Week 9: Shrooms and a Beer

2/27

I kick off the 27th in an act of hypocrisy: snoozing my alarm. For years that practice has reigned king at the top of my pet peeve list. Yet there I was, consciously bowing down to rest’s bad influence. I sleep long enough to blow my shot at Pacific Loon, but feel little remorse when I exit the room to a a Fort Bragg under siege from fog.

It’s never a good idea to ride in fog, but fortunately the day’s travels would only amount to twenty miles. I’d tackle these miles in two stints, stopping only in the cutesy and pricey town of Mendocino to grab lunch.

A flyover group of six Cedar Waxwings affirmed my selection of a lunch destination and pinged my year list to 161.

Whenever I enter even the slightest scrape of civilization, I brace myself for the same set of responses to my loony lifestyle:

1. Warnings of grave danger or personal horror stories (as if I don’t know the risk of being on the road all day after two months of exposure)
2. Mention of some sort of an acquaintance that rides a unicycle that’s usually presented as “Oh, my so-and-so rides a unicycle.”
3. “Have you heard about e-unicycles?”

Unless someone is hollering out “You’re missing a wheel!”, the range of responses usually falls somewhere in the preceding list.

Back on the road, I notice an odd trend at every bridge crossing. Rivers cannot seem to reach all the way through to their oceanic destination. River mouth after river mouth is silted in right where the union should be consummated in the form of an estuary. Maybe its just my easternness showing, but this phenomenon struck me as odd. I knew that the Colorado River no longer achieved a connection with the Baja as a result of intensifying agricultural thirst, but I was seeing this in every drainage.

It seemed as though the rivers lacked sufficient vigor to overcome the domination of the Pacific’s moon-driven craft. These placid passages wouldn’t have had much trouble snaking their way out to the freedom of the Atlantic, but relations with the Pacific are a different story. The Pacific nurtures in a different way, a stern and unyielding manner that’s nearly more deserving of the description of abuse.

But why weren’t these rivers stepping up to the plate and rebelling against their oppressor? Their courses were set, condemned (or blessed) to carry the water that their watershed provides. Back in the east, where coastal rivers etch their course in low-relief flatlands, tributary upon tributary join forces, each lending its own life force to form unstoppable giants over a large land area.

Northern California rivers have no such support system on the coast, coerced by hilly terrain to carry the water of a much smaller footprint. Combine the landscape’s will with the rain’s sheepish and unreliable presence in this part of the world, and you have mouthless rivers.

The winding ride down to my camping destination of Navarro Beach State Park was gorgeous. Upon my approach, the fog briefly cleared, and the water was electric blue. It was only 2pm when I arrived, but I went ahead and set up camp for $10.

There were no facilities in the flood-prone, beachfront campground, only porta potties. While there were a good number of folks out enjoying the beach access in the afternoon, including a nice couple who left me all kinds of supplies: coconut milk, a tangerine, apples, a bottle of tea, and some turkey; by nightfall I was the only one remaining.

I birded the small park as the day-users cleared out and then got to work gathering firewood for my inaugural Big Year bonfire. Finally I could collect copious amounts of firewood without having to pay some sort of state park fee. There was plenty of driftwood scattered across the sandy zipper that shut the mouth of the Navarro.

Just as I had finished my prep and set to lighting the fire, the flint on the lighter that I scavenged on an Oregon beach broke. I was totally SOL. There’s nothing more frustrating than going through the effort and having everything perfectly at hand, only to come up short in the most important part of fire building: the genesis.

I sat back to reflect on the meaning of this cruel curse and was excited to spot a lone figure ambling down the road towards the beach. After my desperate plea for help, he said that he’d check his car for matches. After he pondered for a bit on the beach, he returned to strike up a conversation. Just then, a car rolled up with lighter-bearing passengers, and the fire got its chance after all.

The man named Jaimie stayed for a while, unable to resist the supernatural allure of a fire. We plunged headfirst into a surprisingly deep conversation as he regaled me with tales of Grateful Dead shows and his own summer-long bike tour decades ago. He left me with a book recommendation and many thoughts to ponder alongside my crackling companion. In hindsight, Jaimie’s company feels almost too mystical to be true, but that’s California for you.

