Bison and Geysers

I left Bozeman, MT after staying for a few days and hanging out with my sister's friends. I had the privilege of going hiking twice, attending Music on Main, and exploring downtown with some awesome people. I left town on the morning of the 13th of July and rode down into Yellowstone for some epic sightseeing. The first sign of awesomeness came when I arrived at Mammoth Hot Springs. There were elk lounging everywhere, just watching the traffic go by, paying no attention to the people milling about the grounds. After some time at the visitor center, I hit the road, feeling very antsy to get a move on and see the wonders of Yellowstone. This park did not disappoint: steaming fumaroles, bubbling hot springs, and spouting geysers abound in this volcanic wonderland. I made several stops along the western route through the park (I rode north to south on this road, in case you want to look it up) and took advantage of the extensive network of boardwalks built throughout the area. Early on in the journey, I came across a moving roadblock, a bull bison. Needless to say many tourists found it necessary to pull over and take photos, me included.

If you ever go to Yellowstone, definitely stop by the Museum of the National Park Ranger, an underappreciated gem near the center of the park. While visiting the museum I had the privilege of speaking with a retired National Park ranger who, upon hearing about my trip and my future hopes for employment with the NPS, provided me with information and inspiration.
There are many wondrous things to see in Yellowstone, too many to see in a day and far too many for me to describe here. I am obligated, however, to speak of my experience with Old Faithful! While this is certainly not the most beautiful nor mysterious nor wondrous force of nature the park has to offer, it is iconic and reliable. The geyser erupts regularly every 40 to 120 minutes or so, and on any given day the rangers are able to calculate and predict when each eruption will be. As I approached the visitor center for Old Faithful I thought, I should be arriving sometime not too long before the next eruption, then I'll look around a bit and head out. As luck would have it, I saw a spout of water up over the pines just as I was pulling off the main road. Hmm, this has to be Old Faithful. Sure enough, after parking and walking into the visitor center, I learned that I'd just missed the eruption and the next one was not for another hour and a half. A lesson in patience, I told myself. I had lots of time to wander and explore before going to see the geyser. And I must say, it does erupt with regularity; Old Faithful faithfully spouted within two minutes of the predicted time. For the first time in my life, I saw Old Faithful erupt, at 2:17 p.m. on Friday, July 13.


Old Faithful

After my Old Faithful experience I left the park, riding south toward Grand Teton National Park. It had been a hot day in Yellowstone, with the sun shining through crystal clear skies. The Grand Tetons are only miles from Yellowstone, yet I might as well have been a world away once I approached the lovely and majestic peaks of the Tetons. Being late afternoon, a storm was brewing around those majestic peaks, a storm I watched grow as I rode closer and closer. By the time I arrived at the visitor center, the skies had opened and proceeded to dump as much water on me as possible. I left the park through the east entrance and found a nice place to camp, just a few miles from the park boundary. My biggest regret so far is that I did not dedicate more time to visiting Yellowstone and Grand Tetons; someday I will go back and satisfy my craving to explore these places in more depth. For now I will content myself with the ethereal and mysterious feelings instilled by views of these peaks enshrouded with mist and clouds, thunder and lightning.



