Riding the White Line

Returning to the Redwoods

Sunset at Harris Beach State Park and walking the edge of the surf.

Bill stopped for lunch.

October 2, 1985

What beautiful riding! From Mount Humbug, we got a cold, early start. The sun was shining though, which gave us encouragement and sure enough, by mid-morning, I was warming up enough to strip down to a shirt and shorts.

Billy and I ate lunch together along the side of the road. Just as we were finishing, John pulled up. He had stopped in the last town to have a bagel with Jeff and Bruce.

Most of the rest of the day, I rode by myself. I had lots of time to think and dream. I guess I still want to go for a newspaper in Fayetteville. And I still think a lot about kayaking around the world. And there’s that house to build. And what about the year at Kyle’s Landing? So much to live for.

Last night, we stayed at Harris Beach State Park. The sunset was pretty and so was the beach. I walked for quite awhile along the surf. That endless rush in and out reminds me of watching the ebbs and flows of the coals in a fire.

The next morning we rode into Brookings to eat breakfast at a place recommended by Let’s Go West Coast. Good food.

Then we went over to a bike shop so John could have someone look at the bearings on his crank. Bruce helped him rebuild the crank more or less. I got a new cage and water bottle.

So we got a late start. We rode to Crescent City for a bit of lunch and then pressed on over the mountains in California to arrive at Prairie Creek State Park.

How do describe those redwoods? They are unimaginably big. The elk are roaming the fields again. The raccoon were climbing down out of the trees before we even finished dinner! I love this campground.

A Community of Vagabonds

A keyhole in the sentinel rocks along the Oregon coast.

September 29, 1958

At Newport, we were joined by three other bicyclists at the biker/hiker site. Two guys from New York were going south to L.A. or San Fran.

And then a girl, Jodi, pulled in and set camp near us. She had begun in Portland, Maine, her home, and had bicycled west during the summer. She was going as far south as the California redwoods and then going to try finding a job in Salem.

The Oregon Dunes

Umpqua Lighthouse south of Reedsport

Fog creeping in from the Oregon coast as John rides south.

She rode with us that day down to Honeyman State Park where we got a lovely campsite and built a fire and listened to Billy play his guitar till the wee hours of the night.

I also went out to see the Oregon Dunes. Huge piles of sand, sometimes hundreds of feet high, stretched out for miles in both directions.

Next day was absolutely gorgeous. We had ridden in cloudy, foggy weather the day before, but now blue skies are smiling at me.

For lunch, I stopped at the Umpqua Lighthouse. Saw two guys from the Netherlands who are bicycling from Anchorage to, you guessed it, southern Argentina! There was a momentary inclination to join them. C’est la vie.

We didn’t make connections till about Coos Bay. I felt really strong that day and tried to catch two guys who were about a half mile ahead of me. I finally did. As it turned out, they, Jeff and Bruce, joined us for the night at our campsite at Sunset Bay State Park. They were from Massachusetts and are cycling from near Dosewallips to San Francisco.

We had good conversation that evening, talking about why bicyclists were so respected and why so many people wanted to talk to you and so on.

The sunset was sweet. I sat up on a bluff and listened to the gulls and sea lions and watched the spoonbill crane. It was quite a peaceful evening.
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Jodi left us today. She had a mail drop in Bandon and today is Sunday, so she’s staying near there till tomorrow. The rest of us have come down to Humbug Mountain State Park. The scenery was marvelous today. The coast, with its broken and scattered shoreline, is entrancing. Its crashing crescendo invades my mind and heart.

I called Valerie last night and checked about staying at her place. She may be out of town on a business trip, but she said we could stay either way. I miss her. Hearing her voice was nice.
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I miss Beth very much. She manages to drip into the caverns of my thoughts quite often on days like today, when the air is chilly and the roads steep.
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We’ve passed mile 800 and should make about 1,200 by San Francisco.

Slow Ride Through Oregon

September 26, 1985

Many miles and adventures have elapsed since last writing. The second night at Darby’s was quite fun. We rented another video, Never Cry Wolf. Darby also had two other people come over to stay at the same time. An old friend, former college roommate, etc., was visiting to look for a house and brought her mother up. They’re both from Cameron, Mo., just north of Liberty.

They fixed a scrumptious dinner of fried chicken, corn on the cob, salad and mashed potatoes while we provided the desert: ice cream.

Next morning we cruised for Champoeg State Park. We followed pretty much the same route that I did after I left Susan in 1982.

Bill, John and Mount Hood on horizon.

Above, Bill rides along a bike path into Champoeg. Below, John steams vegetables for dinner.

Champoeg was pretty. Trees are beginning to change color. Sadly, they’re not quite as pretty as the Ozarks. Mostly, they turn from green to yellow. Very little red and no orange. But they are pretty nestled in amongst so many evergreens.

[I remember John fixing steamed vegetables in his cook pot, which included a strainer that kept the veggies up out of the boiling water. I am and always was so pedestrian in my culinary arts that it fascinated me to watch John and Billy cook up their meals.]

Tuesday, we stopped by the visitor center and then headed south across the French Prairie. What a day for riding. Temperatures climbed to a bit above 80 degrees. We had a slight breeze out of the west and north, and we had farmland and bike paths and everything we could want.

We reached Corvallis in short order and found the home of two friends, Randy and Mary. They are sharing their house with three gals who are going to college right now. Jean Lee from Kamp came over and so did Mike Chriss, who worked as a wildman back in 1981 with me. Jean is on the OSU track team and Mike is one of the assistant track coaches.

After dinner, Randy and Mary had a volleyball game and invited me to play if they didn’t have enough people show up. They did. Rats. I wasn’t really in their league anyway. One of the girls on the team, Kelly, was impressive to say the least. She could smash the crud out of one of the ball. Anyway, she came over after the game and had ice cream with us. She seemed pretty neat. Wednesday, Mike took us to breakfast at Illa’s. I had a “manhole” and a cheese omelet. Oh, my gosh, did I not know what I was getting into! I was stuffed.

Manholes are about 15-inch-wide pancakes and a good three-quarter inch thick. The omelet, at least three eggs, came with a pile of hash browns and toast. I loved it. We went back again this morning.

After breakfast, Jean and her roommate, Carrie, met us to go rafting on the North Santiam River. Going through one rapid, John and I fell out of the rear of our raft. Jean was in front, and rescued us before we went through Spencer’s Hole.

I’m still not sure exactly what happened. I remember leaning back into the water, my leg still pried into the raft, then I went into the water, so I assume the raft must be coming over on me. Then I felt John come in on top of me. I released my leg and came up looking downstream for the raft. It was nowhere in sight. I turned around to look for John. The raft was behind him caught in the hole which had thrown us out.

Jean finally paddled out of it and caught up with John. I was still 20 yards downstream. The water’s coldness was beginning to sink in and I kept banging my legs into boulders. I tried to keep my feet up. Jean grabbed my hand and I grabbed hold of the raft. Hooray, back in the saddle again. What an exciting day!

That evening, after we did laundry, Randy lined up a deal for Bill to speak to an FCA group. Only a couple of kids showed up. It was their first meeting and not much notice had been given. We had fun talking though. We went by Jean’s that evening to say bye to her and Carrie.

This morning we set out for the coast. The ride, although mostly uphill, was wonderful. My muscles are finally beginning to pull well. We camped at South Beach State Park near Newport. Fog has moved into the area and I’m being inundated with mist. We begin south again.

*At Champoeg, I changed new wheels on. The riding is going much better as a result. I still don’t keep up with John and barely keep Billy in sight.

A Respite in Portland

John, Bill and Charlie just after crossing the bridge over the Columbia River.

September 22, 1985

We’ve arrived in Portland and stayed overnight with Darby. She is so much like Diane that it’s funny. And, of course, she knows all the Kamp people up here.

Billy stayed with the people at whose church he was to sing this morning. John and I rented a video to see last night, the Karate Kid. So we’ve just been making ourselves at home. We think we may get a couple more for tonight.