It was my first California campfire, and it would burn strong well into the night. A shooting star shot across the sky amid a break in the night’s scattered haze.

2/28

At 5:45 some hooligans rolled in and woke me before they realized it wasn’t a drive-on beach and then left to find one. Why does this always happen at campgrounds? I feel like a quarter of the time that I am at a campsite some random weirdos ride in at an ungodly hour and make a racket for no reason whatsoever.

When I did wake up under my own accord, the coast was still enshrouded in fog.

Fog or not, I had to press on. So I did just that.

Traffic was very light on the first stint, and riding was nice and mystical, owing to the profuse tide of fog pouring off of the ocean like a reverse waterfall. I was so happy to not be on 101, again thanks to the purchase of the camping gear! Instead I was motoring along the quiet reaches of Highway 1, supported by campgrounds and small dots of civilization.

At one vista, I was offered some shrooms by some intrigued motorists.

Are they kicking in?

Actually my inner Nancy Reagan kicked in, and I politely declined the offer. Tripping on shrooms didn’t seem to be in great accordance with the goals at hand.

After a lunch stop at a Mexican place in Point Arenas, the road ceased to possess any sort of allure. I quickly became frustrated amid construction zones, gusty winds, and terrible road conditions. I was slipping into tunnel vision as each passing car zoomed by and kicked up a gravel and dust cloud. It was one of those gray days that gets progressively colder through the afternoon, and I just wasn’t having it.

Eventually I did settle into a groove, Deck the Halls repeating in my head as I inched closer to Gualala(lala lalalala). I netted another yearbird in Pygmy Nuthatch at a pulloff and was offered a beer by a pedestrian north of town. If only people knew that what I really wanted was Gatorade and Clif Bars, not alcohol and hallucinogens.

Finally I stopped in at the grocery store in Gualala to get supplies and say hello to Brian, a cyclist that struck up a conversation with me on the road the day before. Hello Brian!

In the late evening sun, I made my way to the community park campsite south of town. Welcome to Sonoma County.

2/29

This campsite is bustling on a weekend. I haven’t seen any quite as busy since I’ve been camping.

Today is a bonus day, a leap day on a leap year. Only once in every four years can you write 2/29 without being accused of an act of idiocy. Owing to the fact that it takes the Earth 365 days and some change to complete its orbit around the sun every year, 2020 is designated as a special year to account for the accumulation of those partial days.

The year’s gift to me is an extra day. An extra day to ride, bird, and enjoy the adventure at hand.

So I took to the road, determined to take full advantage of the gift of time. I was pleased with my progress, knocking on San Fran’s Golden Gate at the start of the third month.

The road’s surface had improved tremendously, but the wind was relentless and brutal. What should have been a straightforward 20 miles became a grunge match against an invisible foe.

Nature’s other personas must have taken pity on me this day, as I was awarded two galliforme yearbirds, one of which, California Quail, was a life bird.

Soon I was upon Stillwater Cove, a geographic attraction with a namesake that seemed to suggest shelter from the uncaring winds. As I drifted off in the campground, I could only hope and pray that the wind would let up for March’s premiere.

3/1

It sho nuff did. And boy was I in sync for the start of my third month on the job. Every part of the day seemed to be exquisitely timed.

I woke with a desire to ride, so I hit the road fairly early.

Cruising south, I began to feel as though I was under the influence of the San Franciscan metropolis. Top-notch road conditions suggested affluence and prosperity, and these societal qualities lent much to the road experience.

This transition brought Teslas, more expensive lodging and food, stylish and attractive people, and more Teslas. This was the image of California most frequently broadcasted to the world, that idyllic dreamworld of Cali.

I rode alongside the fortunate residents of this land to reach the famed Jenner grade, where Highway 1 clings to the edge of some scenic sea cliffs that appeared too picturesque to offer any sort of threat. What met my eyes did not seem to match the dire warnings that I received north of here.

I had too much fun riding along the thrilling stretch, occasionally stopping to yield to trucks or RV’s that dominated the highway pecking order.

Waiting for me in the valley south of the Jenner cliffs was a construction zone or two. Surprise, surprise. But I had mentioned before that my timing was spot-on, and it was. My early morning exodus equated to light traffic and manageable morning winds where it counted, and my Sunday travel meant that the construction zones were policed by automated traffic lights, not patrolled by workers. Those lights could not stop me from heading right for the “Do Not Enter” signs to weave through the obstacles.