The Grand Tetons

 The day after my Yellowstone/Grand Tetons adventure was one of the most difficult and monotonous days to date. I rode 474 miles, going east through Wyoming and entering South Dakota at the Black Hills. I camped out that night on US Forest Service land with sore wrists and sore butt cheeks, but it was well worth it; I had a beautiful camp site surrounded by pines, and plenty of leisure time to take a much-needed walk. The next day, on the 15th, I packed up camp and hit the road by 6:45 a.m. I rode to Wind Cave National Park, where I saw another bull bison (this one standing in front of the park entrance sign, as if to welcome me) and, for the first time in my life, prairie dogs! At the park, the visitor center didn't open until 8:00, and cave tours don't start until 8:45, so I walked around a bit before continuing on to Badlands National Park. This was a true adventure, as I opted for the back road entrance to the park, going through the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation on Reservation Route 2, a long and dusty dirt road. At the White River Visitor Center I met a very kind Native American gentleman who worked for the NPS. We talked a bit, and I learned that the nearest gas is in Interior (yes, my low fuel light came on again, and I was a bit nervous...). I left the visitor center and rode north on Reservation Route 27, turned east on HWY 44, and made it to Interior, a little town in the middle of the desert. I fueled up and enjoyed a cold sarsparilla in the parking lot (it was a VERY hot day) before riding on to the Interior Entrance to the park. This is where the main attraction is, one of the terminus points of the Badlands Loop Road. I rode this northwest up to Wall. The Badlands are, to sum it up in one word, incredible. They are a paradox, for life abounds in these harsh lands despite the extreme and harsh weather. The plateaus and hills are alluring yet one knows that survival here is difficult (I would say impossible but the Lakota people lived here for centuries). Due to the heat I did not spend much time walking around; rather, I took my time riding slowly through the park, taking in all the wonders it has to offer. At Wall I stopped at Wall Drug for some sightseeing and lunch. Wall Drug is huge, filled with all manner of trinkets and souvenirs. I had a terrible tuna salad sandwich and the most horrendous slice of pie I've ever eaten, followed by a stomach ache. From Wall I traveled west to Rapid City, South Dakota, and south to see Mt. Rushmore. An impressive mountain indeed. It's a funny thing to see the heads of these four famous men carved into a mountain. What else can I say about this? You all know what it looks like.



Somewhere in South Dakota





Resident in Wind Cave National Park





The Badlands of SD

 I spent that night couchsurfing in Rapid City, then left early the next day for Theodore Roosevelt National Park in North Dakota. Roughly 300 miles from Grand Rapids, this was another long haul. There is a lot of nothing between South Dakota and North Dakota, and it is beautiful. T.R. National Park was much more than I had expected. These are the badlands Roosevelt came to for healing after his young wife and his mother both died within hours of each other. Roosevelt came by train, and learned life as a rancher in these wonderful lands. These badlands are much different than those in South Dakota. They are more vegetated and therefore, in MY opinion, more beautiful. Here I visited the museum in the Medora Visitor Center, where I got to see Roosevelt's own firearms, including his lever-action Winchester and a three-barreled shotgun/rifle. The Scenic Loop Drive through the park is beautiful and provides plenty of photo opportunities. The sky was overcast this day, and it even rained on and off, which added to the ambiance of adventure (and helped keep the temperature down). Near the end of the loop I pulled over to hike the Petrified Forest Loop Trail, a 12-mile journey across big plateaus of grassland and into a canyon filled with petrified trees. As luck would have it, the sun began to come out as I started the hike, which made things a bit warmer. While on foot I passed a bison herd in the distance and several prairie dog towns. These little guys make the funniest barking noise, and all together they make quite a racket as I pass by. After traveling through the petrified forest and back up onto a grassland plateau, I started my trek back to the trailhead. A few miles from the parking area, however, the bison herd I had seen earlier that day had migrated and decided that the prime grazing grounds were right on top of my trail. I'm not about to let a herd of bison get in my way... or maybe I will. As I got closer, the bulls slowly lifted their heads, turned in my direction, and walked toward me. Hmm, this doesn't seem like a very good idea. No, not a good idea at all. I immediately made a 90-degree turn, and glanced over my shoulder. They're still following me. And, as I walk past the herd, every bull I go by lifts its head, turns in my direction, and starts walking. Well, THIS seems like a bad deal. Heart racing, I do my best to give the herd a wide berth, hiking out into the grassland but keeping the trail in sight. After about ten minutes of walking and keeping a wary eye on the herd, I made it back to the trail and continued on my merry way, still in one piece. All the grassland in the world and they have to pick my trail to graze on... Might I add that on the same day, a man went missing in the park, and an airplane flew overhead the whole time I was hiking. Maybe he pissed off a bison herd or something.

