A little bit behind the journal entries. These shall be my “Photo for the Day” for a wee bit:
I pull the covers over my tarnished black legs. At my feet it reads “God Bless America”. Lady Liberty’s flames rub my ballsack. How appropriately you act, my dear femme fatale. Unlike last night, the room is heated and in the same quarters as the couch surfer host. There are no dead flies on this bed and I feel safe to use the various pieces of the bed as what shall keep me warm through the night, rather than a bunch of misrepresented bedding I will try to avoid. When did I last write? Who knows. I am certain I wrote in Townsend…yes…as I stole Quimper’s signal. Good times. Never did go into any shops in Port Townsend. This trip is prepping me for my inability to see it all on the second bike trip. I have no time. I did, for your Global AFCers, have time to do quite a bit of work finding accommodations. More to follow on that front.
Port Townsend was gorgeous. The rest of the day I wandered by bike, following the historic map up Washington Street and Lawrence Street, passed the old warning bell for the fire bragade, passed the unimpressive Rothchild’s house and the unpink Pink House. Try to fit that court house in a shot is a ridiculous task that I absolved myself of by clickity clacking it in portions. Bumped into a lady who invited for internet and spoke about the marvels of wifi. I mistook their movie theatre for a theatre theatre. A man going uphill stopped to explain how great this town in and how when he broke up with his girlfriend he lived at the homeless shelter. I believe just because through break up your house broken, doesn’t you don’t have a pot to piss in. Quite the opposite if you think deep.
The post office was an amazing stone building that seemed a bit to large for this town. Imposing and physically astounding, the former customs house occupied my last 15 before returning to the bus depot to return to Discovery Bay. The millions of numbered cash boxes, the wood liquered panelling, the augmented glass windows, the natural light created skinny half oval pillars of brightness on the ground. I explored, but felt that odd feeling you get when you go into closed door rooms of other people’s houses. Fascinating and overwhelming.
I came home. Shot the shit with Andrew. He showed me the Llamas, a baby goat…
Longest day of my life. Worried that people think I am dead. I am NOT dead. Internet tomorrow to insure that death has not occured. No pictures. Nothing. Biked 100 miles to insanity. Never again…I think the stupid Google Earth sucks teste. Saw lots through Joyce and Sekiu and…..need to rethink trip as I cannot ever do this again. Going to bus at least to Forks tomorrow. Its not cheating…most people do not come out this way. Makah Tribe. Night night.
A day was lost due to scarcity of life left in my loins. Yesterday took my body to a wonderful new place I have never been before. Apologize for my summation of the events that occurred…this past night I have slept in the Forks visitor centre. And much to my own choosing, since I refuse to give a cent to a motel that I will only occupy for 5 or so hours. First daylight and I am gone…gone…gone. I have no real idea as to the next stop, I am trying to hit Taholah. Oh…I slept outside for a bit….damn shoes suck and the water pants froze me even more…the sweat from two days ago’s epics still seeps in its pores. I chose to reside here due to helpful tip from the lovely server at Fork’s Pacific Pizza. I ate a personal pan for no reason. I wasn’t hungry. I am spending cash like a rabid dog…10 bux a day…10 bux a day…I keep trying to convince myself that such frugality is possible with how I want to do this trip. Again, I feel, no avail will come to it at all. I am finally heading down down down after a treacherous day up up up.
Two days ago I did 100 miles in a day. From Sequim, I rode the Discovery Trail to Port Angeles…where it failed…I took it all the way to a split in the ocean that lead to a dead ender at the Nippon Paper Mill. Span around, up a hill, left on 18th, and onto 12 to take my chances with that callus road. That be a road I shall never forget as long as I live. No shoulder, up hills and down hills, twirling and twirling, truckers honking, tempting beaches, warning go 25mi, walking when my knees eroded. Finally, at 7:30, I pulled into Neah Bay…..made it to the Tyee Motel, pulled myself under the awning, near the sign that says “if you need a room, call Cary” and placed my 50 cents in a pay phone and called Vicki, a couch surfer who lived this way. After several attempts….tada…Vicki pulled up in her car and I followed her to Hemlock Road, to Nursery Road, to Hemlock Road, last house on your right.
She gave up her own bed so I could pass out. She fed me Elk Soup and wouldn’t have it any other way.