I felt a bit like a celebrity as I entered Jenner: people were giving me thumbs ups, taking my photo, and talking to me. Apparently I was getting into the part of California where the idea of distance unicycling meant something to people. I stopped for lunch at Cafe Aquatica, where the scene was so textbook California that it almost felt like a contrived experience. Outside of the small restaurant flew a pride flag in a prominent manner. The indoor atmosphere was guided by the timeless vocal prowess of Bob Marley and Jerry Garcia (not concurrently, of course). I ended up ordering a sandwich called “the Rainbow” before settling down to enjoy the live performance of the bossa nova duo that played in the sunshine, with the bay as their backdrop. It was one of those “can’t make this up moments.”

After this significant dosage of California, I rode like a madman out of town, fueled by adrenaline and good vibes. I’ve never felt so right cruising down the smooth asphalt of Highway 1.

I’m sure the scene in my head did not truly approximate reality, but I felt that I was pacing with the Sunday traffic just fine. In hindsight, I picture myself cruising along at automobile speeds, though I know my actual physical limitations.

Now in Bodega Bay, I settled down for a few days of birding and time off of the uni.

The heavenly day’s conclusion came with amazing looks at my lifer Pacific Loon in the bay’s sunset ambiance.

3/2

The second was lived to the fullest as I birded the hell out of Bodega Bay, which revealed itself as more of a notable hotspot than I realized.

Early on I ran into a cat named David who was scanning the bay’s waterfowl selection with a spotting scope. After chatting for a while, David headed onwards, aided by one of birding’s most revolutionary tools: the car. I followed at a snail’s pace, scanning every inch of the bay’s shore for noteworthy inhabitants.

David would soon return with tidings of a Rough-legged Hawk, which is exactly what I needed to hear at that moment in time. After boogying to the location that he described, I bagged the desirable Buteo and would go on to add three more yearbirds on the walk. The day’s list was a killer 71 species, which was practically 40% of my year’s total to date.

My Bodega Bay excursion possessed elements of novelty and familiarity, and the birding jaunt drug me through some unexpected episodes of the past. I didn’t expect old Van Zant delivering the southern ballad of “All I Can do is Write About It” as I chowed down on a BBQ sandwich at the marina. I found other aspects of the walk to be very Peruvian, from the footpaths through Eucalyptus and Cypress groves to the Andean scenery.

At the same time, the unknown road ahead instilled me with a sense of excitement and adventure. The nude hills that lay ahead looked much less intimidating than the secret-riddled and densely forested terrain behind me. It was as though the road had nothing to hide and everything to share; California wanted me to revel in its natural wealth.

3/3

In the a.m. I relocated to a campground eight miles south that Google proclaimed as “Redwoods Campground 2.” Such a generic title would have led a more cautious traveler to reexamine or reconsider, but I pulled my naivety close and rode on. The decision to stop over here was no question of convenience. In fact, this was a mildly inconvenient move that would add an extra day to the campaign to SF, but it was a real no-brainer considering multiple recent reports of Evening Grosbeak. Now this bird had eluded me before, but I just could not resist the shot at adding this guy to the year’s trophy case.

Another tidbit of good tidings came from David, the birder that I had conversed with the day before. He mentioned Salmon Creek Road as a reliable Saw-whet Owl spot and that there was a campground of sorts in the area. The only thing he failed to mention was the apparent ISIS base nearby...

eBird and Google Maps confirmed his assertions, so my path was set. Off to the hills I rode.

Finding the campsite proved difficult as I advanced deeper into the hills along very minor roads. Eventually I realized that a posted area with some fire rings that I had passed was the refuge that I sought after but that I must have just approached from the wrong side of Salmon Creek.

In my continuing effort to make my living honestly in order to avoid unnecessary conflict, I crossed the creek and began my search for a campground steward somewhere behind the rolling, forested hills that abutted the creek.

It wasn’t long before I gained the attention of some seriously agitated dogs and their owner. Amid the raucous ramblings of the dogs in the yard, I settled my camping dues, which amounted to $30 despite a more typical $50 rate for these basic campsites. Like I said earlier, everything had become more expensive.