Theodore Roosevelt National Park



The bison herd when it WASN'T in my way




Little barking bugger




This is why you don't mess with these guys




Petrified forest




The herd I had to go around

 Upon returning to the trail head, I took a much-needed bath in the Little Missouri River, then got back on the bike and headed east to Dickinson, North Dakota, where I stayed the night with a very nice couple, Luke and Danae. They own a coffee shop in town, a wonderful establishment utilizing an old church. Luke fed me bratwurst and burgers, pickles, beer, and tea, and I gratefully consumed everything he put in front of me. Twelve miles of hiking in the badlands really takes its toll. After dinner, we had an awesome conversation that included topics on beer, brewing, traveling, video games, coffee, mountain biking, and probably lots of other things I can't remember. Later in the evening a couple of his buddies came over and we enjoyed cigars and pipes - a new experience for me, and one that I enjoyed very much (FYI these are non-inhalants; I'd never touch a cigarette).
The next morning saw me at Luke and Danae's coffee shop, where I dined on homemade pumpkin bread and a pot of tea while reading a book. After about an hour of relaxation I decided I'd better hit the road, so off I went, gong east again until I reached Detroit Lakes, Minnesota, where my wonderful little sister is spending the summer with her fiancee Alex and his family. Awesome people, the Feldts! Fun, generous, friendly, and always ready to help you out. They put me up for several days in my own room with my own bed, and they fed me as much food and beer as I wanted. I did many fun things with the family while I was visiting, including swimming in lakes and dining out at various diners and bars. One experience is well worth mentioning, however. My first evening there, while we ate a magnificent dinner prepared by Karen (Alex's mom), we heard a big WHUMP on the side of the house. Further inspection revealed that a mallard hen was the culprit, having decided to commit suicide by flying into the not-invisible side of the house. Why she did this, we may never know, but the duck was beyond repair and was slowly losing its life as we watched it wobble and flap on the ground. Something had to be done, so I got to play executioner and break the duck's neck. Yet another life experience to add to my resume.
I've since left Detroit Lakes and my wonderful little sister behind, but all that has occurred since then will have to wait for another time. Until then, I hope you find the following link entertaining; it's the album I've stored all my photos, many of which have not been posted on this blog.
https://picasaweb.google.com/brysonmarks9/BrysonSMotoAdventureUSA

Under Gates and Over Mountains, but Never Around

I am, in fact, very famous in rural western Washington.

While western Washington is beautiful - very beautiful - it is also wet - very wet. Indeed, so wet that I found mold happily growing in my tankbag. The day I left Seattle was the day I rode through the North Cascades with wet feet, which, on the east side of the pass, became (nearly) frozen feet as the air temperature dropped drastically. I don't know what's worse - cool and wet, or cold and dry. In any case it was the perfect storm, as the Washington rains infiltrated my boots and then the chilly Cascades air provided a very efficient air-conditioning mechanism by which my lower extremities were reduced to tingly numbness. I did, in fact, glance down once to make sure my feet were still attached to my legs. But enough with the complaining; the Cascades themselves were lovely to behold, and the windy road was a thrill to ride. Before traveling into those high hills (while I was still riding in the eternal drizzle of western Washington) I pulled over for a roadside cuppa joe and called my next CouchSurfing host. While I had planned on camping out that night (the 3rd of July), I thought to myself with a whimper, "I don't wanna!" This, of course, was a whimper of the most manly nature, brought about only by the ever-present damp and chill one feels while on two wheels in that country. I called up my host, and she graciously invited me to arrive at any time, any day, and stay as long as I wish. Huzzah, a dream come true!

