Week 5: Southbound Baby/With a Little Help from My Friends

Y’all I’ve been moving. I’m writing from California after a seven day, 160 mile marathon. I’m trying to revert my mind to a time when the sun was just a three letter rumor that I vaguely remembered from another time and place.

As of Week 5, I’ve been out of a car for a month! It’s a strange feeling, being surrounded by cars around the clock but refraining from entering them. I suppose it’s only just retribution that I am subjected to constant inhalation of their exhaust fumes, having driven over 100,000 miles without really being the subject of any consequences of this mileage. I honestly can’t even think of a time that I stayed out of a fuel-powered vehicle for even a week. It is amazing that we have come to develop such a dependence upon something that did not even exist on a large scale just 100 years ago. This principle of my adventure has become so important to me that I’ve come to the point of having nightmares about accepting rides. As if I’d let my guard down in some casual situation and realize that I had tarnished my most sacred commitment just minutes into an insignificant Uber ride. Ha! Yeah right... Fat chance I’d ditch the one-wheeled life for that.

In other news (pun intended), my undertaking made the Augusta Chronicle! I owe a huge shoutout to staff-writer Miguel Legoas, who investigated all facets of this Big Year to produce a very well-rounded and well-written article. He interviewed my Dad and one of my WarmShowers hosts as well, and the result is a great combination of perspectives.

https://www.augustachronicle.com/news/20200129/augusta-unicyclist-on-quest-to-travel-west-coast-to-east-coast-in-one-year

1/29

Couldn’t have ditched that motel sooner. After a Pig n’ Pancake breakfast, I took to the road and headed for Lincoln Beach. The ride was quick and easy. Aside from rainy conditions and a minor headwind, I had no troubles.

I was at my Warmshowers stay by lunch. After meeting, Tricia and George walked me down to the hotel restaurant by the house and treated me to lunch. From there, I made my way on foot to Boiler Bay to take advantage of the remaining “daylight” in the afternoon. I was drenched by persistent rain by the time I made it, but it paid off. Horned and Eared Grebes were quick year birds. The crowned jewel were the Ancient Murrelets that were visible with binoculars in the bay. The third bird that I happened to check turned out to be one of these unusual critters. Between bins and the scope, I had wonderful lifer looks at the goofy little guys. I could clearly see the pale bill and breeding ear tufts, key field marks. It would be my first ever Alcid. I watched as one flew in and transitioned straight into a dive. These birds behave so weird; they’re truly from another world. Floating on the water’s surface, they look like insects that met their unfortunate demise in a pool: trapped to the water by the force of adhesion, uncomfortably out of their element. It seems ironic that their life is the water. And watching them dive was hilarious. They basically flop to propel themselves below the surface in a graceless and awkward act. But they’re cute little guys, and they’re hard not to like.

Deciding against pushing onwards in the poor weather to Depoe Bay, I set my sights back on Lincoln Beach. The evening spontaneously cleared up, and I took in some impressive overlooks.

Once back at the house, I shared a meal with my hosts and learned all about their massive bicycle tour back in the 70’s. Back then, they didn’t even bother to wear helmets! Can you believe that?

1/30

A stunningly beautiful day. It was one of those mornings that you walk out and the Rascals just start to sing about this beautiful morning in your head. I had a pretty early start from Tricia and George’s and made it back to Boiler Bay in no time. Conditions were ripe for scanning. The light was from the rear, the atmosphere was clear, and the birds were out. Mighty breakers collapsed upon themselves, shattering against the crushing weight of air-assisted gravity, their frustrations epitomized by thunderclaps that cut to the core. And amid this chaos were birds, sprinkled like pepper grains in a washer machine. They thrived on the riches below and begged to be investigated by the patient observer.

Gulls coursed casually over the fellow members of their class, celebrating their place along the shoreline and away from the hostile and uncaring sea. I surveyed the scene with a similar sentiment. At this distance, the Pacific’s ferocity registered as less of a threat than a spectacle.

The most notable addition from this visit was a pair of Pigeon Guillemots, a fairly benignly-colored, yet distinctive, seabird. Up until yesterday, I had never seen an Alcid in my 22 years. And now I’ve seen two species in two days!

I lingered on, pushing two hours of stay. There was just so much to sift through, and the conditions were amazing. I felt like I hadn’t totally covered the area. But as the morning wore on, more visitors arrived, prompting more questions about my undertaking. Soon I was doing more of a Q&A than birding.

So, at the next opportune moment, I mounted up and headed to Depoe Bay, hopefully to get some food and a shot at Rock Sandpiper. After descending the hill, I was there. I walked along the shore, scanning the rocks for a shorebird flock. The area was crowded and not conducive to my needs. I could’t see anywhere to eat where I could keep an eye on my unicycle. I felt like I was behind schedule. I walked right past the sea spouts and the vehicle tourists and decided to ride out of town.

My OCD was kicking into overdrive, and I was getting scattered. I began to sweat as my mounting attempts failed repeatedly between bouts of traffic. Food, scheduling, crowds, it was all working against my psyche.

Eventually I took off my jacket and rode with the intent of sorting out this bird’s nest in my head, keen on finding food.

I made it to Otter Crest Loop, a detour from 101, but had to start walking after the road turned to one lane. The grade was steep, but the effort produced incredible views. A Peregrine Falcon, the connoisseur nature’s most impressive vantages, made his place up top.

From there it was down the hill for smooth riding to Newport. As I departed 101 and entered town, I passed by a skatepark and got a funny salute from its patrons. Finally I stopped at an Irish pub and chowed down on a burger.

But the real attraction to Newport was waiting for me on the other side of the river: local specialties and a local with some know-how. That local was Steve Holzman, a dedicated birder and member of the Georgia birding community. Steve rapidly put me on two life birds in the smorgasbord of birdlife at the south jetty. One was a Western Grebe imposter: a Clark’s Grebe disguised among his more prevalent brethren. With the Clark’s in the bag, Least Grebe is the only remaining regularly occurring Grebe that I expect to get this year. The other lifer was a continuing stakeout immature Glaucous Gull, and the looks at this guy were ideal. Steve pointed out key characteristics as we picked through the regular gull flock at close range. With two life birds in five minutes, Mr. Holzman was setting a high standard for himself.

Following an failed attempt at rustling up a Wrentit in the fading light, we headed for the Holzman residence, Steve in his vehicle with my gear, and me trailing behind on the uni.

We arrived to a very artsy house, complete with spinning mosaicked disco balls that were attached to the ceiling. There I greeted Steve’s wife Rachel, another skilled birder and member of the Georgia birding group. I had first encountered the two five years prior at a stakeout Harris’s Sparrow in Columbia County, and it had been since then that I had seen them.

We enjoyed a wonderful pasta dinner as we filled in the gaps.

1/31

It was the last day of January, and it would not be wasted. I got up when I got up. Steve had already headed to work, leaving Rachel and me to enjoy the feeder show. Rachel tossed out some peanuts to incite a feeding frenzy of Stellar’s Jays, Pine Siskins, Red-breasted Nuthatches, and Chestnut-backed Chickadees. Good luck finding better breakfast entertainment on TV.

Then I mounted up and rode to the USFWS office to meet Steve. Rachel followed directly in an unsuccessful search for a Nashville Warbler that the two had seen days prior. Rachel did point out an American Goldfinch, a year bird and “easy tick” in her words.

From there, I crossed the bridge to take care of some errands: a post office package pickup from home and a visit to the Newport bike shop. The guys at the bike shop fixed me up good, gifting me a portable bike pump and bleeding the brake to return it to working condition.