The next day I awoke. I discussed Makah History with Vicki. She explained how the language was being kept alive and about how her different parts of her family looked at religion, the advent of Catholism, the different parts of where the Makah would roam, the mudslides at Ozette that covered the town for 500 years, the goats that mysteriously appeared on the small Wadah Island and their eventual escape over a rock jetty built to protect the bay. She spoke about the Coast Guard that use to live on Tatoosh Island, a girl named Vicki who she looked up to in elementary school, her grandfather that would teach her to live off the land and her sons who fought and put holes in the walls. She went on about drugs, a Native Art, and her laugh sang to me its own tales. I went to the Makah Museum and learned about the covered Ozette site, where over 50,000 Makah artifacts were found, preserved for 500 years by a mudslide. A whale from the 1999 whaling incident hangs from the ceiling, long canoes sit below it. A long house in its entirety sits in the centre of the museum, built to perfection. I walked the town, bought a note book, listened to people interact…tried to get smoked salmon, but the guy only had tuna. Albert, one of Vicki’s 5 children, showed me how to put up a tent. Simple enough. At 7 I left on a bus to Forks and here I am. Today is a new day at 6am. Gonna try to sleep for 2 hours. Tata.
Where were we? Ah yes…on a trans-canal trip to Port Townsend, once named the “City of Dreams”. How like real dreams, did everyone wake up and realize a less vivid or prosperous reality. The masses of boats and people never came, and the city that waited to be a city was left as an immaculately built Victorian village.
It was night when I arrived. The city was asleep. Lucky for me, my Couch Surfing contact, had seen my ship from the shore and presumed, being that it was the last boat over, that I had to be on it. He picked me and Klalita up in his pick up and we whizzed off into the dark curvatures of the ghost dark tree highway to have dinner with his family. Bread and wine, a perfect lullaby. Waking at a good time in the morning to the sound of barking dogs at my door at Andrew’s dog and llama farm was the perfect alarm. Andrew built all that I saw on his land from the ground up. He was an actor too, a worldly, interesting, caring, family man of many different hats and he wore them all quite comfortably. I set off on my naked Klalita into town, passed the natural rock cliff that the main street buildings seamed to lazily rest on. Cute shops, cafes and even an ol’ movie theatre gave me a very Bohemian sense of the place. The coffee shop was what you’d expect when you see Tibetan flags at the window, full of coffees from foreign fair trade lands and loooooot of cookies that had ingredients that make baked goods for old people instead of the intended younger audiences. Oh…and there was no music store, only a record store with the owner’s fixie sitting at the front.
I started at the museum, where the curator gave me the town’s history. Nice gentleman who yearned for an audience, so I lent him my ear for close to half an hour. Well worth it, he knew it all and could answer all my questions. He also talked about the city’s prostitution history as if it were a major focal point, which was alright by me. The best displays were the odd things. An old funeral cart, a section on comic books and my personal favourite, a list of alternative names for a house of ill intent. After the museum, I walked in no direction in particular to look at some of the wonderful Victorian architecture the city has. I returned to Andrew’s just as the sun was dipping behind the trees. I played games with his kids on the jungle gym and pet the llamas, carefully.
Andrew had a wonderfully interesting life that you’ll just have to surf with him to fully appreciate it. A man of the land, the type of man I saw as a child played by John Wayne, but less racist and more emotionally connected to things and people he loved. The next day, I waved goodbye, drank some fresh squeezed orange (compliments of his son’s amazing juicing skills), squeezed past the heavy tubing welded dirt white gate and off down the road to Sequim.
Suddenly bam. I needed a bathroom. 5 or so k later I found one. I never made that mistake…..on this continent again.
Sequim, I arrived during a day shy of the Irrigation Festival, which apparently involved a produce throwing competition. Damnit, something I’ve always regretted missing. My couch surfer that night was a wonderful mother, who packed my panniers full of chocolate bars and energy bars. Her dog, Savvy, watched with curiosity as I ate food and glugged down a tall, red plastic glass of milk. TV, it’s glow I hadn’t seen in a while. Meh, it didn’t interest me and I soon was under the “In God We Trust” covers and fast asleep.
The hardest ride was just ahead…and…well….I don’t want to spoil your appetites. Enjoy!: