T+20: Happy Birthday to Me

Mile 245: SHELTON, WA: Today is my 57^th birthday and we have been on the bikes 9 days.  We are definitely getting stronger.  Yesterday, we came over Cloquallam Creek from Elma, to Shelton, Washington.  This was definitely an out-back route, with almost no services for 26 miles. 

We left our hostel stay after a meager breakfast of oatmeal and one container of yogurt between us.   According to the Adventure Cycling map, there was a grocery stop about half way along the route.  We figured we would stop there for a break.   When we got to spot where to store was supposed to be, the building looked boarded up, and there was an older woman with scraggledy blonde hair in intense negotiations with a fellow in a beat up old pick-up truck.  She would reach into the bed of the truck, pick up something, and exchange a few words.  Wes heard her say “Who would want a moldy old board?”  We saw afterwards that the wreck of a building had an “OPEN” sign on it and we wondered if that was the grocery stop in question.

Neither of us wanted to stop, but this had consequences down the line.  By mile 15, our breakfast was long gone and we still had more than 10 miles to go.    This was definitely going to be a fat burning moment.  If only that stored energy were easier to access.  It just sits there on our guts and butts, as our energy drains away.

There is a growing mismatch between Wes and my cycling.  My months of training and the fact that my bike is much more of a road bike means that I am going much faster than Wes.  I have to stop every couple of miles and wait for him.  He comes plodding along on his heavy mountain bike with balloon tires.    We have an on-going discussion about the best approach to pedaling.  I say more spin, less push.  Wes says that means he goes too slowly, but I think he is coming around because pushing the pedals over and over is exhausting.

Speaking of Wes, he has been wanting to “guest-blog”, so I will turn it over to him:


Howdy. Some of you know, and some don’t, that I am addicted to speed. No, not the chemical kind, the kind that is generated by self-propelled movement such as skiing and, of course, biking. As it turns out, there are some ‘killer’ hills on this north-bound route from Portland to northern Washington. So, Shaun and I are having a hell of a lot of pain and a hell of a lot of fun pushing up and ripping down hills. One was two and a half miles at 6% grade with the added bonus of a coffee shop at the bottom. Whoo-Hoo!

My observations on the economy: In the Oregon/Washington corridor we’ve noticed the middle class is struggling to stay even and there is an unusual number of very poor people. Our conclusion; the poor are getting poorer in this area. I’ll make periodic updates as we move across the country.

Shaun again:

One of the ironies of this part of country-- We are in a huge forest and yet many, many people live in mobile homes.   One day a couple days back captured the yin and yang of this experience. 

We camped at the Lewis and Clark State Park, after a glorious day on the Jackson Highway, one of the original roads of the Oregon Trail.  It was clear and cool, and up on this high prairie, we could see for miles.  Mount St. Helens was on our right, snowy and misshapen, with its massive chunk removed from its conical shape.  We have seen this mountain from three sides now, and it figures very much in peoples’ consciousness. 

One sweet fellow named Fred, whom we met at the Columbia River camp, told us “You kids shouldn’t oughta drink that stinkin' camp water, you jist hep yurselvs to my 5 gallon tank.”  He also tells us that he and his crew had been watching the bulge grow on St Helens for days, and were about 10 miles away when it blew.  He shook his head sadly, “I tole my crew we had to go on inside, so we missed seeing the explosion by thirty minutes.  It lost a thousand feet in one minute and I didn’t get to see it.”



More stunning by half is seeing Mount Rainier, which is twice the size of St Helen’s.  I have never seen such big massif.  It looms in the north like some white headed mountain god.  I can see why the native people revered it.  Unlike the Rockies, which are a serrated chain of mountains, these are single, gigantic volcanoes.  Rainier must be at least 100 miles across the base, rising several thousand feet above that.  It has a sheer northern face that must be at least 1500 feet.  Most days are cloudy here.  The appearance of that massif must feel like the unexpected appearance of planetary diety.