Over lunch, Steve and I talked strategy as he presented my most likely year pickups, according to a spreadsheet that he generated from eBird sightings and my year list. Steve’s technological contribution to the Big Year would play a large part in the success that’d I’d experience in Newport.

Following Steve’s recommendation, I checked out the Sea Lion haul-out by the river for close-up looks at these hilarious beasts. The scene can be summed up by a conversation that I overheard between a mother and daughter. The daughter exclaimed that the Sea Lions looked lazy. To this, the mother replied, “They are lazy.”

Now, with my business in Newport complete, I crossed the bridge for the last time. Steve and I met at the jetty again for Groundhog Day: a hopeful repeat of yesterday’s route. Our follow-up efforts were rewarded with a Herring Gull sighting, another new one for the year.

Back at the house, the three of us enjoyed tasty turkey burgers and fixins while watching Jason Ward’s Birds of North America and Documentary Now’s Blue Jean Committee.

2/1

Rachel and Steve were truly the perfect hosts. Not only did they look after my basic needs, they took my year list seriously and wanted to do all that they could to boost it. And they worked around my transportation limitations seamlessly, developing a game plan that checked all the boxes. January brought me 123 species, and if Steve and Rachel had anything to say about it, February would bring more.

So the plan was to hit Beaver Creek State Park. I would ride light, and the Holzman’s would be my support vehicle for the time being. In our sweeping coverage of the area, the three of us managed to locate three species that were new on the year for me: Mourning Dove, Barn Swallow, and Virginia Rail. The Rail was the real draw, and the views were BBC quality-a rare thing for this skulking denizen of temperate wetlands.

Photo by Steve Holzman 

My fantastic run with the Holzman’s would end on this high note. Their efforts revitalized my status, from my diet to my list to my gear (I was heading onwards with a sturdy dry bag!). Thank you for everything Rachel and Steve! You have no idea how good it felt to bird as part of a group again!

Instantly I was a lone wolf again, or so I thought. While recalibrating my balance and relearning the mounting process on the weighed-down uni, a car passed by, and from this passing vehicle came an exclamation: “JP!” Out stepped two unfamiliar faces onto this backroad, and I was a bit confused. But the suspense keeled over and died when the two introduced themselves as Walt and Rebecca Cheek, my birder hosts for the night. How is it that my hosts always get the jump on me!?

My new friends were glad to lighten the load so that I could ride on to Seal Rock a bit easier. I would rendezvous with them at their place later in the evening, but only after trying once more for Rock Sandpiper at a historical location. My hopes were also up for shots at Black-legged Kittiwake after hearing that the Cheeks had seen them a few days before.

Despite clamoring all over those confounded rocks at Seal Rock and frequently scanning to sea, my targets were not acquired. So I sat up on the guardrail and snacked, casually scanning the surf for odd gulls. But the odd gull had been right under my nose the whole time. While scanning the roosting gulls below, I realized that there were two California Gulls beneath me, my fourth year bird for the day!

On that note, I headed to my host’s residence, where I was put up in a guest cottage stocked with snacks for late-night cravings.

Over a rich seafood chowder dinner, Rebecca, Walt, and I talked birds, Peru, and the South (the three of us having all originated there).

2/2

It was a crisp north Georgia mountain day. From Rebecca and Walt’s kitchen, a Caribbean-like view of the yard and commanding Pacific lay before us like an ultra-vivid film hybridizing the two distinct landscapes. Rebecca and I could not resist becoming part of the equation, so we headed out for a quick bird check in the yard. Our route culminated at their hummingbird feeder setup. The liquified energy frenzied hordes of Anna’s Hummingbirds. The activity of their complicated and rapid maneuvers would have driven a Hartsfield-Jackson air traffic controller into a state of panic. I’ve honestly never seen anything quite like their hummers. Rebecca confessed to having to supply liters of sugar water a day to these thirsty little buggers (without any dyes of course)!

Soon I was down on the road, intending to ride off picturesquely down the highway as Rebecca and Walt spectated. It ended up being quite the letdown. After multiple failed attempts, I was forced to walk a ways down the road to take advantage of a negative road angle. You’d think by now that I would have learned to arrange the perfect factors for a successful exodus, but I guess I’m just a wishful thinker. To Walt and Rebecca, I owe you two more than just a mounting demo! Thank you for having me!

I was so determined not to have to mount again that I just rode all the way to Yachats. En route, I rode over the Alsea River, on a bridge very conducive to riding. With wide shoulders and sidewalks, I christen this bridge “the People’s Bridge.” The Alsea entered the Pacific with a bit of timidity, an attitude reflected in the complexity and sinuosity of the estuary. Unlike the mouths of most other rivers that I pass by, this one was jetty-free, and it showed. Sediment sculpted the river’s last bit of channel into a maze of fans and sandbars. I caught a glimpse of the Harbor Seals basking below.

Yachats soon arrived into a view. Proclaimed as “the Gem of the Oregon Coast,” it inspired high expectations. I have to admit that the scene was pretty nice, though it was no Astoria. The weather was spectacular that evening, so I walked along the coastline. Meanwhile the Chiefs etched their name into history.

2/3

A rest day for this traveller. I did do a little bird walk to try for Rock Sandpiper, but I just turned up its entourage of usual suspects (Black Turnstone, Surfbird) as they scoured the rocks like a cleanup crew following a music festival.

Since I didn’t do much to write about, here are a few thoughts from the road of late:

The road is impersonal. I like that. I like its anonymity, its coldness, and its objectivity.  The only expectations related to the road are self-imposed. It doesn’t keep tabs, and it’s not superficial. The road is a means, nothing more. It may be tough, but its hurdles are meant to be overcome.

Another feature of life on the road is observing license plates. It’s a solid form of entertainment, and I don’t have to divert my eyes very far from the surface of the road to see what state these people are repping. One nefarious figure continues to provide a grimace when I see his visage on these metal identifiers: Smoky Bear. This loser sure does have a strong presence here. Oregonians totally object to burning woods but apparently not burning weed... I guess I should have come prepared with some Burner Bob stickers to slap in visible locations.

2/4

The road called. During my now familiar packing session, two young guns drummed up a conversation with me. Their names were Nicole and Bryce, and they were staying in the same hostel. I was surprised by their curiosity about my trip and their friendliness in general. Since I’ve been underway, I haven’t really interacted with many people in my generation.

The two were on a six-week ski tour as a celebration for finishing their masters and rightfully so! That’s no small achievement. Speaking of achievements, Bryce has been the only King Arthur to successfully ride the Battlestar. Very impressive! Although everybody that I encounter seems to have some sort of personal connection to unicycling, Bryce has been the only individual to actually put his money where his mouth is.

Bryce and Nicole, if you happen to be reading, congratulations being masters, and thanks for being the friendly and cool people that you are!

Soon I was southbound in the clean and crisp air, heading straight into the climb at Cape Perpetua. Traffic was light, and I stuck with it, tackling the mountain and feeling pretty proud of it.

I was starting to notice a transition along the Oregon coast. This southern half was characterized by less traffic, fewer tourist attractions, and less civilization in general. At some point I entered Lane County and found myself walking through a tunnel that was under construction (or reconstruction).

I continued on foot to the Sea Lion Caves, a definite tourist attraction in the aforementioned dearth of tourist traps. I enjoyed the wailing and barking of these celebrities while others handed over a few greenbacks to get a closer look. The ocean stood in stark contrast to the cacophony of these irritable mammals, appearing as placid as a pool on this stunning day. Nicole and Bryce caught me off-guard as they passed me by.

Shortly thereafter, I was riding the downslope down to Florence. Florence was soon to see its machine. The city of Florence and its immense dune system stretched out before me, providing a view that recalled a descent in an airplane. I soon realized that I was not in an aircraft when two countersinging Wrentits registered on my auditory radar. I couldn’t miss these Field Sparrow-like vocalizations after listening to it time after time again as Steve and I tried for them in the Newport dunes.

I stopped to see if one of these holdouts would show. It was another species to receive the rare designation of being a year bird that I actually got from the unicycle. Once one appeared, I was stunned by how rufous the plumage was. This didn’t seem like the grayish Wrentit that I had last seen in SoCal in 2015. This guy seemed more deserving of the name Ferruginous Wrentit. As I watched it fly floppily across the highway, I realized why the Columbia River was a barrier to their dispersal. Wrentits do not occur north of the Columbia, apparently bound by the fear of such expansive open water. That river crossing gave me hell too, little buddy.

Back at sea level in Florence, I felt as though I’d entered the familiar realm of the Florida scrub. Rolling dunes with exposed sand and lichen patchwork were capped with a monoculture of Shore Pines. In Florida, they’d be Sand Pines, but the visual effect was the same. Check out this satellite image of the sweeping dunes around Florence:

No doubt I was entering a new phase of my Oregon trip.

2/5

Rain again. Today would bring a 3.5 mile relocation south to Honeyman State Park, one of the few landmarks that I had actually scheduled to see before coming out to the Pacific Coast. The plan was to baptize my uni here in the waters of the great Pacific in a nod to Jedidiah and Weston of to Shake the Sleeping Self. Their epic trans-hemispherical bike trip began at this location. I wasn’t going to let it pass by unnoticed; homage is due to pedal-and-wheel powered globetrotters like these.

Arriving at noon, I ditched my stuff in a damp yurt before striking out across the impressive dune system that lay just beyond the trees of the campground. I was grateful in a roundabout way for the comparable discomfort of the yurts. I had no interest in seeking shelter from the rain in that musty hut.

So I took to the dunes with the uni, intending to cover the 2 miles to reach the ocean’s realm.

Upon arriving at the proper dunes, I was awestruck. It was like looking at Tatooine. The environment was so harsh and shifting that even the European Dunegrass, the champion of domination, couldn’t keep hold. ATV tracks dotted the expanse, and I was grateful to have the whole view to myself and to be spared of the whining of four-stroke engines.

Crossing these dunes reminded me of the meditation tapes that my mom used to watch. Except it wasn’t tranquil, sunny, or warm out. Just gusty and bleak.

I was gunning for the road access to the beach, but I quickly became lost in the labyrinth of flooded ATV trails jut behind the foredunes. With the sound of the waves and Google Maps as my guide, I wiggled my way out to the beach.

The figure of a lone shorebird at the water’s edge immediately became apparent. I dismissed it as a Sanderling before the bird’s erratic run-stop-wait-ambush pattern of foraging suggested otherwise. It was a Snowy Plover!

It would be the only witness to the baptism ceremony.

Despite having lost the key to the yurt in the dunes, the park host did not chastise me. In fact, he brought me some hot lasagna for dinner. Many thanks to you Brian! What a way to end the week!

Week 4: Snow Buntings on Me/Gray Jay Way

1/22

The Pacific Northwest winter is the most fair-weathered friend I’ve ever known. It’s like living in a world controlled by a Sour Patch Kid. I can just see him up there now, laughing diabolically as he cues in on a helpless unicyclist putting down the highway- a perfectly innocent subject for torture. He grasps the wind speed lever, coating in in sticky grains as he dials up the intensity. Meanwhile the sunshine button sits neglected and immaculate to his side. Remember buddy, you have to be sweet after your sour episode.

After a breakfast in town, I said my thank-you’s and goodbyes to the generous Hannah and Erik. And, with their production (and unicycling skills), they produced a quick departure video. The fruits of their efforts can be found here:

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Ma7z8-vel00

Thank you for the all-star treatment Hannah and Erik! Keep on spreading the love of birds to the people!

So I mentioned that the winds in Long Beach were the strongest that I had ever felt, right? Well that little Sour Patch Kid “caught wind” and decided that it would be funny to jinx me. The winds that night in Washington were but a Catalina breeze compared to the gales that would rock my boat today.

After riding through Cannon Beach (and inadvertently attempting to steal the key to the Puffin viewing room), I was grounded by the Pacific’s harsh and jarring wind front. It was a complete momentum killer-a brick wall.

Walking past Silver Point, I chuckled at the thought of scanning for Oystercatchers in this wind and cold rain.

Pushing onwards, I would begin to see stirring in the puddles and standing water on the roads, a signal of the grave threat of gusts scheming to kill my progress. It was like the leaves stirring in Bird Box, only instead of going psycho, I would lose control of my unicycle and be forced to throw it down on the road. That’s how strong the winds were. I literally couldn’t push my unicycle without the very air around me demanding that I toss it aside.

From there on, it was a brutal walk for miles.

Finally, after passing the Tillamook County line, I was afforded a downhill stretch to Oswald West State Park. I had been urged by numerous people to take the quick detour on foot to Short Sands. The pitiful weather surely impacted my impression of the place, although the woods were humbling.

After grabbing a quick bite from my foodstores, I walked the last stretch of uphill to the Neahkanhie Mountain overlook, rumored by some to be the most awe-inspiring view on the Oregon coast. The mountain is the highest point on the Oregon Coast, its name originating from the Tillamook language and describing the place where a god resides. Well clearly this god was not partial to my visit because my time at the overlook was not exactly enjoyable. Just to give you an idea of the intensity of the moment, a tornado had touched down in this area a day before. My main focus was to get off of that exposed precipice and down to my arranged Warmshowers stay.

The visibility worsened as I made my way down the mountain in the fog, but eventually I could ride on into town. Town for today was Manzanita, pronounced as if Sam Elliott had christened the place. I’m pretty sure you could get away with throwing an “r” on the end (Mahn-zah-kneetar).

I finally made my way to my hosts, John and Susan. Their beautiful home was a sight for sodden eyes. I quickly changed into dry clothes and initiated a much-needed laundry session.

John and Susan would treat me to a home-cooked spaghetti dinner and a showing of the beautiful handmade kayaks that they produced with their own bare hands. From there they headed to a commitment.

My intention was to occupy my time until they returned, but the exhaustion of Neahkanie’s thrashing came over me like a dose of melatonin. I was out by 8:30.

1/23

Following John and Susan’s recommendation, I relocated to a heated yurt at Nehalem Bay State Park. J&S had to head to Portland, and I’m glad that I could at least spend one comfortable night with them.

Nehalem was just a few miles from the house, and I made it in no time. As I approached the kiosk, I was confronted with a “no vacancy” sign in the yurt section. I dreaded the thought of having to ride to Garibaldi. There was the potential for me to pick up three year birds at this State Park, and one of them really got me excited.

Fortunately the sign was a false indication, and the park host was happy to accommodate me in a yurt for the night on short notice. Another night’s stay could not be guaranteed because of weekend popularity. No big deal, I’ll just knock out this target bird and be gone by morning.

The main target bird that was in mind was Snow Bunting, a bird of the far north with a preference for ridiculously desolate and harsh environs. Erik and Hannah had given me a heads-up about this locale, putting a bird on my radar that was totally unexpected for me. I had not even considered having a shot at this species along my route; it was a true bonus bird.

I stashed my effects in the yurt and appreciated the Lewis and Clark-type living that I’d experience for the night.

My first move was to head for the beach, the present haunt of the local flock of Snow Buntings. Immediately I was greeted by the ocean’s now familiar hostility. I couldn’t walk more than a few steps to the south, the grit-infused headwind effectively shielding the beach from exploration. Immediately resigned to defeat and ready to escape the unnecessary discomfort, I set my sights back on the access.

Just then, a streak of movement caught my attention. As I focused on the subject, the figure of a solitary Snow Bunting became apparent. It cruised in to the scene as if it were a Cardinal coming to the birdbath. I was dumbstruck.

Here was this target bird, sitting where I had just trod 60 seconds earlier. It was so easy that I wondered if it was a vision. It was literally the first bird that I saw on the beach.

Hell yeah. The pressure’s off, and I can just casually bird the park and appreciate the rest of my time here; no extra day necessary!

Charged by my good fortune, I set off on an ambitious route to the south jetty, using the interior corridor of the cape to escape the winds and push south. I’d walk the beach with the wind on my back to return to camp, hopefully with Snowy Plover checked off the list. I’ll save you the suspense: I didn’t add anything significant after the Bunting. But I did have a surprising find among a small patch of woods on the jetty trail.

Rhinoceros Auklet 

Seeing this bird alive would have been amazing, but I was just a tad late for this guy.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in the warmth of the yurt, savoring the dryness before walking the beach into town for dinner. Three more Snow Buntings on the Manzanita Beach provided the official appetizer to my burger dinner.

Northern Pacific Tree Frog 

1/24

The $47 yurt was a good investment. Despite having to sleep on a a sheet-less mattress that felt like sleeping on a tumbling mat, I was rested. It reminded me of fond memories staying up at Cabin Fever in the North Carolina mountains and huddling around the heater on cold nights.

Weather conditions were surprisingly good when I woke up, so I made an attempt at that third possible year bird: Wrentit. The two-and-a-half mile walk was brightened by the coy appearance of the sun. Maybe the most notable sighting of the walk was the Nehalem State Park airfield. Can you believe that a State Park has an air strip for fly-in campers?

My departure from this facility-rich campsite would not be on the wing, as fun as that would be. No I was back to the road on the uni, blazing south until I hit a wall of wind coming across the Nehalem River. Winds made my progress for a while a bit choppy, and I had to alternate between walking and riding.

But by Rockaway Beach, I was really in stride. Boy was I moving. It felt good to pass by towns and have no need to stop. Their services weren’t needed. The only business that I had was with the road.

The riding was flat, and before I knew it, I was nearly in Garibaldi, my destination for the evening. I was planning on staying two nights to catch up on blogging and planning.

A twisty upslope and need for lunch were begging me to stop, but it was the sighting of a prospective bird opportunity that really grounded me. I had stumbled across Painted Rock- a prominence among a complex of sea stacks that offered promise for some birds.

Harlequin Ducks cavorted in the surf as cormorants gracelessly alighted on the rock. I appreciated the artistry of the Harlequin’s plumage, but my true attraction was to the spread of greasy black birds that loafed above. You see there was still one cormorant at large: the Brandt’s Cormorant. Double-crested and Pelagic Cormorants made themselves obvious, so I summoned my injured scope to fish out their less obvious friend. It was a wonderful exercise in cormorant identification, and I ended up pulling three Brandt’s out of the mix for year bird #109.

I was charged coming down the hill into Garibaldi, so charged that I just breezed right through. With Garibaldi in the rearview, I celebrated my next destination. I was happy to not have to have stayed in the town that I had just passed: it seemed sleazy and industrial, complete with a Pink Floyd Animals-type smokestack.

It was only two o’clock, and I felt that I could burn through the next 10 miles to Tillamook in good time. It was a relatively easy stretch, but I was feeling the pain, causing me to adapt Bad Company’s Burnin’ Sky to a spoof that fit my present situation. “My crotch is burnin, I believe my butt’s on fireeee!”

Tillamook would bring a totally new chapter to the Oregon trip, its agricultural expanses providing opportunities for gains to the list. A man in a BMW interrupted my daydreams. His name was Eric, and he was a self-professed unicyclist back in the day, admitting to attempting stunts on a uni that I would never dare to consider. Somewhat remarkably, he was also a birder, and his amusement with my story led him to donate a $20 bill to the cause. Thank you Eric!

Between random hand-outs and the large quantities of change that I encounter on the road shoulder, I might just break even on this Big Year.

And then I saw it. A suggestion of hope on the horizon. It was a sign, bearing that telltale Christmas palate that suggested saccharine salvation in the form of one of nature’s most perfect shapes. Who could mistake it? That combination of red, green, and white was a dead giveaway for glazed seduction. My mind instantly computed the indicators: there had to be a Krispy Kreme doughnuts ahead.

But my impression fell short of the mark. Mere moments after the excitement had arrived, the insidious truth of this establishment was revealed: it was nothing more than a Sinclair gas station. I was crushed. I had just been thrown through a cravings rollercoaster. The dizziness of the experience remained, but I was left with no satisfaction. Darn you Sinclair and your imitation pattern.

Just before reaching my motel for the evening, a flock of Brewer’s Blackbirds presented themselves in a pasture bordering the sidewalk, and I gladly accepted my second year bird for the day, a shocking feat for a day devoted to travel.

A Good Omen?  

Not What I Meant by Vagrancy 

1/25

On the phone from the moment that I wake up to 10 o’ clock. This unicycle business is funny. During the off times that I can catch up with my friends and family, I’m subjected to a range of different concerns: my family wants to know if I’m okay, my friends if I’ve found anything, and random people if I’m sane.

This day was slated as the rest/admin day that I had planned for in Garibaldi. But fate would make it much more productive.

Fuel for the morning was provided by the motel. I was free to pick from a variety of knock-off cereals, among which were Apple Zings, Berry Colossal Crunch, Cinnamon Toasters, and Coco Roos. It doesn’t take a strong imagination to reveal their inspirations. Cereal was supplemented with a honeybun from a variety of plastic-packed sugary pastries. I was already ready for lunch.

A man back in Raymond, Washington told me that I had to make it up to the Tillamook Dairy for a bite to eat, so I did just that. En route I spotted another year bird, a lone Great Egret. Tillamook was like an unexplored wilderness for birds for me. Brewer’s Blackbirds roamed the grounds of the dairy like extras in a movie.

After my lunch, I walked to the nearby hotspots of Suppress and Boquist Roads, on a whim and partly to procrastinate returning to the motel and my date with the keyboard.

Boy was that a good decision. The minute I set foot on Suppress Road, I was catapulted into an active mixed flock. I enjoyed a novel combination of the regulars as they treated me to eye level views in this wetland.

Suddenly a songbird with a flashy pink bill caught my attention. My brain computed the image instantly. It was a friggin Harris’s Sparrow! Now it may not sound like much, but this is an uncommon sparrow that I certainly did not anticipate seeing on the year. It was yet another bonus bird! What made the experience even more gratifying was that the two previous experiences that I had with the bird were at backyard feeders, never just out and about!

Fortunately I wasn’t too absorbed in the sighting to miss the Merlin that shot by my feet just feet away, darting like a missile over the wetland and swooping up to briefly survey the scene from a large Fir. Seeing this falcon in this scenario was like watching IMAX.

I finished off the loop, capping off the list with an incredibly cooperative perched Peregrine Falcon. Clearly the falcon feature had not concluded. I never see Peregrines chilling in a mid-sized tree this close. It’s the kind of views that I imagine the ornithologists describing our nation’s avifauna must have encountered regularly with our birds.

The rest of the day could only pale in comparison to these exciting events.

1/26

Time to leave this town. Tillamook has been good to me birdwise and recharge-wise. But it’s also stinky, and it’s time to move on. This is the third day in a row that has been nice and very conducive to riding. Such days are so precious in the Northwest winter that I often feel conflicted about how I can make the most of the good weather. Is my time best spent riding, birding, or just enjoying the weather? It reality it doesn’t really matter much, as long as I’m being productive. Moving days will be moving days, and I’ll bird when I can. Good weather is just a bonus.

