature has been endowed to man by arrangement of our Heavenly Father, and its beauties ordained for a life-long matrimony of enjoyment and mutual respect. For this reason the agricultural arts are called husbandry.





Bonhoeffer and Luther were kind to accompany my meandering walk down the hill, though I confess Luther's conversation was more agreeable to my spirit; he is always robust and never hides his brawny form in a shadow of unclear language. Sitting on the dock of Crescent Lake, baking in the noon sun with pipe in hand and chocolate chips beside, I fancied what wonderful employment one might have in making audio recordings of Bondage of the Will, and other classic texts.


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An overshot on the bus to Forks enabled me to check the status of tax papers, which had gone through smoothly. More than this, however, I discovered a generous and entirely unexpected donation had been made to me by a home Bible fellowship lead by my father, though my mother said neither of them had stirred the group to this gift. Once again I was compelled to take pause and thank God for His undeserved mercies, granting tokens to the faith of a weak man.

While riding back to Bear Creek, and towards the closing of the night, I enjoyed the superlative privilege of discussing with an acquaintance the nature of Christian repentance. She wondered how one can have true faith and yet intentionally sin at times? Visiting the accounts of Peter's three-fold denial, the extended lapses of King David, and the willful failures of other saints, I explained that God's manner towards them throughout was one of corrective love. He dealt with His sons in faith as with headstrong children, carefully reprimanding and sometimes chastening with a rough rod but always for the restoration of upright character. Was it by righteous acts or some self-wrought sincerity that we have attained to everlasting life? No, says the Apostle, but,

“According to his mercy he saved us, by the washing of regeneration, and renewing of the Holy Ghost; which he shed on us abundantly through Jesus Christ our Savior; that being justified by his grace, we should be made heirs according to the hope of eternal life.”

What made Peter's repentance to differ from that of Judas', who we sometimes forget also felt a kind of remorse? Judas cried before certain priests his betrayal of innocent blood, but afterward hung himself in despair and unbelief. Was it for lack of native resolve? From what deep fount sprung the bitter tears of godly sorrow which Peter wept, when all that spilled from Judas were the bowels of an ineffectual confession? The difference lies not in man, but in the will of God. To Peter alone did Jesus say, “I have prayed for you, that your faith fail not,” while resigning Judas to “do quickly” his evil deed, knowing from the beginning he was a devil in disguise, a serpentine son of Satan ordained to that awful task and the perdition which surely followed.

A disciple of Christ may have reasons to question the sincerity of his original faith, but never to doubt the integrity of God's promise to preserve true believers to the final day. Christ prayed in the garden, “Father keep them,” and not only for the eleven which would remain, but “for them also which shall believe on Me through their word.” All that Christ prays He receives, for He petitions with perfect knowledge and pristine faith in the Father. He has prayed for His saints to endure. In whom should their faith then be, their Father in heaven, or their imagined ability to manufacture more faith? The natural industry of the human heart is ever and only based on worthless resources of self; its products shunned in the celestial port, too inferior to be received into the heavenly harbor. Any notion of faith which comes not as the unavailed echo of the Divine call is a clanging of graven religion which soon falls dull. It is of the earth, earthy, and with it shall be burned up.



The Christian, assailed as he is with trials and temptations, the feet of his conscience caked thick with foul crusts of worldliness, rests in the promise that he is otherwise washed and cleansed through the imputed obedience and punitive death of Christ in his place. He is comforted to believe the filth which sometimes mars his snow white skin is ever covered with sun-bright robes of Christ's righteousness. Remembrance of these truths, the doctrines of free grace and unmerited inheritance amongst the adopted sons of God, is the alone means by which the Holy Spirit communicates fresh willingness to obey the statutes of the kingdom of heaven. In this way faith in the gospel is not a license to sin, but the avenue of freedom from slavish, mercenary obedience leading to unspoiled joys of filial conformity to our brother, Jesus.

Gospel themes make comfortable bedding and give sounder sleep than any other. The Rock upon which the Christian rests is solid as Jacob's pillow, but so perfectly shaped that no other may support so naturally, nor lead one nightly into peace which passes all understanding. While I recline in faith, “He restoreth my soul,” and I am strengthened to endure the toils which lie ahead.