We camp in the shadow of Rainier at a very little used state park called Lewis and Clark State Park.   The camp host comes to tell us that, once again, we have been unintentional scoff-laws, by camping in a spot intended for RVs and not in the hiker-biker site.  He recognized that this was ridiculous, as there was only 1 hiker biker site, it was filled and the rest of the camp was empty.  But rules were rules, and he had to get special permission from the ranger to let us stay there.  

Wes measures a giant Douglas fir
 

We asked why it is so little used.  His answer, “All there is is trees and hiking, and that ain’t interesting enough for the kids.”  It is interesting enough for us as this is an old growth forest.  We take a hike and see Douglas firs that are at least 120 feet tall, with trunks of at least  20 foot circumference.   We are agog at the western red cedar.  The bases of their trunks are as big as a small car.   The buildings of the park were made by the CCC’s in the 1930’s; they are well done Western heroic craftsman style.

We set our tent on a bed of moss and listen to the ancient trees whisper in the night.  The next morning we tarry and tarry, not wanting to leave this magical place of primeval energy.    But the road calls and we make our way to the fairly big town of Centralia.  

This is yet another lumber town, pretty much down on its luck.  Camping choices are limited, so we end up staying in the tent section of a fairly low end RV park.  We are right next to an industrial lumber yard with a rail spur, so there are regular train, equipment, and diesel truck sounds. 

I notice that the washing machines are reasonably priced, so instead of sitting at the picnic table in the shadow of the lumber yard, I decide to wash clothes.  We are digging through all of our pockets trying to find money for the machines, when an older man pushing a walker opens the door and shoves a plastic sack of books at me.  He pants, “Would you put that in ‘ere fer me?”

On the spur of the moment, I ask if he has any change. He looks stunned, but answers, “Yeah, but it’s back at m'trailer.”  I walk with him back to his home.  He apologizes, “My legs don’t work so good.”  At one point, his knee almost gives out and he grabs the wall of the wash house.  He apologizes again.  I offer my arm; he refuses.  We putter along, talking about his dog, Shadow, a snow white toy poodle.  He says, “It’s good for a guy to have some companionship—keeps him up and movin’.”  He says, “I spend too much time readin’, a guy’s got to have sumpin’ to keep him goin’.” 

When we get back to his home, I see that is a small motor home, hardly bigger than a van.  He apologizes again.  “Jis'  big enough for one.”  He rummages about, then gives me five dollars in quarters.  I ask him about his reading.  “Oh, I like mysteries, and westerns, and suspense. I don’t like the same thing over n' over.  I get bored.”  I look at his big luminous, rheumy blue eyes behind big metal glasses.  I ask, “Do you have any family around here?” “I got a sister over n' Chehalis…I got a kid in Portland…”, he answers vaguely.  It is obvious he hasn’t seen either in quite a while.  I leave Walt to his dog, books, and tiny trailer, and wonder what will happen when his legs completely give out.

A little while later, when we are leaving the laundry room, we see an elderly couple with a small spaniel taking a walk.  They give us a little wave as we go by.  Back at our table, we are fixing a cup of tea, when all of a sudden we hear a little dog barking and barking.   Wes looks up and says, “Did that guy just fall?”  Across the way, the little spaniel is barking, and the old man is laying on the ground. 

We hurry over there and find a frail old man lying on his back.  Wes asks if we can help him.  He says his wife has gone to get the car, He was "just plumb done in.”   We stay with him until his wife comes.  He asks if Wes was ever in the service.  Upon hearing that he was not, the thin, neat, white haired man tells us that he served in Iwo Jima in ‘42, Okinawa in ‘44, and Nanking in '46.  “I 'spect you two were not even born then,”  he guesses.  When the wife arrives, Wes gently puts his arms around the tiny frail man and picks up him in one smooth motion.  They thank us for our concern and we watch them drive away slowly.

We return to our camp abashed.  How can this camp be full of so many old, frail, and rather impoverished seniors?  I spend the rest of night wondering about our country’s values.  I am still wondering.