My Campground was "The Bomb"

I set up camp and strolled back down to the town of Bodega, adding two yearbirds  in the unparalleled scenery: Band-tailed Pigeon and a surprise Red-naped Sapsucker. The Sapsucker ended up being my best find of the trip, and numerous local birders were successful in relocating the bird.

After a memorable dinner in the little town, I eased back to camp in the dark. The channels of my mind flipped between Slenderman, the Revenant, and the Blair Witch Project. Every tree looked like a gargoyle. I simply couldn’t shake horrific images in the deepening night, though I tried to will my mind to drift off on a tangent inspired by the vocalizing Wild Turkeys or Great Horned Owls.

Of course I did make it back to camp to retire without any sort of supernatural episode befalling my vulnerable state that night.

3/4

So I did not encounter any inkling of the presence of Evening Grosbeaks yesterday, despite birding where they were reported, and my attempt on the way out of town was equally as unsuccessful. I was forced to swallow the nemesis pill once again and head for the highway. Stinging Nettle bade me farewell from the pristine creek valley.

Despite the letdown of a failed chase, I was grateful for the detour from the highway and a real retreat to peaceful nature.

Highway 1 was a black ribbon that rode like glass. It was as smooth as silk. In Tomales, I stopped for lunch and was gifted a $10 bill by a nice lady was some surfer kids.

The remainder of the day’s ride felt very long and hilly. Although the hills weren’t major obstacles independently, the constant up-and-down action got to me. After each knee-shattering downhill, I’d be thrown mercilessly into another climb.

I’d make it to Samuel Taylor State Park just in time to set up camp for $7 in the fading daylight. There ended up being one other cycle tourist in the hiker/biker section, although I didn’t interact much with her. I spent my evening trying to chase down owls and foxes in the haunting Redwoods.

3/5

Week 9 would end symbolically at the gates of the City by the Bay, leaving a fresh week to be defined by the city’s exceptional adventures.

In the morning, I reached springtime in suburbia. In pushing closer to Suasalito, I was transported to a crisp spring morning on Kennesaw Mountain. This approximation of sensation rapidly morphed to an Italian villa before settling on a futuristic civilization. There were so many electric cars and bicycles. California was throwing me through a sort of culture shock that I didn’t really expect. What could I do but relish in the new experiences and surprises that the state was doling out?

Eventually I addressed the reality of the situation and stopped at a deli for some lunch. The share of food that I consumed that day would weigh in at two pounds, a generous and worthy serving after a few days of roughing it.

Urbanity confronted my engorged and dazed self in a way that I was not prepared for. In short order I was grounded, turned around, and forced to walk practically to the foot of the famous bridge.

It was pretty late when I broke on through to the scenic Marin Headlands. I wised for more time to explore this surprisingly quiet and remote-feeling expanse just a stone’s throw away from bustling San Francisco. The hostel that somehow became my destination was unreal. It doesn’t even belong in the same conversation as the Seaside Hostel that I stayed at in Oregon.

I settled in in a state of blank exhaustion that must have been revealed to the fellow youth according to my fractured conversation and forgetfulness in adding detergent to my laundry load.

I’d need a good rest before taking on the city.

Week 8: Under the Republic Sky

Did you think I had given up on the cause? Of course not! It means too much to me.

2/20

Last we left off, I had just committed to a major upgrade to the program: camping. Along with initiating the slew of random occasions where I would find myself cracking up reminiscing about camping trips with my buddies, camping would also gift me with ease. On the night of my first, and very controlled, camping test run, I slept like a rock. A full night’s sleep on Northern California earth was all I needed to declare the experiment a success and embrace the low-profile life.

I took care to pack up the rig thoughtfully, knowing that I’d make modifications to the gear placement as those improvements revealed themselves to me with the passage of the miles. A creature of habit, I returned to the road feeling sleek and mean.

Just like that I had eliminated a major limitation: lodging. The last wall to my separation from nature was just that: four walls. Now it was broken down. I’m really living the full experience.

It was immediately apparent to me that the “freedom” that I had been feeling was only the tip of the iceberg. I was only free by day to ride like the wind. And even then I was shackled by a chronic nagging thought: find somewhere to sleep. The botched approach to Trinidad a few days prior was a serious wakeup call: a nasty experience that I had no intention of reenacting.