My prep for departure was achieved with the help of the latest episode of Ed Unicycles the USA. The southeastern US imagery for this installment ignited my sentimental spirits. I would channel this emotion for my next stretch.

I was so anxious to get underway that I did not even review my route for a final time. But I knew that I would be continuing on the Oregon Coast Bike Route and that signs would point the way. Plus I loosely knew where I was going. I was gone before check-out time.

I blazed south on 101, briefly stopping south of Tillamook to check out a massive congregation of Cackling Geese and ducks. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything like it; it’s how I imagine the central flyway in peak migration appears. I wouldn’t have stopped except I spotted a light goose among the Cackling that demanded closer inspection. Either Snow or Ross’s Goose would be a year bird. After stopping on the shoulder and pulling out my binoculars, the whole flock took off, rendering an id of the goose impossible. I could have spent hours picking through this waterfowl buffet, but the poor condition of my scope and a desire to cover some miles convinced me otherwise.

The miles ticked by quickly as I cruised down the flat and wide shoulder of 101. Before I knew it I was at my point of divergence from the highway, following the bike route back to the coast and to my next destination, Pacific City.

I veered right at Sandlake Road, which was a beautiful and low-trafficked backroad. The first stretch of the road was so clean and smooth that the shoulder begged me to pull over and each my lunch right off of the road’s surface. The water in the ditch appeared crystalline and thirst-quenching.

Don’t worry, I did not give in to either of these impulses. Clearly I just had some weird attraction to the road going on.

There was some hilliness to the road, but the gradation was perfect for me to keep on powering through, and I stopped very few times because the riding was so enjoyable. The only stint that I had to walk was the hill just south of Tierra del Mar. Another Haystack Road appeared over the point, initially making my progress seem like an illusion. Its resemblance was uncanny, but this stack is actually called Chief Kiawanda Rock.

Tough Choice 

Less than three hours from my departure, I was descending into Pacific City, having traveled a respectable 26 miles. Man was it freeing not to have to look at my phone for the trip. I felt in control of my destination, and I was not obsessing over mileage or the time.

I rode in to my motel destination, the Surf and Sand Inn, the best motel that I have seen so far on the trip.

Following a recommendation from the manager, I walked over to Beach Wok, a sit-in stir fry place. It was exactly what I needed. I chowed down on some yummy stir fry as a groovy playlist of KC and the Sunshine Band, Taste of Honey, and others floated through the restaurant. Great vibes.

Pacific City was quick to impress. Riding off of my high, I made my way on foot to Cape Kiwanda State Park, which I kept transmogrifying in my mind into Kiwanuka SP. I don’t think they would name a State Park in Oregon after a contemporary British musician.

Charismatic Megafauna

The main target here was Black Oystercatcher, a potential life bird. As I made my way out onto the beach, weather conditions deteriorated. A dead sea lion on the shore served as a warning to all of the perils of the Pacific. Even as a lifeless mass, this marine mammal intimidated me. It was my first chance to inspect one of these beauties at close range, and it seemed so alien, like if a submarine and a pig had a baby. The flippers were just wild. It honestly looked like a kid doodled an animal and it came to life.

I promptly ignored the sea lion’s caution and made my way for the cape. In scanning the rocks, I picked out two plump, jet black figures with blood red bills: Black Oystercatchers. The looks were poor due to intensifying conditions, but they were satisfactory for life looks.

With my target in the bag, I decided to press onwards, hoping for better views from the cliff overhang. Standing on top of the cape, I began to fully appreciate the uniqueness of the site. There must be some unusual geology going on here...

It was like if Great Sand Dunes and Red Rocks melded together and met the avant-garde sculpting abilities of the Pacific. Painted rocks were being thrashed by the sinister blue-tinged waves, creating an interesting matrix of shoreline that ranged from caves to exposed rock to shifting dunes.

I found myself amidst a torrential rainstorm/sandstorm. For a moment I was legitimately concerned that I was going to get blown off of this point. My pockets began to fill with sand rapidly, and I was forced to make my escape. But facing the storm was impossible, so I had to backtrack in reverse to avoid the stinging sands.

I felt like a mud minnow that had been lured into a minnow trap, propelled by the promise of raw hot dog meat but quickly ensnared due to foolish tunnel vision.

The only way that I could escape from this funnel was literally to walk backwards until I could make my way back down to the beach, which is exactly what I did. I was physically soaked for the walk back to the motel, but hey, I had a new bird to show for it ;).

Meet me tonight in Pacific City.

1/27

Today’s adventure was Nestucca Bay NWR, a small parcel of National Wildlife Refuge just 5 miles south of town. Gray Jays had been reported here periodically in the past, and this seemed like one of my best opportunities to get this species on the year.

It was nice to ride the lightweight unicycle again, despite the morning’s drizzle. Upon arriving to the parking area, I stashed my ride and keyed in on a flock of Red Crossbills: a good sign for the search for alpine birds.

I made my way up to the ridgeline and began to walk the loop stealthily, hoping to catch the Jays in a candid moment.

With the failure of that tactic, I switched gears. Whistling the Sabre Dance and the Nickelodeon theme obnoxiously, I hoped to garner the curiosity of these intelligent beings. Eventually I arrived at a picnic area, and I was sure the bird in question had to have been nearby. Often referred to as “camp robbers,” these corvids have learned to score easy meals at outdoor locations where people tend to dine.

But all I found was a heavier rain, a sign I interpreted as a nudge to head back to cover. I resigned to defeat in the search, departing Nestucca with a respectable 37 species list.

Weather was worse for the day’s remainder, and I relished in the warmth of my motel shelter. I saved up my energy for the next days ride and gorged on yet another delicious meal at Beach Wok.

1/28

Today was a great day. I made my way out of Pacific City in a bit of a drizzle. I was met with the same minor headwind that has appeared on my last few rides. My first stint was along a route that I had blazed yesterday to visit the National Wildlife Refuge. It wasn’t long before I was in uncharted territory, climbing a gradual ascent. I made it all the way to Neskowin without a hitch and was proud of myself for sticking with it.

Just past Neskowin, I detoured to Slab Creek Road at the suggestion of the bike map that John, my Warmshowers host from Manzanita, had gifted me.

The beginning of the road was really nice and smooth, and it was clear not many people had any business waiting for them on this backroad. Gradually, the road’s condition worsened, and the gradual incline, or “gentle grade,” as the bike map puts it, continued. Nearing the top of one hill in a long stretch of climbing, I put my head down and tried to knock it out. A Jay chatter seemed suggestive and worthy of investigation, but I continued onwards, hellbent on defeating this hill.

That is, before a Gray Jay floated in front of my at eye level, its angelic grace stopping me in my tracks. After yesterday’s failed, yet diligent effort at tracking one of these guys down at the small holdout NWR population, this sighting was a true blessing. I admired the specimen, its shaggy dress the result of nature’s shower. Soon more would appear, sharp subjects worthy of immortalizing capture.

Their calls reminded me of Cardinal vocalizations. A brief pishing session activated their curiosity. Within seconds, the whole clan of these curious gems made themselves visible. In all, ten birds filtered out from the safety of the woods. Their sentinel continued watch as the flock came in to inspect me, opting for interest in place of caution.

What a rare and beautiful interaction with these intelligent creatures. And I actually spotted one while on the unicycle!! Following this sighting, I have seen the three main groups of this species: Rocky Mountains, Taiga, and now Pacific.

Intensifying rain brought an end to the dream, so I headed up the last bit of hill to ride on.