March 9 - Day 24
Bear Creek Campground > Forks & back

The morning ride to Forks was pleasant, a gentle tail wind riding quietly upon my pegs the whole way. Wisps of clouds batted misty eyelashes over miles of replanted clear cuts, occasionally shedding a rainful tear or two. Along the path where once stood mighty cedars, those modest guardians and generous overseers of the Olympic peninsula, here the land was scoured and seeded with stubby newcomers in the name of enterprise, not unlike certain other natives of this continent. But, "jobs grow with the trees," or so the passerby is informed by numerous earnest road signs.



In the way of interesting sights there wasn't much else to see, even on the shoulder where my eyes vigilantly scanned for a nickel to make the difference towards bus fare, in case of fould weather on the return. Later an idea occurred to me, that I might perhaps have located a recycling center in Forks and solved my financial issues for life, since had I one nickel for every bottle and can thoughtlessly ejaculated onto this spattered span of pavement I could have purchased a bus outright. Nevertheless, I prayed to the Lord this morning for the providence of five cents and was expectant He would supply. This much, it seems, was low enough even for stunted limbs of faith like mine to reach towards.

On the edge of town stood a gas station with adjoining sandwich shop. Observed here as in other small-time grocers, was a conspicuous omission of price tags throughout, a sure indication that everything was majestically overpriced. No matter, I hadn't even a nickel to spare and my concerns were directed beyond the stand of nuts and sunflower seeds to the restroom. What luxuries surround us! One forgets after some time the happy glow which follows washing his face with warm water.

Coming back to unlock my bicycle, I heard a man's voice behind, asking, "Hey, is this yours?" I turned to see a Hispanic fellow wearing the most tattered pale blue pendleton. His arm was outstretched like a crooked bough. Flapping in his twiggish fingers was a solitary green leaf, in fact, a five-dollar bill.

"I would take it if it were, but I'm sure it's not," I replied with amusement, even laughing a little, like Sarai, because I knew how barren my wallet was.

"I was standing here. As you went by, the wind blew it up to me," he said. Then looking for a moment at the note and back to me, "Do you want it?"

This blessed young man must never have learned the school-yard lesson, finders keepers. Now did not seem the time for teaching him. One must imagine my glee, for this dirty, crumpled bill seemed to me a heavenly writ of Providence, signed by the Treasurer himself, and wafted along by the unpredictable wind of the Spirit. A nickel asked, five dollars received – nothing short of a hundred-fold answer to my morning petition! Immediately I told the man of my prayer and his part in the unlikely answer to it. No less joyful did he appear than myself for the fortuitous event.


We are prone to forget how valuable good weather is. The unemployed day laborer, despondently passing a shiftless roadside afternoon beneath warm Pacific skies, may rejoice at least in a bright hourly income of sunlight and all the included benefits. But let him not forget to report this wealth, for his uncle Sam shall not either, and will expect a portion of it back for the Federal coffer. Feeling I owed the government several hours for all the blessings I received the previous year, or rather, because the government felt so, I deposited a bracket of my afternoon in the Memorial Library filing tax forms online.

To be candid, I was anticipating more than mere hours would be owed, but to my utter shock there was a return due to me. All told, the sum amounted to over double what I calculated necessary to bring me home with all bills, fees, and costs paid! But I must confess to having a habit of underestimating expenses for my ventures, though with good reason: rarely have I possessed the means to fund them anyway. Were I to wait until I did, I might never start anything! Yet somehow I have managed time and again to find resources along the way. For travelers with a tight purse and firm resolve, enough to get underway is enough to go all the way. But having mentioned these blessings, now seems an appropriate time for divulging certain circumstances previously held in private, for, being matters of money, I wanted to avoid putting any sense of obligation upon my dear reader.

On extended solitary journeys such as mine two sorts of routes are generally followed. I speak not topographically but financially. First is the way of those who chart every detail saving pennies and dollars for the day when no unforeseen expense can catch them off guard. Before they go they will have it all and probably if the day ever does come, all of it have them. The other route, most often forged by persons we admire much and trust less, is hard and fast. On this trail tread rough and wild dreamy fellows who simply decide to leave that week, or hour, even. With or without apparent means they depart accepting hardships for adventures. This was nearly my route, but as things would go, my way was carried forward to the intersection of both.