The North Cascades

So, back to the Cascades. As I worked my way east through that range, the clouds began to recede and by extension the sun was out. Ah, and as I descended from the high passes, the air warmed, my feet (slowly) came back to life, and I could smell the fresh green pastures of the Methow (MEET-how) Valley. What a heavenly experience, coming into the warm, DRY air, seeing the sun for the first time in days, surrounded by pastures and high desert. Onward through Winthrop and into the town of Twisp. Well, my host had realized at the last minute that she'd be in Winthrop for a couple hours, so I could bum around town while I waited for her to get back. No problem; I took off my boots and lay them in the sun to dry, did a little TLC on the bike (this is when I found the mold), and wandered around this tiny little town. Two hours later I meet Alison and John at the Twisp River Pub, where she graciously insisted on buying me the beer sampler (this pub is also a brewery that makes wonderful ales and lagers) and a hefty meal of fish tacos, rice, and beans. Both Alison and John love to talk, and not the bore-you-to-death kind of talk. They chat, they laugh, they listen, and the time flies by as you enjoy their company and camaraderie. Halfway into the conversation the pub is closing, so we wander over to the other bar in town where Ross, the owner/bartender, remembers every name and every face (you see, the next day, as I was taking a walk downtown, I squeak out a little "hello" and Ross responds with "Hey Bryson, how's it going). There we meet up with Elan, Alison's housemate, and Elan's friend Allison (yes, two Alison/Allisons; see the spelling difference). More chatting, some tequila and ale, and then we're off to the bunkhouse (Alison and Elan are Americorps members and have an awesome, multi-bedroom facility all to themselves, so I get my own room with a queen-sized bed) for some R&R.
The 4th of July was a day to remember. The little town of Twisp, which has a very high per capita population of artists and craftspeople, did have its own 4th of July parade. Elan was in the parade with her theatre group (they're performing The Music Man at the end of the month), so Allison and I watched and cheered her on. Afterward the town hosted the Arts Festival, with arts and crafts booths and live performances by very flexible persons able to bend themselves into the most painful-looking shapes. One girl even shot an arrow from a compound bow with her feet whilst hand-standing on a post. And she did hit her target.
After the afternoon festivities we began the evening festivities, with a party at a nearby friends' home just up the hill, with a great view of the Cascades and the river below. We had Mexican food to celebrate the American independence from the British, and it became law that any time something un-American was mentioned the perpetrator had to take a drink of his or her beverage (i.e. beer). We played a championship game of Hippie Cricket, involving four fiberglass rods, two frisbees, teams of two, and one beer in each person's hand. I'm sorry to say that I was not on the champion team, though we (Alison and I) were close (Team White People!). As this party wound down, we moved on to another one farther out in the countryside, with a bonfire and much dancing. And finally, around 1:00, to sleep!

John Hagan, Hiker and Fisher Extraordinaire

Me, trying to look like John Hagan

I found myself with a cold and a sore throat on the 5th of July, but there is no time for weakness here, for John and I had set up a man-date to do some epic hiking into the Cascades. With much grunting and wheezing (and talk of university life and the Lord of the Rings) we hiked with all manner of manliness to an alpine lake, where we dipped out feet in the water and ate some snacks. I caught a couple frogs, and soon we were on our way back down. By the end we were famished and decided on burgers and drinks at the Pub. Afterward a well-deserved nap, some time spent reading and wandering around town, then late to bed.
I was off the next morning, bound for Colville and my next CouchSurfing host, a family in the countryside with all manner of lovely farm animals. Ellie, Clarissa, Rachael, Luke, and their father are wonderful people and have a wonderful lifestyle. I got to milk goats, bottle-feed goats and a newborn bull calf, go bareback riding, hike bare-footed to the pond and explore a small rock cave, pet the pot-bellied pig, light fireworks, play with Jeepers, the pet magpie, and have an overall wonderful time. The farm residents include cows, horses, many goats, two emus, doves, two peacocks, chickens, dogs, guinea pigs, quail, ginny hens, geese, and probably many others that don't come to mind at the moment. The girls make goat cheese every day and I had some wonderful homemade meals, made from many ingredients produced right there at home. Needless to say I didn't really want to leave, but the road is a siren with an irresistible call (OOOHH so poetic). A late start the next day found me riding through the heat into the Idaho panhandle and into Troy (not much there) and Sandpoint (much more here). The local library was having a sale, so I bought a hardcover copy of Thomas Costain's High Towers, published 1949, for $1. Yay for reading! Back on the road, and soon into Montana.