I rode for another bit of the road before it became too difficult. So I made my way to the crest of the hill on foot amid incredible forest scenery. On the leeward side of the hill, I broke for lunch. I was grateful that the rain could allow the spectacular beings in my surroundings to exist. The trees were just so majestic and impressive that nothing but being a witness to their might could sum up the scene.

The rainy lunch put a bit of a chill in me, and I reverted to riding with my insulated rain coat. I hadn’t done that in a while because mild conditions had induced sweating. The remainder of the road was gnarly, and I had to play it like Zac Brown. I channeled my mountain unicycling skills, picked my lanes, and weaved down to level ground. It was somewhere in this stretch that my week long occupation of Tillamook County came to an end. I had unknowingly entered Lincoln County, its boundary not signaled in any way on this infrequently traveled route.

Just like that and I was in Lincoln City, an un-refreshing reentry into civilization. I checked into a Motel 6 that was laid out like hospital or penitentiary, and it wreaked like a locker room. It’s the kind of place that you want to leave as soon as you arrive. But it’ll save you money.

I made a dinner run to a chain that the family and I had visited in Olympia. Something felt familiar about it, and I finally put two and two together to make that connection.

Back at my room in Motel 6, I took a bath. Yeah right... the only people that have been in this bathtub have long since been washed down the drain in a sulfuric acid solution. Okay...it’s not that bad. But I’m surely glad to be moving on.

Week 3: To Oregon and Beyond

Man time is weird. Writing about these weeks feels like I’m writing about another decade. I feel like squeezing every drop out of each day has changed my sense of time. Days do not pass you by when you’re trekking through the Oregonian winter in the pouring rain. No, each second is felt with each sense, providing a lasting impression. Knowing that I only have precious moments in each location to see what I need to see forces me to capitalize on every waking hour. What a contrast to the dull moments that I am accustomed to seeing fly by. Without unknown bends in the road ahead, those moments quickly amount to minutes, hours, days, and weeks, and before you know it, a week has passed by without you really taking notice. Not here. Each day is a gift, and each day is a fight, and I have needs to meet. These needs are pressing and urgent; they are no joke, and they cannot be taken lightly. Needs give weight to the moments, and weighted moments weigh down time, hence the feeling of the slow passage of time.

I’ll go ahead and blame my altered sense of time on the delay in the post.

1/15 

Most of the day was spent indoors, catching up on administrative business like route planning and blog writing. Before I knew it, it was dinner time, so I headed down to Long Beach to get something to eat. Along the way, I felt the strongest wind I’ve ever felt. They were truly gale-force winds. It felt like a team of ghosts was pushing me into town. If I picked up my feet, I could have floated into Long Beach.

1/16 

What an insanely beautiful day on the Washington coast! It was well worth riding out that winter storm to experience the gorgeousness that was hiding behind the front. I mean blue sky, crisp air, and sunshine- all intensely foiled by the rain, snow, and sleet that colored the last few days.

It was an odd but freeing feeling to hop on the uni with 10% of my gear to head to the Riekkola Unit of the Willapa NWR (hence the photo). I could actually see the wheel below me, which is normally obscured by my front drybag. Lunch in hand, I made my way through some backroads to get to the entrance of the unit. Suddenly, a familiar chip caught my attention: Yellow-rumped Warbler? I dismounted to investigate further. Although I was unable to locate any warbler culprit, a finch frenzy brought me two year birds: House Finch and Red Crossbill.

After five miles, I had arrived. So I ditched the uni in the woods and took to my feet to squeeze all birdlife out of this refuge. This unit was relatively new and restricted, so it didn’t have much new to offer. I kind of expected that; I just thought I’d try something unusual and hope for an unusual result; that’s kind of what my Big Year is all about.

Among the 32 species that I would see at the unit, only Canvasback, a regal-looking duck, was new for the year.

I savored the rest of my evening in Washington, as it’d be my last for a while. I was leaving the state with 100 birds on my Washington state list.

1/17

In my early sluggish awareness I pick up on a fairly constant and irritating drone of traffic. Surprising for this sleepy little beach town and bothersome as can be. I cannot help but take it as an onomatopoetic foreshadowing of today’s journey. What would the world sound like if everyone parked their car for a year?

Like it or not it’s time for me to eschew the life of comforts for the life of adventure. I’ve been getting too settled here: too roped into TV, too inclined to lounge, and too unproductive. Following checkout, I reentered my ways of old, and I instantly remembered why I opted for this way. It was like my brain had awakened from sleep mode. The hills towards Raymond were still snow-covered, and I was grateful for the the way the week’s worth of wintry weather had played out. The snow cover revealed the land’s secrets: the whitest areas being the ones with the freshest wounds, the cutover plots.

It ain’t long before I’m in Chinook, and I’m on the fence about stopping until I see a triad of Greater White-fronted Geese feeding in a lot alongside the highway. So I make a quick stop to document them and then mount up to head for the bridge. But I’m not on the saddle for long before a tunnel appears and necessitates me pressing a button for passing bikes. If only I were agile enough to press the button and continue riding... Unfortunately I must get off and walk through the tunnel. Each passing car is like submachine gun fire to the eardrum. The effect of the reverberation feels like surround-sound gone wrong. I could not have gotten out of that tunnel sooner.

And as soon as I did, my next frontier appeared on the horizon: Oregon. It would be my second new state on the trip and my last. And I was pumped for it’s potential. I would be entering with 96 birds on the year list, poised for a flush of new ones. But standing between that promise and me was the Columbia River and the 4.1 mile Astoria-Megler Bridge, which is the longest continuous three-span through-trust bridge in North America, whatever the hell that means. And I walked it, apparently illegally. Along the way I’d encounter a Western Gull and Pelagic Cormorant in my path: both having perished at the hands of drivers. In a sort of rushed and unceremonious funeral, I tossed them back to the Columbia, their mother and true home.

Man this is a wide river. Four miles?? The Columbia is the fourth largest river in North America, and somehow man has placed not one, not two, but 14 dams along the main channel. Fourteen dams? This thing must be more backed up than the Comcast customer service queue. But what comes around goes around, and the Columbia’s deceptively enticing inlet has been the siren for many a lost crew, as Maritime Memorial Park in Astoria can attest.

Taking my first steps in Oregon, I became aware of an odd phenomenon transpiring at my feet. Drainage holes in the bridge had turned into miniature water spouts, the wind having the gravity-defying effect of forcing water droplets upwards to the road’s surface. It was another little magic moment that the speeding and oblivious SUV’s had no chance of observing. As was the passing biker: a true vagrant on a baby blue bike with whitewalls and a bottle of vodka in the front cupholder. He eyed me and exclaimed “That’s a huge f%&*in’ wheel! Cool!”

So I mentioned that my means of crossing into Oregon was apparently illegal: it brought my first (and certainly not last) run-in with the law. All of a sudden, after having crossed about 75% of the bridge, an Astoria police cruiser approached and blocked off the north-bound traffic lane (I was walking against the flow of traffic in an attempt at self-preservation). While biking is allowed on the bridge, walking is not, and apparently my stroll along the shoulder had been the cause of several calls placed to the Astoria PD. Fortunately my officer was extremely understanding and did not require that I ride the remainder in his squad car or that I needed to do anything other than finish what I had started. As we chatted, some California Sea Lions honked their circus-act honk, perhaps in an effort to salute a fellow patron of performance arts. It was my first interaction with these fellas, and the officer was nice to identify them for me. After running my license, confiscating the Washington license plate that I found on the bridge, and verifying that my intention was not to jump from the bridge, he let me continue onwards.