Three years earlier, during a stormy conversion from some form of the Christian religion to another, great tides washed through all my relations, business, and beliefs. Billows broke over my personality, shipping a whole sea on the deck of self. Ideals and resources were dashed as a vessel on the rock of faith, sunken so completely only a soul might escape and swim. I lost everything and gained all which mattered, life preserved from bottomless depths as I clung upon only two wooden beams.

Treading in the wreckage of a prior life, I gathered what scraps remained and made ready to sail from society. Nothing was more desirable than to drift several months and think matters out. But there was a minor difficulty. The trade wind of travel is cash and my raft was riding heavy with too few sails. To get the rig slipping I jettisoned whatever was left to spare. To the used market went precious camera gear, rifle, anything of relative value to settle lease, close accounts, and glean sporting goods stores for bare minimum. My remaining currency, perhaps $200, was deposited safely in fabric vaults sewn 'round the Bank of Levi, with five convenient options for withdrawal. Thus broken down and lifted up, I would set off into the greenest horizon. However, one week before departing for Seattle, a heavy-winded phone call blew all of these plans off course.



Over the line came the concerned petitions of my parents. Not only were they shocked by the news of this strange spiritual transformation and of what seemed to them a reckless abandonment of normalcy, but their ever-balanced personalities – both in constitution and checking – were unsettled with the business end of it. Simply put, they had granted me venture capital a year earlier to transplant my roots across the country and sow a little commerce in fresh soil. Now, just seven days before setting off with ticket in hand, I was asked first to make good on their loan. Life suddenly wilted.

I might argue, they had never stipulated any certain time-frame for returning the grant. I had figured somewhere in the next several years would do. But of all times, the present seemed the worst possible for them to ask it back, and in full. This was making bricks without straw! Why could they not allow me forty days to wander the wilderness, to worship God and afterward return? Then I could begin restitution of their promised milk and honey. Perhaps they thought I would die on the mountain and would prefer their golden calf now. In an instant my Decalogue of dreams was cast down, cracked like a tablet in two.

No doubt, it was my own fault I was in this bondage. In former times of famine I had bartered my freedom to Pharaoh, purchasing his plenty with my person. But who would have dreamed of the years of leanness and enslavement that would follow! Before me was a dilemma, whether to honor father and mother or to escape across a sea of red ink in defiance. Where was Moses to let me go? I sought out every avenue of deliverance but there was none. Quiet as a lamb led to the slaughter I returned to California to present myself a living sacrifice, choosing rather to suffer with these people than to enjoy the pleasures of debt for a season. After all, "the borrower is servant to the lender." Bereft of nearly all property, following six years independence from their roof, I was humbled and heartsick, as if told by Christ, "Put down thy mat and lie." Lie I did, once again, in the bedroom of my youth.

More than two years passed in San Diego working between two worlds, that of practical exigencies and of my desire to "get on with it." Just what it was I was getting on to, I couldn't guess; it didn't matter so long as my way lead up to mountain paths and forested roads, a thread of beach now and again. Perhaps at the end something else would appear. The trip became synonymous in my mind with a new start, a clean leaf to write upon, a break from old associations of life; an opportunity to flex against long-held fears of solitude and the uncanny attraction of the same.

Ears rang at all hours with the siren song of rugged and romantic places. In the stove of my chest burned a vestal yearning like coals through the night, glowing red and undying for the hope of travels without steel tethers of schedule. I wanted to practice my rustic fetish for simplicity, several centuries late, in places too remote to take notice of a few hundred years. If nothing else, I hoped to feel as though I was being independent and proactive, snatching fireflies from the great darkness of banality, doing such things as gray men list in their death bed regrets.

One must die if he would live, so I buried myself in work believing I would some day be raised in the likeness of a free life. Then I would shout from rooftops, "O Debt, where is thy sting?" Between multiple jobs, sometimes seventy or eighty hours a week, beginning at 3:00 AM, often finishing close to midnight, I pecked away at a hill of dues, the bird against the boulder, learning small bills do not quickly move mountains of deficit. Twenty dollars here, fifty there, doing their work like so many waves wearing against a bulkhead. Years passed together like elongated days, one and then two, wearisome with mourning. But at the dawn of the third I ran with the rising sun to find the stone rolled away. On the morning of my 25th birthday I handed over the final check to my mother, leaving behind in my tomb little more than some linens neatly folded.

Before earth had spun her course three times, I had shouldered what to me was a burden worthy of Atlas, almost twenty-five thousand dollars into the gaping maw of that devouring hole, the vortex of loans and suburban life, until the sum was blacker than banker's ink. With a fresh sense of freedom and a good bit more personal – if not financial – stability, I was ready to resume in earnest my former plans to head North, plans which had by this time metastasized into a consuming mass, a worm-hole of its own capable of absorbing all sorts of anxieties and pent-up griefs.

This is not to say Christ, my Savior, was not the final resolution in all things, my abiding peace and center of gravity; but I ventured this trip might be His un-ordinary means of providing escape into a new form of living, something like taking the needle clear off a skipping record so that it can be reset where the music is more clear. In this way a parallel had developed. While I had thrown cash into the hole of debt, I was piling hopes of meaningful experience or transition into my long-anticipated journey, praying for my life to fantastically exit into a different part of the universe. How dearly I hoped to arrive at the end in some rejuvenated and structured form of useful existence! New atmosphere, super-human. Only a cosmic movement seemed able to get me there.

What money I had was now rallied to the cause of such gear and items as I thought necessary for a roll down the Pacific coast, since by this point my beloved idea, my tender child, had been nursing long enough to learn not only how to walk but how to rice a bicycle. As they say, once learned, riding a bike is unforgettable, and the idea could not be shaken. Here met the intersection of those two routes, meticulousness and heedlessness, the cross roads of my preparations.

It is true I had only the most minimal savings for the actual day-to-day expenses, perhaps enough to see me through the first several weeks of a five or six month exodus. I was counting on the momentum of everything else to carry the plot through. I had the wheels and trailer, pack and tent, camera and cookery; what difficulty would be a little rice and water? Never mind the cost of park fees or fuel, cell phones and such; to do so would endanger the initiative and impose upon the set date of departure, January 1st, the freshest, most pristine day of the year. I would go and pray, and if necessary suffer a little.

Once again I set off for the Olympic forests, but not without an array of National tangents preceding; first to Catalina Island, the womb of all my later travels; Santa Cruz and the Big Basin trees, larger than life and standing like immense red wizards in their emerald city; to Utah for revelations less quixotic than Smith's but profoundly spiritual. I crossed the country to walk in Maine woods under moonlight and deep snow, drinking the wine of dear friendship and savoring the rich smoke of an imagined life there, swirling fantasies of the future over my palate. I marked the Mississippi banks of Dubuque, Iowa, in the company of a brother, and slept a night beneath the Sears tower on a bench. In Wisconsin I measured my independence and bandaged old wounds, kissed the past goodnight and put memories peacefully to bed. But here I was beyond all these, having shot like a bolt of lightning across the Western landscape, Nebraska, Montana, Washington!

The arrival was substantial but what money had I now to pay for basic needs? I confess, none of the original crop of cash had lasted. Into the hungry belly of social visits and motor travel it had went. Yet without my asking any man or making my narrow straights known to ought besides God, once and again I was provided for. A dear friend snuck one-hundred dollars into my pack. Another did as well, and still others so quietly added to my supply, I do not think their left hand knew what the right was doing, though I did! In each case the amount was just enough or hardly more.

The day came while in Elwha, on March 1st, when my bank informed me of an overdraft. This, it turns out, was a mistake on their part. I had yet $40 in my account to see me through three more months. This feat could be carried off, I supposed, on a diet of rice, perhaps seasoned with common minerals such as one finds under his feet, granite and old-fashioned grit. What pressing need had I, anyway, of fresh plants and meats for a season? Others had fared fine in worse conditions, and besides, I brought along a bag of vitamins to last the while. Three months of grains without produce cannot be worse than three months of the processed food eaten by so many, including myself.

As already stated, by this time I had discovered and resolved the mistake of the overdraft. Unbeknownst to me, however, was that the occasion of an apparently bounced transaction had resulted in a bank statement sent to my only mailing address, the house of my parents. Bold labeling on the outside of the letter – how flattering – said, "NOTICE OF OVERDRAFT." Feeling themselves responsible to know my condition, the letter was warily opened by my benefactors and the truth of my relative paucity was known. For the second time I received a concerned call, this round not to collect an old loan but to offer a new one! New loans! However much I respected and was grateful for their willingness to lend a hand, I should never want it to be for digging a new hole, unless it is for my final grave. If I must I could relive debt but even the thought feels like a weak death.

After assuring them I had a little money and that, if necessary, I would call some local churches and ask what odd jobs might be done, I bid my father and mother love and thanks. They are dear, kind people, I thought, only different in their economics of living. Next morning's prayers included particular emphasis on the Lord's mercy to provide. I read Psalms 103 and 104, which regard my life as above animals in the Lord's sight, though only through Christ's grace for I am a beastly sinner and beasts comparative saints.

In town that morning I checked accounts to find that during the night a woman I never knew or heard of had donated to me $73 and some odd cents, the balance of a savings account prayerfully applied to this meandering young man. Little she knew that her gift would almost perfectly cover the expense of bills, food, and fuel for three weeks. Even my lost gloves could now be replaced! What would follow that, I did not know, but my faith soared with gratitude and confidence.

After three weeks had passed and the bags of rice, oatmeal, peanuts, cocoa, and fruit were low – for I had spare enough by her blessing to purchase foods besides rice – I began to wonder from what pot the next portion of oil might flow. Do not suppose I felt above work; I was prepared both to labor with my hands or with my knees, however God would supply. Presently my means amounted to $10 plastic, .55c on hand. The card might be used in town but at this rate I hadn't even change for bus fare, let alone to visit Marymere Falls, or Neah Bay to hike the coast, as I wished. It was in this case and on this day that the breeze delivered five dollars, and Sam returned the rest. From the jaws of loans I was delivered to continue my journey a free man.

___Praise God! The kindness of the Lord,
______who works in winds untraceable!
___Time again imparting to his saints for pressing needs.
___Never has His power suffered widows' cruise to failure.
___Ever does He care to fill their pots, their faith to feed.

2010 March 8 - Day 23
Bear Creek Campground

If never we passed the trodden penny by, how many dollars might we have today?

After usual morning duties, I began making plans to visit Forks the following morning to file taxes. The thirteen-mile ride to town would be easy enough, but weather reports suggested - for suggestion is the extent of the powers possessed by forecasters in Washington State - that showers would dominate the afternoon and evening. The solution seemed to be riding the bus back to Bear Creek in the event of a downpour.


Lovely light quality at sunset this day.

However, I now realized a problem: only .55c could be mustered from every available pocket, pouch, and fold of the wallet. Whatever currency I carried besides was entombed in plastic. With a prayer to the God of little, as well as great graces, I searched the highway shoulder and lighted upon a single dime and nickle. Still five cents shy of the fare, I took this blessing as a tacit deposit upon my venture. I would bicycle into Forks the next day and expect, somehow or other, to find the needed nickel before the bus ride back.


I carved a walking pole and promptly lost it in Forks.



Besides the above, the only other notable events of this day were that I received an happy message, a dear friend had given birth to a son, and that I had an aloud argument with the late Dietrich Bonhoeffer, whose book I was then reading and the theological views of which I took much difference with.

2010 March 7 - Day 22
Bear Creek Campground

Three weeks out, today. To my disappointment, unlike the previous two Sundays, I would not be attending corporate worship. This was on account of ignorance as to where a decent Christian church was, and of being fifteen miles from even a small town, under the pour of rain. The weather let up, however, and I was pleased to sit under the sun with a sermon by venerable Charles Spurgeon. His exposition was first-rate and, thanks to the Spirit, my soul was not only taught but nourished. The sermon centered on the many benefits granted to us by God, and of His provision for the issues of death.

Plagues of death around me fly,
Til he please I cannot die.
Not a single shaft can hit
until the god of love sees fit.

What though a thousand at thy side,
at thy right hand ten thousand died;
Our God his chosen people saves
amongst the dead, amidst the graves.

Whatever occurs around us, we need not be alarmed: we are immortal until our work is done. And amidst infectious or contagious diseases, if we are called to go there, we may sit as easily as though in balmy air. It is not ours to preserve our life by neglecting our duty. it is better to die in service than to live in idleness, better to glorify god and depart than rot above ground in neglecting that He would have us to do. Unto God belong the issues from death. We may therefore go without temerity into any danger where duty calls us.