"The Way Around is Under" (Wise advise from Yours Truly)

At some point I decided it was a good idea to do some more Forest Service Road riding. For the most part it is, unless its already been a long day and you just want to pitch camp. One thing GPS doesn't tell you is if a road has a locked gate barring it. Yes, I did come to one. No, I did not turn around and go back. As a wiseguy once told me, "'Impassable' is merely a word; it means nothing to those who choose their own path" (-Me). So I did the epic thing and dragged my bike under the gate. This time there literally was much grunting, and even a wimpy roar as I tried (and barely succeeded) in picking the bike back up. I should've signed up for a gym membership before starting this trip...

How beautiful things are when you're unaware of the nearby presence of a bull

I finally made it back to pavement, just in time to watch a thunderstorm roll out of the east and blow north, just missing me and my chosen campsite. While looking for a campsite, I rode into some muddy cattle tracks and ended up tipping the bike in a tight spot. Just what I needed after a long day. Well, at least I got to play in the mud. I got out and found a nice flat area for camp. Canned food and a cold creek bath were in order, followed by leisurely reading while lounging in my tent as the resident cattle watched with curiosity. The calves were especially intrigued, and several approached to within a foot or two before I tapped the tent walls, which they perceived as a possible threat and scattered like the wind. I am typically unafraid of members of the bovine persuasion, but this evening was an exception. After about an hour in my tent, I heard a distinct rumble. Not quite a "Moo," but more of a "MMMBLBLBLBM" or something of the sort. I'm no linguist, don't judge. A peek out the tent door revealed a very large, very well-endowed bull. I believe I quietly swore with an expletive, and there was nothing for it but to lay down and wish for the best. To my great relief he didn't see my tent as a threat, so I stayed inside the rest of the evening with my copy of The Voyage of Argo.

Outside the town of Whitefish

The next morning began my great adventure into Glacier National Park. A stop in Whitefish, and a little break at a whiskey distillery, and then another pit stop for a huckleberry milkshake precluded my expedition into the park. Glacier is an incredibly beautiful place. Riding the Going-to-the-Sun Highway is a must and provides stunning vistas of a glacier-cut valley and majestic peaks. Upon reaching the summit one is rewarded with a sign informing them that they have now crossed the Continental Divide, that wonderful little thing that determines the fate of so much water.
The ride down the east side of Glacier was uneventful and dumped me into the wide open spaces and rolling grasslands of eastern Montana. After leaving the town of St. Mary, I entered the Blackfeet Indian reservation and headed south. In the town of Browning, I considered getting gas; but no, I had enough to go a good distance, and I could always fuel up at one of the other towns to the south. Only a mile or so outside of Browning, my low fuel light comes on. No problem, I'll be in Dupuyer shortly. Hmm, no gas in Dupuyer... just some houses and a bar. No problem, I'll be in Bynum shortly. Hmm, no gas in Bynum... just some houses and a bar. I'm beginning to see a trend here. Well, Choteau is the next town down, and that DEFINITELY has gas. I should be able to make it.
It's a good lesson to learn now rather than later, I suppose, but three miles outside of Choteau the bike sputtered and spat, and I found myself on the shoulder of the highway pushing the beast to the nearest driveway. Fortunately there were several country homes, as I was quite near Choteau. After pushing the bike about fifty yards or so to a driveway I approached the house and was greeted by a sweet woman and her husband. "Oh, the same thing happened to a motorcyclist last year, and he told us we saved his life - his wife was NOT about to stand on the side of the highway asking for a ride into town!" I guess I'm not the only schmuck this side of the Divide. The kind couple gladly gave me a half gallon of gas and would take nothing in return. After a few minutes of hearing the man's life story and talking about motorcycles, he sent me on my way and I high-tailed it to Bozeman (I did remember to fuel up in Choteau, in case you are wondering). After 406 miles and all the excitement, I showed up at my little sister's place, a little after 9:00 p.m. After settling in I headed downtown for some grub, but of course the first pub I enter closed its kitchens a half-hour ago. I'm sent down to Plonk, the wine bar, where the kitchen is most assuredly open - and pricey. Oh well, I deserve a good gourmet meal! There I sat in all my glory, dirty jeans and smelly T-shirt, dining on fine olives and feta cheese and whatnot all by myself while chatting couples enjoyed each others' company. Well, as luck would have it, my good buddy Jonathan sensed my solitary discomfort all the way from Sutter, CA, and decided to call me up. That's what I call radar love.
The past few days in Bozeman have been really great. Although Allison's not actually in town, she hooked me up with lots of her friends, who have been buying me meals and drinks and have taken me hiking - twice - and exploring around town. You meet the coolest people while on the road. Soon I'll be off to Yellowstone, Grand Tetons, Wind Caves, Badlands, and Theodore Roosevelt National Parks, as well as a stop to see the pearly whites - or lack of them - of the presidents of Mt. Rushmore (why are none of them smiling?).