So now I was free by day and night. The realization was intoxicating, thrusting my psyche to a state of invincibility: I was unstoppable. The impending challenges of California folded before me like a blackjack player with a crappy hand. The horizon only spoke of promise and opportunity, its fowl and sinister alter ego called doubt had faded by the wayside, merely a speck in hindsight and a battle scar representing a lesson learned.

Drunk on my freshly acquired sense of control, I entered Eureka but experienced its antonym. Small lapses in concentration caused me to lose track of which direction those little green bike signs were telling me to go. I became lost in the one-way streets of this Californian Crete, rapidly encountering Minotaurs in the form of headstrong drivers. The hostility of these locals registered quickly as I found myself being forced into a nonexistent median along the main four-lane drag. I was clearly off the cycling route. It was time for a lunch break.

That taken care of, I meandered back the to the route, running into an interesting and friendly character named Scott. Hey Scott!

My journey south continued to shittinize, as the cycling gods sought to restore humility to my camping-inflated ego.

Between several unexpected steep hills and the lack of signage, I was lucky to rejoin 101, I guess. It had achieved interstate proportions, and I really didn’t enjoy much riding alongside the alphas of the road world.

So I was relived when it was my time to divert for some country roads and make my way down to Humboldt Bay NWR. I had really booked a lot for myself on this day.

I approached the NWR like I was dealing with a tactical assignment. Get in, get the Tundra Swans, and get out. It was just that simple. Although I would make my getaway on an attention-grabbing one-wheeled contraption, not a special ops helicopter.

Fortunately for me, large white birds have a hard time concealing themselves, and I was able to nab mediocre looks at the majestic fowl and have time to explore the other regulars at the NWR, a bustling mecca for waterfowl.

As the day grew tired and prepared for its intermission, I tackled the final stretch to Ferndale, a small cyclist hamlet indicated by my AdventureCycling map. Two Pileated Woodpeckers and miles of really bumpy road later and I arrived, possessing a shadow of the morning’s optimism.

$12 later and I was setting up camp at a fairgrounds, surrounded by an exorbitant amount of feral cats.

2/21

My alarm on this Friday morning was living, breathing, and hacking up a lung. I guess a portion of the 12 dollars gets you an unsolicited wakeup call in the form of a phlegm-riddled campground host.

It actually got down to 37 degrees last night, pushing the limit of my 35 degree sleeping bag. But I slept like a bear, perhaps a product of my continued comfort in lodging security.

I headed for town on foot for a legitimate breakfast and found Ferndale to be a surprisingly charming little Hallmark town, located comfortably enough away from the freeway to feel peaceful yet still relevant. It felt like the 18th, 19th, and 21st centuries were mosaicked into one small town. The post office appeared to be snatched directly out of an old western town. It was nestled alongside stores that bore signs signaling “blacksmith” and “millenary.” I practically needed an old english dictionary just to understand what services these places were offering. The town is known for its Victorian architecture, and it showed in Rococo-scale exuberance and color. I’m surprised they weren’t playing Norah Jones over loudspeakers in the streets 24/7. It was a little utopia.

After breakfast, I packed up and took off. Spring was all around me, from the warm temps, to the Violet-green Swallow flyover, to the Willow bud break, to the pollen dusting the faces of the curious and eager songbirds, to the scores of unfamiliar plants springing up along the roadside.

I had a pretty good backwoods ride to River Dell, where an incredibly kind lady bought me as much food as I could stomach at the local burger joint. She had been the beneficiary of acts of kindness on a cycling tour of her own many years ago.

101 returned into my life like a persistent migraine, strongly foiling the spectacular scenery of my new friend, the Eel River. Fortunately my sentence with the concrete river was truncated by the appearance of a true gift from God: the famed Avenue of the Giants. This oft-mentioned attraction exceeded my expectations and made for great unicycle riding. The Redwoods experience put into perspective the grueling reality of my introduction to the ecosystem back on 101 south of Crescent City.

I blazed through the patient beauties like a banshee, surpassing the 40 mile mark on the day before settling in Myers Flat. I would have almost rather have donated an organ than pay the $40 at the private campground, but backtracking 3 miles to the public campground felt like a greater challenge than the 40 that I had just tackled. So I sucked it up and enjoyed the lesson in cycle economics and a refreshing shower. California is really bumming me out with these omnipresent feral cats.

