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.