The Sweet, Sweet Taste of Gasoline

Mount St. Helens not erupting

My first day out of Portland was an interesting one. After riding part of the hold highway, Historic Route 30, I came to a road  closure and had to backtrack about ten miles. After getting back on the main interstate I was able to cross the Bridge of the Gods into Washington (rode through the little town of Carson... how I do miss my little brother) and ride north to see Mount St. Helens. Yeah, it was cool. No, it wasn't erupting, though I had secretly hoped it would blow while I was looking at it. A little joy ride around the south side of the mountain on Forest Service Route 90 and back was refreshing. And another motorcyclist was kind enough to zip past me at high-speed and wave. Nice guy.
We all know what it's like to drive on a near-empty gas tank. Most of us keep an eye on the needle, head to the nearest gas station, fuel up, and continue on our way. Me, I'm an idiot at times (contrary to popular belief), for when the low fuel light came on, I decided to try to make it over one of the high passes that's still technically "closed" (the ranger said it might have snow, but it's been warm lately and I could try my luck if I had time; I certainly had the time, but not the gas!). So, with nerves tingling, I rode up the rough, obscure road toward Randle, WA. This road was asphalt at first... then some patches of gravel... then dirt and rock. Higher and higher into the hills I climbed, my bike sipping more and more of its precious hydrocarbon reserve. I realized I may not have enough fuel to make it to Randle from where I was; I only hoped I could coast down the other side of the hills, make it to a main road, and hitch a ride into town (probably after camping for a night and hiking 10-20 miles the next day) for some gas, which I would then have to get back to the bike (hopefully by hitching a ride from somebody planning on going up this "closed" road... yeah right). Breaking out in nervous sweats, I rode up and up and up - and came to the pass, which was completely covered in snow. I got off the bike (actually, I tipped it over when I tried to ride through the snow) and stumbled around like an idiot at the end of his rope. Here I was, just ounces of gas in my tank, several miles from the nearest road junction and 25 miles from the nearest gas. Fantastic. "It's and adventure," I told myself. "A freaking adventure." So, after taking one of the bags off the bike to make it lighter, I picked it up out of the snow, spent several minutes man-handling it back onto dry ground, and began the slow descent toward the nearest paved road. I had gone one mile... two miles... three miles... out of gas any minute, now. Wait, there's the road! Pavement! Now with any luck, somebody might, just MIGHT, drive by, though I wasn't very hopeful (it really was an obscure road). At least I wasn't on the dead-end dirt and gravel road any more. On I went toward the town of Trout Lake, 20 miles ahead. Too much uphill, dang; why can't I coast down the whole way? Stupid mountains. Wait, what's that? Another motorcycle, pulled over in the turnout? Looks familiar. Yeah, that guy that passed me earlier that day! And he's relaxing by the creek! I pulled off and told him my situation, and he kindly offers me some gas. He had just filled up in Trout Lake and had a full tank. Being the idiotic genius I am, I took my CamelBak hose and siphoned two cups of fuel from his bike into my JetBoil. Yummy. Gas does, in fact, taste just like it smells. With this little bit of insurance I thanked the man profusely and continued on my way, puttering down the road toward the next gas station. I made it there within an hour, fueled up, and rode down Highway 141 to the Columbia River Gorge - back to where I started so many hours ago. To enter Rainier National Park would require a major detour, one that I was too exhausted - mentally, emotionally, and physically - to take. So I swallowed Failure Pill #1 and rode Highway 14 to Interstate 5, and went north to Olympia. A 395-mile day. I arrived at my CouchSurfing hosts' place sore and stiff. That evening the three of us (their names are Kaitlin and Gabby) went downtown, where I saw the night life of Olympia (really isn't that much, though I had an awesome tuna melt and bought the girls each a drink) and slept soundly on their comfortable couch. The next day was relaxing; I didn't leave Olympia until that afternoon, and then rode west to Highway 101 and north toward the Olympic Peninsula. Of course, within an hour of getting on the road, I hit rain. Lots of it. I'll condense the next several hours into a sentence. I rode into Olympic National Park, rode out, went north, pitched camp in an old, trashed lumber building of some sort on the Quinault Indian Reservation, and went to sleep.