2/22

Last night’s campsite wasn’t dominated by floodlights as the previous two night’s, and I was grateful for the nod to circadian rhythms.

This morning I reflected on the ever growing sense of patriotism that the Redwoods experience has instilled in me. You all know the line: “From the Redwood forest to the Gulf Stream waters.” Naturally the tune monopolized my mind, initially conjuring previously-held mixed opinions with a hint of cynicism. In the past, the hymn exuded hints of imperialism and manifest destiny to me. I couldn’t help but mourn the loss of possession of those that were here before Columbus’ arrival. Like this land was made for the white man all along.

But America’s dark past has nothing to do with this song. The song is about equality and diversity-inspired unity on a grand scale. It’s about what makes this nation incredible, not why its flawed. Hell, literally everything is imperfect. Adopting a critical mentality for that reason is just a worthless slippery slope. It’s best to embrace the good. I hope that kids still learn that song in school.

On the road, the overcast morning gave way to stunning sun, and I enjoyed the remainder of the Avenue of the Giants. Encountering a friendly couple snapping photos under the canopy, I seized the opportunity to get some photos where I was actually in them. By the time the lady had airdropped the photos to my phone, they had already been edited.

The moment that I returned to 101, the landscape changed drastically. Everything went dry, and the hills were now scrubby with chaparral. This was the land of Acorn Woodpeckers and California Quail.

In Redway, I stopped for lunch and made the mistake of downing a vanilla milkshake before tackling the climb to Garberville in the afternoon heat. I may as well have taken a laxative.

I raced to check-in to a motel, afraid of the imminent intestinal detonation within. Of course the first motel operator was away until later. Luckily, the second one was nearby and had someone around. I held it together as we went through the check-in process.

Out on the Lone Pine, I'm Gonna Make you Mine

The afternoon was so beautiful; I just had to make the most of it. My best bet seemed to be a park down the road, or so it appeared on the map. I ended up descending a winding road into a valley on foot to arrive at the hotspot. Southern Humboldt Community Park offered the opportunity of six yearbirds, and I was able to cash in on three of these: Acorn Woodpecker, Western Bluebird, and California Towhee.

The landscape recalled my SoCal experience. But I also kept flashing back to my time in the Sacred Valley in the Andes of Peru. The dry heat, hilly/mountainous terrain, scrub, and rock-strewn rivers took me back. Several times I  thought I even heard Andean Swifts but must have been projecting.

The late afternoon sun felt delightful, and I was assured with a strong sense of satisfaction that I had earned the right to bask in this sunshine after weeks of torturous battery in the PNW rains. The warming rays invited an outdoor nap, and I only wished that I had mastered the Cusquenan face-down ground siesta that I had witnessed so often in downtown Cusco.

Back in town, I craved a return to my camping lifestyle as a Hobbit marathon consumed my evening and I consumed some fish tacos.

2/23

The 23rd was a tough one for me. The road life is both literally and figuratively a life of ups and downs. I was feeling drained right of the bat, but pushed on through it, having no alternative that suited me. At least I could take my time and rest whenever I felt like it, a strategy that netted me another yearbird as White-throated Swifts commanded the sky above me. In that moment I realized that I hadn’t been so immersed in Latin American memories to the point of hallucinating southern hemispherical avifauna. Those “Andean Swift” sounds that I had been hearing were in fact these North American beauties!

Spring continued to advance upon me with this sighting. The nature of my year additions revealed a strange truth to my routing. I was conducting a sort of reverse-migration, encountering northbound birds head on as they invaded in their annual northward campaign.

My swift viewing experience was complemented by an opportunity to observe a hitch-hiker in the act. I spectated conscientiously as a dude wandered up to the roadside to commence his hitch-hiking regime. I got comfortable as I initiated my stopwatch, fully anticipating this to be a drawn-out process. But to my surprise this dude had a ride within 10 minutes of sticking his thumb up. Ten minutes. Can it really be that easy?