These phrases were of no little comfort as I questioned the safety of my trip - even familiar State campgrounds take on new and perhaps sinister dimensions when alone in them for days, whether for fear of injury or for assault - and I speak as one once mugged in a very public place. Besides, there is yet in my heart a yearning to go out beyond the normal bounds of the suburban West, even to third-world and hostile places, if for God's sake duty should ever pull the compass needle in such a contrary direction.


Tapatio and Green Tabasco exchange their glass for plastic.


A well-packed bear canister.

Apropos to my present situation, Spurgeon also said in the sermon,

A man ought to be the best of company to himself. It is one reason why we should be well acquainted with the word of God, that if ever we are left alone we may be good companions to ourselves. Commune with your own heart and be still. Hush that babel, let God speak. Get to your bed away from the noise of the streets and lull of the traffic. "Commune with your own heart upon your bed and be still." Some men cannot bear their own stillness. The quiet of their hearts disturbs them. There must be something very rotten in the state of a man's life who wants not some seasons of solitude. Some of us are less alone when we are alone, and some of us more at home even when others count themselves abroad.

Light rain started again but not without enough warning to evacuate gear into the vestibule. I waited the out the weather by designing a nautically themed camper-trailer, called Nautilus, or some-such name. The dimensions would be 10' x 7' x 7', with the center beam of the roof at 9'. A forward bench would unfold to a 5' wide bed, suitable for two. Running starboard and port would go authentic portholes in place of windows. Also a port side tuck-away table, under-bunk drawers and overhead rail-storage; miniature pantry and perhaps generator-run refrigerette. The aft would feature dual electric burners, but with reserves to alcohol stoves. Most importantly, a raised wood stove over a corner of brickwork would make the trailer more than seasonal. When not otherwise employed, discrete speakers would ship a quiet ambiance of ocean sounds, shore-birds, and the occasional sailors' shanty. I estimated the vessel could be self-built for under $7000, perhaps a good deal less, and sold for a fair penny more if stylized nicely enough.



My fanciful afternoon reverie was rewarded with a break in the drizzle which lasted all evening. A large pile of dry wood jettisoned by another camper afforded an effortless roaring fire until, in want of another voice, I retired to read Vos in my tent. Then, if I had my way, to afterwards dream of sailing to some warm and untamed exotica.

2010 March 6 - Day 21
Bear Creek Campground > Port Angeles (bus) > Bear Creek Campground
Distance Biked: 2 miles

Several days had lapsed since charging my sundry electronics so this morning I determined to take a bus one hour into Port Angeles. Another town, Forks, was less than fifteen miles away but since the same fare would be paid in either case, wisdom seemed to favor the assurance of Internet access and the wonder which is Swain's General Store. After morning duties and prayer, plus a few extra petitions on behalf of the gear I was about to leave unattended, I walked to the 101 and waited for the white Clallam County Transit bus.




Treated again to views of Pyramid Mountain

First to be done in town was mailing a parcel to a friend. Therein was a specimen of drift wood, shaped like a stag horn in miniature, from the river Sol Duc, and a cherry blossom no doubt handled to pieces in the postal process. Mostly it was the thought that mattered in the envelope, but postage scales aren't so sentimental.



Off to Swain's for gloves. How hungrily I poured over their gigantic selection of types, eyeing synthetic mitts and rag wool blends, fleece wind breakers and flannel-lined leather workers. For a mere .44c some brown jersey liners were first in my basket. Over these would go rag-wool convertibles with Thin-sulate filling and fold-over mittens, which seemed most suited to a combination of bicycle riding and camp tasks. And into these would go another prodigiously huge bag of Swain's .25c popcorn. The only other purchase to be made was of stove fuel. For half the price-per-ounce I could buy three weeks worth, but admittedly an 128 oz. can was absurdly large for my purposes. However, figuring I could stash the tank somewhere in the woods and come back for the remainder in a week or two, this seemed the most frugal option and I bought it.





Next came my customary visit to the good man, Jack, for 1000 calories of food graven in the likeness of two beef tacos and one chicken sandwich, as I am sure it was none of these things really. Never before had the idea occurred to me that one might incorporate such industrialized vittles merely to increase his caloric intake, but my typical diet of oatmeal, peanuts, raisins, and rice soups were probably amounting to under 1500 calories a day. Meanwhile I was riding or hiking ten to thirty miles daily and burning more than I was bringing in, as evidenced by the belt having to travel an extra distance to account for losses. Besides, at $2 something fried tempts a man sorely who twice daily eats boiled fare. I asked for a combined 400 calorie side of ranch dressing and Frank's hot sauce and dipped heartily into circumstantial health food.