Camp! See the car in the background?

After a restful eleven hours in the tent, I put my damp clothes and sopping wet boots back on and hit the road - in the rain. There was beauty to be seen, however, for as I entered Olympic Park/Hoh Rainforest on Upper Hoh road that morning, the clouds (kind of) parted and the sun shone through! I spent a few hours tromping around the old growth rainforest, and it was glorious. Absolutely stunning; I only wish I had backpacking gear for a week out there in the woods. Once I left the park, I continued on 101 North. And the rain started, again. I had decided that morning that I would go to the Four Corners of the Contiguous United States, so with wet feet and high spirits, I turned off onto Highway 113 in pursuit of Cape Flattery.
I was riding along behind a truck towing a boat trailer. A deer runs out in front of him and narrowly escapes a splattering. The faun wasn't so lucky - clipped by the wheel well of the trailer, I saw several hundred pounds of wild animal go five feet up in the air and land with a thud on the asphalt, sliding several feet before coming to a halt. I pulled off the road and grabbed the dying deer's hind legs - one nearly completely severed - and dragged it off the road. Besides the poor animal, all was well. With little ceremony the truck driver and I each went our separate ways, wishing each other a safe journey.

The Gift of the Forest!

I could go into great detail about the long, slow journey to the Cape, but I'll just say that I did make it there, and it was beautiful. And raining. Always raining.

The ancient walkway to Cape Flattery built by the Forest People (or maybe just normal people)

Cape Flattery

More Cape Flattery

I made it back to US 101 and pulled out the BMW Owners Anonymous Handbook Dad gave me. I called a man named David in Port Angeles, who said he had a spare room, and that's where I stayed for the evening. He and his wife Suzanne were wonderful hosts. The next day I had toast and tea with Dave and said my goodbyes. He recommended I ride up into Olympic on Hurricane Ridge Road; that was one of the best recommendations I've received thus far. I ascended higher and higher (this time with plenty of gas) into the Olympic mountains, sometimes in thick mist and other times with a sweeping view. I took a short hike at the summit and then headed back down, bound for Marysville and the home of my cousin Jeanna, her husband Shan, and their four children whom I had not yet met.

Hiking at Hurricane Ridge

The Olympics as seen from Hurrican Ridge Road

It was a great (and wet) ride to Port Townsend, where I rod the ferry across the Sound to Whidbey Island. North on Highway 20, I crossed Deception Pass onto the mainland, and rode south to Marysville, where great fanfare and rejoicing met me in the form of four children ready to play at all times. A hot shower and some tea later, I was settled in for a couple days of fun and games (I played Pokemon with the boys; what a blast from the past!) and even a little yard work. On the 2nd of July I rode to Seattle to visit my other cousin, Janelle. She took me out on the town; we went to Pike Market in Downtown Seattle for lunch and pastries, then up the Seattle Space Needle. That evening we went to Naked City Brewery and Taphouse for dinner, where I met Janelle's friends and had a wonderful dinner and beer (which she treated me to, in addition to lunch and my Seattle Space Needle ticket). Back home we watched a couple movies, talked, and finally got some shut-eye. I am now sitting on the couch which served as my bed last night, preparing myself for the journey east. Off to North Cascades National Park and Glacier National Park!

The first Starbucks...

Cousin Janelle and me at the Gum Wall (It's ALL gum!)

On the Space Needle, overlooking Puget Sound