I continued onwards on my last miles of 101. But it was far from a victory lap. After the road was demoted from freeway status, it reverse-metamorphosed into a two lane road with plenty of tourist traffic. A long climb and two somewhat harrowing bridge crossings later, and I was a human running a footrace alongside mechanical cheetahs. I had to be on my A-game among my speeding adversaries, some of which were snapping photos of me as they cornered the tight turns.

When I finally stopped, I realized that I had been running on pure adrenaline, and the past few minutes could not be clarified past a blur. My memory was functioning on low resolution, but gradually shots from the ride came back to me like an action sequence.

I elected to walk the majority of my relatively short last stretch to the campground at Standish-Hickey State Park. And no, that’s not a typo. This place was really called Standish-Hickey. I gladly fed the fee box my $5 rate and rejoiced my return to the woods. With an expense registering at only 10% of my Myers Flat rate, I settled into the hiker-biker area, where I was yet again the sole occupant.

How simple has this modification been, the camping one. And yet it has improved the enjoyment of my trip immensely and immeasurably.

I walked across the road to grab a bite at the conveniently located restaurant/ native plant nursery, store.

You Go Cali!

2/24

It’s been eight days since I’ve seen rain, and I ain’t complaining. I would need the good conditions for the taxing 29 mile day that demanded the crossing of the coastal range to reunite with the beloved Pacific. I’d been warned about this one.

From the get-go I headed into a construction zone. I was told to ride behind traffic so that “I did not fall and get run-over.” I missed my first window, perhaps as a result of the poor words of encouragement. But I damn sure nailed it on the second window, beaming with pride as I made safe passage through the rockslide cleanup.

Soon I was cruising down the quiet beginnings of the legendary Highway 1, feeling no pangs of longing in leaving behind the cold and uncaring 101. I rapidly encountered the long 2000’ climb, where I dismounted for a drawn-out stroll. I probably enjoyed the passage more than any cyclist, who I imagined would be cursing the grade.

I took the time to seriously consider the benefits of distance traveling on a unicycle. My abstract responses to this ubiquitous question never seem to please the questioners. So I mentally assembled a short list of the pros of riding the uni versus a bike:

-Visibility
-Pushability
-Simplicity
-Inability to carry crap
-Comparatively limited phone usage

The top of my head must be six feet off of the road’s surface as I make my way along atop a 36” unicycle. This stature improves my visibility against traffic, but does make for a more frightening prospect of crashing from the height. Like falling off of a horse I guess. The rig is also extremely pushable, as I can situate my entire body behind it as I trudge onward, whereas pushing a bike requires an awkward side-by-side waltz. Of course the whole deal is so simple that it’s enviable. Mechanically, increasing complexity spells for an increasing probability of malfunction (think Range Rover). With the uni, I am assured in its simplicity and dependability.

Linked to this simplicity is the gear load. The unicycle just has so precious little frame space to carry crap. Also, more weight interferes with balance, so it’s only natural to cut down on the weight. Traveling via unicycles strips living down to its essential components, and provides a general air of freedom from material minutiae.

The phone point lost some significance to me upon entering urban areas, where routing details exceeded my capability to memorize the turns. But even so, the stability of a bike, especially when combined with a nifty phone holder, can encourage phone usage. On the contrary, every second passed glimpsing at the screen of a phone could spell disaster on the uni.

Before long I was at the summit, disappointed not to encounter any vista as recompense for my energy expenditure.

I began to blaze downhill as if I were a rollercoaster just rounding the highest point of the tracks. What began as a fun relief quickly amounted to a grueling taxation on the knees.

I Johnny-looped down to the valley, where Trilliums screamed spring from under the Redwoods.

Trillium ovatum

One more 800’ ridge crossing later and I was met with the ocean’s lovely breath. Inhaling it was like a dopamine hit to the head.

Low on supplies, I opted for the slightly more expensive private camping option close to the town of Newport.

Random Selfie

2/25

After a night of glamping in a comfortable RV park with impressive bandwidth, I awoke to a new day. I’m pretty sure my first realization was the tightness in my back. Clearly I had tweaked it at some point, more than likely on one of my final mounts close to camp.

I made a bird round in the campground and to the beach to try to loosen up a bit as my Mendocino County list expanded.