It was my happy lot to again sit beside Mike, the elderly gentleman from Neah Bay, on the ride back. He insisted I come to Cape Flattery to begin my beach walking portion and, if I should like, meet some surfer friends of his who have jam music sessions on weekends. Receiving this fortuitous connection as from the Lord, I told him I might choose his route instead of going north from Ozette, as originally planned. In the evening I poured over maps and weather reports, determining which plot was best and wondering what adventures lay ahead on the coast.

2010 March 5 - Day 20
Sol Duc Campground > Bear Creek Campground
Distance Biked: 25 miles

If nothing else was certain, by this point I had learned an early start was necessary to cover twenty-five or thirty-five miles and still have time to scout and set a campground, gather water, and cook before cold and dark clamped down. Granted, getting up early in the winter means leaving the fond caresses of one's sleeping bag for the icicle fingers of a frigid morning. Not withstanding, I was now more loathe to lose the best riding hours and to fight sunset each day looking for camp than to suffer cold for an hour. And so it was that I woke before dawn to pray and read scriptures (inside of my sleeping bag) before baring my sunrise grimace into the duties of the day.



Despite the immense frustration and pain of uncloathed hands - for I still had no gloves, making fingers too numb to be dexterous and too sensitive to be forceful - I managed to break and be off within an hour of stepping out. The initial pull of the bicycle was marked by pronounced difficulty, to the point that I questioned whether the brakes had shifted and were rubbing the rims. Or was it a fender scraping the tire? Perhaps the trailer axles had become clogged with mud? All tests came back negative so that I was forced to conclude my legs had merely gone on strike for the morning.

To make matters worse, while peeling off my rain jacket the bicycle toppled, disconnecting the mirror and sending it down the shoulder. This escaped my notice until some way down the road. With the bark of an Ahab or Captain Thompson, I spun the helm to port, emotionally convinced a mutiny was afloat on my brig. A hunt ensued for the thankless deserter. To think, the mirror of all mates! One with whom I related eye to eye and of which I saw so much in common. Such untuned behavior might be expected of the Japanese bell, to take one knock and fly off the handle, as it were. Never had it entered my estimations that a mirror could be so egotistically absorbed, looking only upon his own person! From whom did he acquire such manners of self interest? When at last I found him skulking in the gutter, he was a wet and sorry sight. Truly, I would have been more angry had he not stared back at me in such a - dare I say - familiar way; almost as if, in him I saw something of myself. Such is the nature of compassion.

But really, that instant I was struck with an awareness of how silly this angst was. Huffing and becoming discouraged over nothing at all! What should it matter if I was slow and sore? I am healthy and blessed with limbs, laden with food and freedoms! A moment of prayer was held for God to impart more grace, the stuff of common life which oils normal activities giving freedom and freshness to every movement. Grace which must have helped Paul's old, educated hands bind tent cloth with pride; which must have helped Jesus bend low to the burdens of his trade as a twenty-five year-old blue collar man.


Gathering water from Sol Duc

Six miles on, at a table beside the Sol Duc river I quickly prepared breakfast and repacked. A certain laxity towards the mouth of a fuel canister resulted in the bottle spitting nearly its whole contents onto my gear. Thankfully all of it was in water-tight bags; but the loss of a week's fuel was still sharp. It might have been worse, though; I could have been tossing lit matches over my shoulder as I rode.

Regardless of these and other early setbacks I was striking good time by noon, with twenty-three miles already down. At mile-marker 211 I called a friend and chatted for a bit. Several messages were also left on my phone. These I listened to several times as much for society as to decipher words through badly garbled interference. Out of the electrical storm I was able to extract that a dear friend was doing very well, Spring-time in her soul, as she said, thereby pulling back the clouds over my own area for a bit.



Not six miles farther and I came to Bear Creek, population ten, nine of which were likely camped in RVs for the weekend. The adjoining ground is public land and free-use for up to seven days. This was a great boon and not a bad location, either. Relatively private sites surrounded by firs. To the south and beneath a steep ravine, the Sol Duc river stretches her arms to yawn past. So fine a place it was, I decided, that its banks would do for reading several more chapters of Two Years. The passage had just come where Dana recounts of a man whose unusual misfortunes and quirks had landed him in the most remote places and circumstances,

His is one of those cases which is more numerous than those suppose who have never lived anywhere but in their own homes, have never walked but in one line from their cradle to their graves. We must come down from our heights and leave our straight paths to visit the byways and low places of life if we would learn truths by strong contrasts, and in hovels, in forecastles, and among our own outcasts in foreign lands, see what has been wrought among our fellow creatures by accident, hardship, or vice.

To this I did concur, being now confronted in my journey with many such characters. Wild Bill in Port Angeles, Jim and the blaggart Dave in Elwha; Jonathan who bought me rice and Adam who giddily offered pot and beer in Sequim Bay; figures I might not have crossed in the ordinary stripe of Oceanside life.



After setting camp in order I lay in for an evening of late reading with Vos. I soon found, however, more interest in examining a long line of our alphabet's final consonant. To be sure, none tucks a bed more comfortably than ones mother, except for a good old book and no deadlines.

"Good night, Mary Ellen."
"Good night, John Boy."
"Good night, Geerhardus."

2010 March 4
Sol Duc Campground > Sol Duc falls
Distance hiked: 4 miles

To the conscientious person, over-sleeping is generally accompanied with a hangover of grief for having wasted good hours. Personally, I prefer seven per night, except when sick, and then eight or nine. But after hard physical work, one is especially inclined to adjust his standards for what is too much rest. No alarm was set for this day. I woke naturally eleven hours after passing out in Sol Duc.




The path to Sol Duc falls

"Naturally" is subject to definition. In fact, I was jolted to consciousness by an awful dream of being mugged for my bicycle in a desolate Port Angeles lot. As the assailant approached, probably with some jilted weapon like a screw driver or prison shiv, I recognized the dream for what it was and urged myself, You are not in a parking lot. You are alone in a rain forest in your tent. Wake up! And so I did.





Wanting something pleasant to fill my mind, I took up the Metrical Psalter and then the gospel of Mark. Following breakfast, and the realization of stiffness in my legs, I half-considered a sabbath day in camp. But then, seeing that I only intended one day in this location, I determined to make the most of it and hike to a nearby falls.





Sol Duc is an evergreen rain forest and easily amongst the most ideal landscapes I have walked both for verdant beauty and contemplative solitude. Hardly a bird or animal was to to be heard as I strolled a ribbon of gray gravel winding amidst hundred-foot Douglas firs, rust red and draped with thick coats of moss. The walls of forest were at points so dense as to be nearly black with impenetrable growth. But then this dark fabric of woodland canopy was woven in places with threads of silvery light pierced by a needle of afternoon sun.




[View larger]

A rustic shelter near the falls provided a fine place to read and contemplate such themes as redemption, the revelation of God to men, and the nature of fallen Man. I noted to myself,

The flesh of which Paul speaks is not that which necessarily motivates men to intentionally violate God's law, which is rather indwelling sin working through the flesh; but is man's innate propensity towards self-identification. The result is an inclination to do as he wills, and being corrupt, the result is willful sin. When cowed by fears of God or the punishments of society, the flesh seeks to be approved on the basis of his own works before the law.

Where the flesh makes man his own representative, the spirit hides within the representative righteousness of Christ, finding in Christ's headship the basis for every act. The flesh says, "I shall do," while the spirit asks, "What shall Christ do in me?" Where the flesh has no power but self-interested will weakened by the corruptions of sin, the spirit receives power to obey from that Spirit of Christ who indwells. Flesh is man clutching his identity and has therefore no power than natural weakness, no resource but porous and putrefied humanity to draw from. Flesh looks to itself, to what it should, will, or can do. To be spiritual is to look no further than Christ, for what He has done, is doing, and shall do.

Aside from these deeper ruminations, I found moments in the afternoon to mull over a personal recipe for double-spicy peanuts:

16 oz. peanuts
1 tsp. fine granulated salt
1 juiced lime
5 oz. bottle Tapatio hot sauce

Mix in bowl, drain nuts over sieve letting excess return to bowl. Bake at 250 degrees until dry, then repeat process once more. Allow to cool .Enjoy thoroughly.

The evening was only a continuation of my ongoing march through biblical history with Vos.

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.