We visited the REI store here yesterday, and John bought a tent to replace the one he and Jon had been using. It went with Jon when he parted from us. John, Billy and I had been sleeping three in Billy’s tent, which was nice on cold nights but not quite so enjoyable otherwise.

Frank and Grace

Wizard Island in the middle of Crater Lake.

September 15, 1982

Obviously, I never finished writing about the 11th. That was my breaking-away day. I’ve traveled much better since then — emotionally, physically and mentally.

Crater Lake was awe-inspiring. The seventh-deepest lake in the world was as blue as the Mediterranean. A big cinder cone, a volcano within the volcano, stuck out of the lake like a pyramid out of the flat desert. They call it Wizard Island. It looks like something Walt Disney could have come up with.

After that, I had a long downhill ride to Stewart State Park, where I figured I would spend the night. When I found it, I had second thoughts. Spread out over two or three acres, RVs and vans dotted the park like houses in a new subdivision. But I was tired. The wind had blown in my face all day. This park had showers and water and fire grates. What the heck, I will suffer civilization one night.

I made my way to the only vacant site. As I began pitching my tent, an older man from across the way meandered over. I expected to get the 10 questions: Where you headed? How far did you go today? What does your bike weigh? I was tired and didn't really want to go through the questions. But this guy didn't ask me the 10 questions. Instead, he asked if I would care to join him and his wife for dinner. Some fisherman had caught five trout and wasn't going to keep them, so he gave them to this guy. His name was Frank Hayes and his wife’s name was Grace. They had started cycling in 1942, when gas was being rationed for the war. For their honeymoon, he and Grace had started in Indiana, ridden up through Michigan and over to Ste. Sault Marie Island. All the motels along the way had welcomed them with open arms because nobody else was traveling.

They were from Bloomington, where there’s a big cycling club. They were old enough now that they didn’t bike too much anymore, but did still drive sag wagon for the cyclists at races and such. They had a good-sized cargo van fixed up for cross-country travel with a bed that folded up, and a small stove and sink. Most of the creature comforts. We sat out back of their van, and ate fish and steamed vegetables. I enjoyed the company and meal immensely. That was a fitting end to a very big day.

Since then, I headed southwest toward the coast and California. I came through the Redwoods National Parks and traveled along the coast. Two incredibly majestic scenes set against one another made me want to stay. The massive, towering redwoods dwarf every other living thing I’ve ever seen. I found one that was twice my height across easily. And then 30 minutes later I saw the powerful, constant waves of the Pacific Ocean beating against the northern California coastline.

My gosh, I saw my first elk yesterday. I stayed at Prairie Creek State Park in the biker-hiker area near a large field. Grazing in the field was a herd of about 30 elk with a huge bull. It’s rutting season here, and two other bulls were stalking the edges of the herd. I nearly walked into one of them by accident. Oowee, scare me. I think I may have gotten some good pictures though.

Breaking Away

Charlie on a self-guided tour of the Lava Cave State Park in Oregon.

September 11, 1982

More catching up to do. I’d like to write about the land and geography if I might take a break from the emotion-filled writing.

The land I’m traveling through is majestic. The mountains are tall, rugged and powerful. The trees shoot straight as an arrow hundreds of feet up. I’m overwhelmed by the beauty. Champoeg State Park, where I stayed on Sept. 5, was located on the Willamette River just southwest of Portland. It’s quite a historic place in these parts. The town of Champoeg formed its own city council and aligned itself with the United States. Before that, the area had been jointly used by the French, British, Spanish, Russian and American trappers, traders and woodsmen.

Aside from its beauty, Champoeg is served by several bike routes.

Writing in my journal at my birthday campsite in the Cascades.

Back to the nearer present. When I left my campsite of Sept. 8, I found myself in a very different climate. I had crossed the mountains into Oregon’s High Desert. An area populated by Ponderosa pine and lots of Indian sage. It was a much drier area as opposed to the Willamette valley west of the mountains.

I stopped in Bend to do some writing and rest and relax. That was good for me. After Bend, I headed out toward Crater Lake. I made it as far as Lava Lands State Park. I enjoyed looking at their displays and presentation about volcanoes and volcanic activity.

I slept just beyond there in the national forest. The sky was trying to rain on me, and I figured I better get the tent up fast. Well, of course, then it didn’t rain. But I’m told it snowed in the mountains a little.

Next day, the 10th presented a cold morning so I stopped at Lava Cave State Park to see it. Basically, it consisted of a self-guided tour down a long lava tube. For 50 cents, it was worth it except that it didn’t get me any warmer!

I made good time on the 10th despite headwinds. I covered enough ground to put me over a half day ahead of schedule. But when I set camp, I could tell it was going to be cold. I ate some soup and crackers and even fixed some beef bullion. The night was cold. I didn’t sleep most of the night. I was terribly stiff in the morning, and frost was everywhere. That was my emotional low point since Susan left.

But Sept. 11 proved to be the turning point.

I ate some warm eggs, packed everything on the bike and headed up the mountain. I could feel nothing in my fingers. My lips were chapped and dry. All of me was cold. I wanted to be home. I wanted to be holding someone in my arms, and I wanted to be warm.

While making my way toward Crater Lake, three other cycle-tourers passed me like I was standing still. A few moments later I stopped. I said to myself, “Wait. It’s time to reflect on why you decided to do this, and whether you want to go on.”

I thought about the fears I had. I feared loneliness. I was afraid of running out of money before making it home. I was afraid that I couldn’t find the physical stamina to take the long hours and cold weather.

Why did I come here? My original intention was to see America. I wanted to know the land and its people. I didn’t want to simply drive by. I wanted to see more than the tourist shops. I wanted to understand. Those were and are worthy and admirable intentions. So next I set about allaying my fears.

I recall the words of Dr. Franklin Williams, a business professor at the university. He used to say, “You bastards got to take your fears as challenges and overcome them. You can, you know!”

In Oregon and on My Own

September 8, 1982

My birthday! But I have some catching up to do. Since Susan left, I’ve found it very hard to want to sit down and write in this book. But I know I must keep on keeping on. And this is part of my survival.

Charlie riding a bike path into Champoeg.

The evening after Susan left, I stayed in a wonderful state park called Champoeg (shämpooee). It’s located on the Willamette River in the heart of the French Prairie. It was a sad night for certain because Susan wasn’t there. That was Sept. 5.

On Sept. 6, I biked into Salem to stay with a friend, Terry, and her family. It was a short ride, so I got there about 3 p.m. and played around until Terry got home. Got some writing done and mostly just relaxed.

Terry’s family was most hospitable and enjoyable. Her mom was too nice and her dad was hilarious. It was helpful getting Susan off my mind for a little bit. And Terry talked to me quite awhile about Susan and how I was holding up and that sort of thing. It helped a lot to share with someone about what I’m feeling.

Next day, Sept. 7, I and Terry called Susan! Gosh it was good to hear her voice. Praise Ma Bell! She had gotten home safely. Apparently, being home was sort of strange, she said. I told her I missed her, which is to say I’m having a tough time living without her. But anyway, I stayed in Salem long enough to see Dan Roberts, who drove up from Eugene to see Terry. Then I headed out toward Bend.

I stayed in Fisherman’s Bend Park last night. About 30 miles outside of Salem and on the Santiam River. Pretty enough place, I suppose, but not for $5. From now on I’m camping in the national forest and living free.

And now we’re to today. My hardest ride so far. I’m not sure total mileage, but I spent at least 50 miles climbing 3,000 feet. I’m hurtin’ for certain. I bathed in a snow-fed creek tonight, and I’m sleeping under some big ponderosa pine. Pretty spot, if I do say so myself.

I did call home this morning to check in and hear somebody say happy birthday. Susan said it yesterday, which brightened my day, and Mom said it today. I guess I’m a little homesick and a little Susan-sick and a whole lot tired.

Good night and happy birthday.