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.