In packing up camp, I was confronted with an overwhelming sense of purpose. These tasks are routine but not mundane. I must repeat my actions of preparation: my well-being depends on it. There is something so meaningful about taking care of tasks yourself and not delegating. We are draining the purpose from our daily lives by removing the effort from our occupations. Ease imparts complacency and laziness. And, most importantly, it completely sucks the meaning from existence. What of a result achieved without significant effort?

Embracing these unglamorous acts has caused me to feel a level of contentment that is almost unfamiliar to me. And it’s not because of some quick fix or substance but because of a total change in lifestyle that prioritizes two things: pursuit and self-sufficiency.

I took my purpose down the road, passing through Newport, a town that reminds me of the cursed town from Atlantis 2 of all things. The cemetery, small-scale, and maritime feel and architecture of the place combine with the sea to produce this effect.

For the second morning in a row, I headed straight into a construction zone, but this time I was stove-up as hell.

Fort Bragg could not have arrived sooner as a relief to the soreness in my back.

2/26

After sleeping in at a motel in town and laying around for a bit, I picked up a sandwich and made my way to the ocean for lunch. I wandered up to Noyo Headlands Park and sat down to enjoy the scene and my food. If you were a black-colored bird, this was the place to be. Turkey Vultures, Brewer’s Blackbirds, Red-winged Blackbirds, Brown-headed Cowbirds, European Starlings, Common Ravens, cormorants, and Black Oystercatchers covered all the bases. Inquisitive Western Gulls were the white sheep of the crowd.

It was nice to have a moment to share with my one mainstay friend of the trip so far. The Pacific is starting to take on a pelagic hue, kind of like it appears on those Galapagos documentaries. The mantles of the Western Gulls are beginning to darken as I head south. Hell, even I’m getting a tan.

The crew of Common Ravens surrounded me as I sat down to dine. Clearly they’ve been trained by the scores of wildlife-feeding park goers. From the perspective of these begging black birds, my visit would not be beneficial, as I would not give them any of my human food. But in reality, I was giving them something far more valuable: self-reliance. I was also giving the area’s seabirds a bit of an easier time by not fueling the fire of black scavengers that must descend upon their nest sites every spring.

I took the rare moment to appreciate the Ravens up close and personal. It was tough to believe that these intelligent individuals were approaching within arm’s length. I’m accustomed to seeing them very distantly and very unsatisfactorily back home. They are very difficult to locate in Georgia, and they never seem to be very confiding. But here they were more trusting and bold than a Dodo. It’s amazing how drastic the differences in the behavior of a species can be throughout its range.

It surprised me that the more numerous Ravens were subservient to the gulls in the pecking order, although the gulls are slightly larger. I watched one Raven back down in the face of an agitated Western Gull. Really, the Ravens didn’t seem all that large up close, even though I sometimes mistaken them for raptors in the air.

These curious corvids were like children: they did things just because they wanted to and because they had nothing else to do. It appeared that the frequent handouts made their lives a bit easier, and the search for sustenance had been replaced by leisure. I watched as they pulled at plants, picked up rocks, and tugged at and peered into a sandbag. They were inspecting me very closely and watching my every movement, hoping to benefit in some way from my presence.

I left the brainy black beauties to continue their 21st century ways as I slowly crept back to the room.

Back in the room, I was being responsible and resting my back for the afternoon. But I couldn’t resist the temptation to head back towards the beach to do a route in the hopes of adding Barn Owl. Shortly after my arrival at Glass Beach, I noticed a fellow birder approaching with a scope, a sighting about as rare as any other for me these days. So I pounced like an ambush predator to strike up a conversation.

The dude’s name was Vince. He didn’t seem much older than myself, and I found out that he was living the traveling field tech lifestyle, working on numerous bird projects, including a Spotted Owl one that he just took.

We chatted away the remainder of the daylight, and I was impressed to learn about his somewhat unplanned and impromptu 2019 ABA Big Year, in which he ticked over 500 species without really birding east of Minnesota.

Of course we were careful to devote some attention to our surroundings, occasionally scanning for anything of interest. This nonchalant approach rewarded us with Sooty Shearwater and Barn Owl, two nice birds for the year list. The former was even a life bird for this pelagic-deprived birder.

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Hope y'all are staying well, active, and wise! And that these accounts offer a little hope as to what we'll get back to soon enough.