What you want, and what you get

Promises on Puget Sound

Mike, Chris and I at the Pacfic, in Fort Stevens, at the wreck of the merchant ship Peter Iredale, from 1906. 

Well, we aren't setting any land speed records. Bruce and I are in Scappoose, Oregon, west of Portland, having managed about 90 miles in three days. Mike and Chris, who signed on for just the weekend, had to go back to work today, sigh. They were great companions, easily the strongest riders and yet had the patience for us less prepared. I am, clearly, the weak link.

Day 1, Friday, outside of Astoria, we had to climb a couple hills you wouldn't find in Wisconsin -- ruler-straight inclined planks to the sky. One was two miles long, and one was three. By mile 30, I was creeping along on flat pavement at 8 miles an hour. At a break, I lay down on the lawn of a state fish hatchery, in the shade of a big pine, and immediately fell asleep. My legs were dead. We discussed options, got water, and a rode a couple miles back to camp at Gnat Creek Campground -- no services at all, but it was good enough for us.

I had prepared for this ride, but I was shaken by how unprepared I really was.

Day 2 was better. I took to riding far ahead of the others, or far behind, so I could set my own pace without reference to them.  However fast or slow, it was comfortable. There were still hills, but they weren't the monsters of the day before. We rode along Highway 30 much of the day, catching glimpses of the Columbia River, off to the left, and riding through its breathtaking valley. At a little town called Clatskanie, our route took us up to the north on a winding side road, above the Beaver Falls River gorge, a dizzying height with a waterfall and rushing water flashing in the greenery below. Bruce called it one of the best rides he'd ever had.

Campground options were few, and the Hudson Parcher campground outside the town of Rainier was really nice and made sense. So, it ended at another 30-mile day.

Today, we packed up at a leisurely pace, then descended a frighteningly steep hill to the edge of Rainier. We got coffee and a sweet roll at a stand and pressed on through towns that have dots on the map but no actual presence -- Prescott, Goble -- and into St. Helens. This was the end of the road for Chris and Mike, and, at the Dari (sic) Delish, Kristi picked them up and they were gone.

Bruce and I rode here, Scappoose, about another 9 miles. Portland lays another 25 miles ahead, and, while he would have done it, I wanted wi-fi and a little time for this, so we'll end up in a campground here.

Bruce, Chris, Mike, at Hudson Parcher Campground

Breakfast at the Berry Patch, Westport, Oregon. Probably a little much.

Bruce's goofy bike set-up

Collecting water. Someone has to do it. 

Chris in camp

The big valley

Chris, a "siesta master," as people who know him say

Crazy!