Finally I got the heck off of that confounded bridge and made my way to the Astoria Riverwalk. From there it was just a stroll up a really steep hill to my Warmshowers stay, where Becky let me into the guest room. Holy smokes was I blown away. Looking around the room as I write, I’m still in denial. Steve and Becky offer a space for traveling cyclists that is literally a cyclist’s dream. I’ll check tomorrow and make sure that I wasn’t actually just dreaming. The space is independently accessible and features a kicking common area, stero, bike repair area, free stuff box, kitchen with all kinds of wares, furnace, full bathroom, beds, books, games, a roller, yoga mats, a medicine ball, and a clothesline. All of this is framed with a neat industrial look and adorned with Grateful Dead imagery, including a immortalizing photo of Mr. Garcia just laying into a sick lick. The wifi network name is shipoffools. I literally could not have imagined this any better.

Brokedown Palace 

I had to take a stroll just to digest the awesomeness that I was just presented. So I returned to the Riverwalk, which showed some promise. In route I grabbed a big tray of chicken mac n’ cheese from a food truck (and didn’t have to pay sales tax-there is none in Oregon). The Riverwalk was actually productive, and I added Greater Scaup and Orange-crowned Warbler, my second warbler species for the year.

Later on I’d make my way back down to town to grab some fish tacos and appreciate Astoria at night. The sidewalks have these cool mosaic-type insets with illumination-you have to see it to appreciate it.

1/18 

I rise leisurely. I may as well just stop saying that since it happens so often these days. But there’s no urgency in my acts because I have decided to take Steve and Becky up on their offer and stay another night. Why not? It’s too good to pass up, and I ought to check out more of Astoria.

Soon I’m scaling the steep grades of the Astoria sidewalks, heading for the highest point of the city. I find myself humming the Full House theme song. I can’t help myself, the resemblance to the San Fran of the sitcom cannot be overlooked. After all, Astoria is referred to as “Little San Fransisco.”

I make my zig-zag way through the disjointed streets, climbing ever higher. I find that the streets arbitrarily end, requiring that I connect to the adjoining one. I later learn from my cycling buddy Brian that the discontinuity is the artifact of repeated landslides. How nice.

Passing through the entrance to Coxcomb Hill, I spot my destination sitting atop a lush, grassy hill: the Astoria Column. No, it’s not a newspaper office; it’s a structure. It recalls an out-of-place lighthouse and does not appear to have much of a command from its perch. But the views from the top always beat the views from the bottom, and the Column didn’t disappoint.

From the top, I take in the view, enjoying a solitary occupation of the platform for several minutes.

A Selfie for Posterity

Below, the city of Astoria is perfectly patterned along the banks of the Columbia, stretching neatly onto the neighboring hill. Everything below appears so nicely laid out, as if it were all constructed from Legos. Houses look perfectly geometrical, cars move in an orderly and predictable fashion along the sleepy streets, docks reach out into the impressive Columbia, and Coast Guard ships motor along happily. Suddenly the whole scene appears as Google Maps programming: my bird’s eye view converting the lay of the land into a series of routes. Which will I take in the morning?

From my vantage atop this lookout, I realize that I am the highest man in Astoria. Well, on second thought, maybe not... I guess it depends on your definition of high.

From the ground, I look up to appreciate the Column once more. A vertical crack from top to bottom becomes apparent. I’m glad I didn’t have to see that before climbing to the top.

My return to town is mostly accomplished along a muddy stretch of trail. Soon I’m back on the riverwalk. The fastest animal in the world-the Peregrine Falcon- provides a typical fleeting view. A couple of crows loudly signal their presence nearby. As I go to put them into my running eBird list, I see that Northwestern Crow/American Crow is no longer an option. Apparently Oregon birders consider their crows to be pure enough to be considered American Crows. I guess now is as good a time as any to add them to my year list; it’s not like it’ll be my last sighting of them.

Sitting on the cliffhanger of 99 species, I gorge myself on more Astoria food; it’s the best culinary destination I’ve seen so far. Then I’m back up to the house, where a nap is an unavoidable next move.

I woke up an hour later from a cavernous sleep- I thought it was the next day. I cannot remember the last time I slept so hard, especially when napping. I must have been supremely at ease. Undoubtedly I was rested for the moving day that was next.

1/19

This morning I finally met Steve, the host of this incredible venue. It was difficult to peel away from his place, knowing that much worse housing options lie ahead. But it had to be done; other travelers would follow. The Oregon stretch of Highway 101 is 358 mi from border to border. The Oregon coast is 363.1 miles long. Time to get some of those miles under my belt.

I walked the uni over the hill to reach a smaller bridge on 101, the lesser of two evils. Just as I’m preparing to mount to begin the day’s ride, a cyclist pulls up alongside me and asks if I was in AdventureCycling Magazine. I resist the temptation to claim another’s fame and tell the guy that I’m not famous.

He introduces himself as Brian Squire (no relation to Billy Squire-I asked) and offers to ride with me to Seaside. He diverts my route from 101 to the more scenic and less traveled Lewis and Clark Road. This is my first group cycling experience ever, and it’s loads more fun than riding alone. After passing over the bridge, I’m confronted with year bird #100- a milestone! It’s a Red-shouldered Hawk that takes flight from a powerline and offers a fleeting view.

Before long, we are well on our way to the Oregon woods, leaving the hustle and bustle of 101 behind. The day simply cannot be any nicer, and it takes me off-guard.

Brian and I begin to chat, and pretty soon I’m aware of how incredible his cycling past is and how lucky we both are to be in his company. After being the victim of a head-on bike on car collision, he nearly lost his leg. His injuries, including spinal damage, required weeks of recovery in the hospital. His outlook was grim. And yet here he was, twelve years later, not visibly phased, and enjoying the ride as if nothing of the sort had ever happened. He truly has a sunny outlook that cannot be dampened.

And he commuted to work on his bike for thirty years! He and his wife do not even own a car; all of their business is done by bike or foot. They practice an admirable lifestyle. Not to mention they’ve crisscrossed the US on their bikes like a couple of navigators with a broken compass.

Brian insisted that we make a quick detour to Lewis and Clark National Historic Park to check out the reconstruction of the encampment that these fellas spent a winter in. Attempting to skirt the visitor’s center, we caught the attention of some NPS employees. We caught flack from them as they dealt with us in their usual entitled manner. I don’t know what it is about NPS, but they always exude this air. You’d think we were trying to infiltrate the Treasury in DC. These folks would later lighten up a bit when we passed by on the way out.

Brian was insistent about getting photos, and I am glad that he was. It’s something that I usually neglect to do but regret. So his willingness to capture the moment was valuable.

We were putting along nicely, with hardly any traffic. Towards the tail-end of the ride, we began a slow climb. I was sweating like a stuck pig in the sunshine and finally had to stop to shed my well-insulated jacket. Feeling like a new man, I entered Seaside with a smile on my face and a new friend by my side.

Like all good things, our ride had to come to an end. So Brian turned back and headed for Astoria, and I made my way to the hostel to check in.

This would be quite the interesting next step on my journey, to be honest. I was so hungry after stashing my stuff, so I headed into the thick of it around 2. And boy, was it thick. People were swarming like termites before a colony dispersal. Seaside has a real Santa Monica feel: a coastal town that’s overrun with people, most of whom are wearing Vans. People raced around in 4-wheeled pedal cars and a minivan family tailed a police cruiser while blasting the theme from Cops. What in the world had I stumbled into? My hunger was not allowing me to interpret the scene fully. A man was handing out saltwater taffy at a street corner.

“Vincent, you ever had a Big Kahuna Burger?” 

Walking along the shooting galleries, arcades, and souvenir shops, I scanned for a reasonable-looking place for a meal. I settled on a place where hearing Harry Chapin over the speakers really summed the scene up.

With some food in my belly, I ran back to the hostel to grab my effects and try for the residing rarity -a Mountain Plover- in the fading light. I had a close encounter with a young bull Elk and was relieved that he did not feel threatened by me in any way.

By the time I made it to the spot, mist began to enshroud the huge exposed beach, rendering my attempts at finding a small brown bird futile. In all honesty, I felt relief in not seeing the Plover, feeling that I’d get much more satisfying lifer looks the following day.

“Somewhere, over the dunes.”

“You built a time machine, out of a DeLorean?

Mountain Plover and Long-billed Curlew were my priorities for the next day. These were both birds that I did not expect to have a shot at until months later in California, and learning of their presence and apparent cooperativeness struck me as odd for this location. But I wasn’t going to pass up good looks at these normally clandestine shorebirds.

1/20

A sad day. Midway through the day, I would receive word that my sister’s and my long time babysitter/nanny/housekeeper passed away. Mrs. Ren embodied all of the characteristics of a virtuous person. She imparted peace and calmness, and we were blessed to have her in our lives; she touched our lives and shaped their courses for the better. We cherish fond memories of her and her husband Clint, and from now on we’ll cling to them especially tightly. Our hearts hurt for the loss a friend, loved one, and member of the family. At the same time, we are relieved to know that she has found the place where she truly belongs and that we may see her again one day. I am grateful for Mrs. Ren’s life and her impact on mine.

Before I received word about our loss, I was hard at work, covering most of Seaside Beach down to the cove, where I picked up my lifer Black Turnstone (the *’s in my species list denote life birds). They were pretty confiding, foraging just beyond the brigade of surfer vans parked at the cove’s edge.

Black Turnstone

Surfbirds

After taking a moment to appreciate these unusually spectacular lifer looks, I continued onwards to the south, hugging the cove and hopefully unearthing it’s bird wonders. A quartet of friendly and knowledgeable birders also found themselves in Seaside Cove. They introduced themselves as Jay Withgott, Wink Gross, Andy Frank, and David Mandell. In addition to answering my new kid on the block questions, they put me on a few year birds. Among them was a Harlequin Duck, a much sought-after bird that I had last seen in February of 2018 off of the south tip of Cumberland Island.

After they moved on, I continued along the rocky shoreline, hoping to unveil other wonders among the rough surf. Surfers eyed me as if I had just burned down an orphanage in town and gotten away with it. One of them told me that I was brave to take “that camera” where I was going (referring to my scope which is most definitely not a camera). I said “oh because of the waves?” He responded with “no, because of the locals.”

With that strange dose of foreboding behind me, I set up shop to scan the rafts from a more direct location. Miguel from the Augusta Chronicle called me to ask about my undertaking. After the call, I sat to rest and appreciate the scene and my apple. Just before sitting down on a rock, my scope went crashing into the rocky shoreline, sending the eyepiece on a concerning trajectory. Yup, it’s pretty much busted.

The rest of the day was very long and consisted of many miles walked to find the Curlew and Plover, but it was not to be today.

During one of the stints of my three part Mountain Plover-a-thon, a man spotted me on the sidewalk and asked if I was after the Mountain Plover. I’ll be dogged if it wasn’t Steve Warner, the very birder who found the Plover just four days prior. During our conversation, Steve offered a suggestion for a last-ditch effort at spotting the bird. I followed his lead but found myself unsuccessful and absolutely bushed at the day’s end. Imagine my surprise when Steve shows up and invites me over to dinner. What a way to end the day!

As I enjoyed burritos with Steve and his wife Marylynn, we talked Oregon, routes, and birds. The Warners both explained the hint of surfer hostility that I experienced earlier. Apparently the surfers are very territorial and do not want word to get out about their local haunt. They thought that I was taking pictures and spreading the word. Well I guess 50% of their suspicions had a basis.

But I cannot disrespect the surfers with sweeping judgements. Steve is a surfer himself. And he is undeserving of disrespect.

I want to thank Steve and Marylynn for their hospitality and a warm Oregon welcome! It is much appreciated!

1/21

I was really looking forward to a good night’s sleep last night, but my maniacal dorm-mate decided to have premonitions about going to some nonexistent job all night. As he mumbled and went about his unconscious preparations, I laid restlessly, waiting for morning to give me some escape.

And morning did come, and so did the rains. I couldn’t leave Seaside without trying for the two shorebird targets again, so I spent the next couple of hours running around in the rain chasing ghosts.

My suspicions about the nature of my targets, the Plover and the Curlew, were confirmed. Like me, they had arrived at an unusual destination for their kind and were not intent on being gawked at for any particular reason. I felt a lot of kinship for these shy individuals, a feeling that eased the blow of the miss. Until California...

But that’s the thing about birding. It’s real. You cannot just say “Siri, show me a Mountain Plover.” No, this sport requires effort, dedication, and positivity. Instant gratification doesn’t come around to spoil its practitioners. And if it does, it’s really special. It’s the rarity of ease that defines it. Otherwise even ease becomes diluted by itself. Birding restores expectations to a more reasonable state, reminding us that not everything can be achieved with minimal effort.

Bearing this in mind, I am temporarily assuaged in my defeat. The rematch will come.

But before I earn that fifth or sixth chance with this Plover, I’ve got to skip town. I’ve got a short hop scheduled for the day. I’m heading over to the next town to the south: Cannon Beach, a location of Goonies fame.

So it’s back to the unicycle life for a bit. Just enough exposure to the road to remind me of its mysteries without totally draining me. You know what demographic really likes my unicycle-riding antics? You may be surprised to hear that it’s neither the truckers nor the chicks that respond most favorably to me. It’s the dogs. I simply cannot pass by a dog, whether I’m walking or pushing, without it just exploding into a barking fit. There’s something about this one-wheeled business that just sends them over the edge. I wish I could understand what they were saying like the dogs from UP.

The trip to Cannon Beach was not too bad; although it did require a bit of walking on the upslope. If you’ve noticed the weirdness with my track on this stretch, it’s due to some GPS error. I did not go on a pelagic nor did I go swimming in the Pacific as my tracker seems to suggest.

I had a treat waiting for me in Cannon Beach. Hannah Buschert and Erik Ostrander, a zealous birding duo out of Oregon, had invited me to stay in their hotel for a free night! It would be the first time that I was hosted by birders on the year. Hannah and Erik are very active nationally, attending and presenting at numerous birding festivals across the states. They also produce their own birding podcast: Hannah and Erik Go Birding

https://www.gobirdingpodcast.com

In other words, they’re big-time. Their website is really well laid out, with great photos and eBird visuals. I could tell that they were talented photographers by their selection of tropical birds adorning the wall of the hotel lobby.

My Kind of People 

They put me up in one of their better rooms; it had a direct view of Haystack Road, and it boasted the potential to show off Tufted Puffins at the right time of year. Unfortunately they aren’t around in January.

After settling in, I took off on a route suggested by Erik and Hannah that finished at Haystack Rock. It was a nice evening bird walk. Although I did not pick up any year birds, I had the chance to admire the renowned sea stack in surreal twilight conditions.

Aptly-named 

The evening was crowned with a visit to a cool hardware store/ restaurant concept with my generous hosts. Over dinner, we talked birds like we’d birded together for years. Man it felt good to talk birds. It’s like birders have an endless bank of topics to draw from. Mayer Hawthorne, St. Paul and the Broken Bones, and the Tedeschi Trucks Band provided a happy ambiance.

The comforts that I was awarded on this night would be especially valued considering how the following day would progress...